Homefront Horrors

by Nevins, Jess;

  “He was obstinate as a mule, and I was pretty sick with him; but I saw that if I left him to himself he would do the thing so clumsily that my fellows would get wind of it, and if that happened I was afraid that they might desert us. The tracks in that Sâkai country are abominably confusing, and quite apart from the fear of losing all our camp-kit, which we could not hump for ourselves, I was by no means certain that I could find my own way back to civilization unaided. Making a virtue of necessity, therefore, I decided that I would let Juggins have his beastly specimen, provided that he would consent to be guided entirely by me in all details connected with the exhumation.

  “‘You are a rotter of the first water,’ I said frankly. ‘And if I ever get you back to my station, I’ll have nothing more to do with you as long as I live. All the same, I am to blame for having brought you up here, and I suppose I must see you through.’

  “‘You’re a brick,’ said Juggins quite unmoved by my insults. ‘Come on.’

  “‘Wait,’ I replied repressively. ‘This thing cannot be done until my people are all asleep. Lie down on your mat and keep quiet. When it is safe, I’ll give you the word.’

  “Juggins groaned, and tried to persuade me to let him go at once; but I swore that nothing would induce me to move before midnight, and with that I rolled over to my side and lay reading and smoking, while Juggins fumed and fretted as he watched the slow hands of his watch creeping round the dial.

  “I always take books with me into the jungle, and the more completely incongruous they are to my immediate surroundings the more refreshing I find them. That evening, I remember, I happened to be reading Miss Florence Montgomery’s ‘Misunderstood’ with the tears running down my nose; and by the time my Malays were all asleep, this incidental wallowing in sentimentality had made me more sick with Juggins and his disgusting project than ever.

  “I never felt so like a criminal as I did that night, as Juggins and I gingerly picked our way out of the hut across the prostrate forms of my sleeping Malays; nor had I realized before what a difficult job it is to walk without noise on an openwork flooring of uneven boughs. We got out of the place and down the crazy stair-ladder at last, without waking any of my fellows, and we then began to creep along the edge of the jungle that hedged the clearing about. Why did we think it necessary to creep? I don’t know. Partly we did not want to be seen by the Malays, if any of them happened to walk; but besides that, the long wait and the uncanny sort of work we were after had set our nerves going a bit, I expect.

  “The night was as still as most nights are in real, pukka jungle. That is to say, that it was as full of noises—little, quiet, half-heard beast and tree noises—as an egg is full of meat; and every occasional louder sound made me jump almost out of my skin. There was not a breath astir in the clearing, but miles up above our heads the clouds were racing across the moon, which looked as though it were scudding through them in the opposite direction at a tremendous rate, like a great white fire balloon. It was pitch dark along the edge of the clearing, for the jungle threw a heavy shadow; and Juggins kept knocking those great clumsy feet of his against the stumps, and swearing softly under his breath.

  “Just as we were getting near the child’s grave the clouds obscuring the moon became a trifle thinner, and the slightly increased light showed me something that caused me to clutch Juggins by the arm.

  “‘Hold hard!’ I whispered, squatting down instinctively in the shadow, and dragging him after me. ‘What’s that on the grave?’

  “Juggins hauled out his six-shooter with a tug, and looking at his face, I saw that he was as pale as death and more than a little shaky. He was pressing up against me, too, as he squatted, a bit closer, I fancied, than he would have thought necessary at any other time, and it seemed to me that he was trembling. I whispered to him, telling him not to shoot; and we sat there for nearly a minute, I should think, peering through the uncertain light, and trying to make out what the creature might be which was crouching above the grave and making a strange scratching noise.

  “Then the moon came out suddenly into a patch of open sky, and we could see clearly at last, and what it revealed did not make me, for one, feel any better. The thing we had been looking at was kneeling on the grave, facing us. It, or rather she, was an old, old Sâkai hag. She was stark naked, and in the brilliant light of the moon I could see her long, pendulous breasts swaying about like an ox’s dewlap, and the creases and wrinkles with which her withered hide was criss-crossed, and the discolored patches of foul skin disease. Her hair hung about her face in great matted locks, falling forward as she bent above the grave, and her eyes glinted through the tangle like those of some unclean and shaggy animal. Her long fingers, which had nails like claws, were tearing at the dirt of the grave, and her body was drenched with sweat, so that it glistened in the moonlight.

  “‘It looks as though some one else wanted your precious baby for a specimen, Juggins,’ I whispered; and a spirit of emulation set him floundering on to his feet, till I pulled him back. ‘Keep still, man,’ I added. ‘Let us see what the old hag is up to. It isn’t the brat’s mother, is it?’

  “‘No,’ panted Juggins. ‘This is a much older woman. Great God! What a ghoul it is!’

  “Then we were silent again. Where we squatted we were hidden from the hag by a few tufts of rank lâlang grass, and the shadow of the jungle also covered us. Even if we had been in the open, however, I question whether the old woman would have seen us, she was so eagerly intent upon her work. For full five minutes, as near as I can guess, we squatted there watching her scrape and tear and scratch at the earth of the grave, with a sort of frenzy of energy; and all the while her lips kept going like a shivering man’s teeth, though no sound that I could hear came from them.

  “At length she got down to the corpse, and I saw her lift the bark wrapper out of the grave, and draw the baby’s body from it. Then she sat back upon her heels, threw up her head, just like a dog, and bayed at the moon. She did this three times, and I do not know what there was about those long-drawn howls that jangled up one’s nerves, but each time the sound became more insistent and intolerable, and as I listened, my hair fairly lifted. Then, very carefully, she laid the child’s body down in a position that seemed to have some connection with the points of the compass, for she took a long time, and consulted the moon and the shadows repeatedly before she was satisfied with the orientation of the thing’s head and feet.

  “Then she got up, and began very slowly to dance round and round the grave. It was not a reassuring sight, out there in the awful loneliness of the night, miles away from every one and everything, to watch that abominable old beldam capering uncleanly in the moonlight, while those restless lips of hers called noiselessly upon all the devils in hell, with words that we could not hear. Juggins pressed up against me harder than ever, and his hand on my arm gripped tighter and tighter. He was shaking like a leaf, and I do not fancy that I was much steadier. It does not sound very terrible, as I tell it to you here in comparatively civilized surroundings; but at the time, the sight of that obscure figure dancing silently in the moonlight with its ungainly shadow scared me badly.

  “She capered like that for some minutes, setting to the dead baby as though she were inviting it to join her, and the intent purposefulness of her made me feel sick. If anybody had told me that morning that I was capable of being frightened out of my wits by an old woman, I should have laughed; but I saw nothing outlandish in the idea while that grotesque dancing lasted.

  “Her movements, which had been very slow at first, became gradually faster and faster, till every atom of her was in violent motion, and her body and limbs were swaying this way and that, like the boughs of a tree in a tornado. Then, all of a sudden, she collapsed on the ground, with her back toward us, and seized the baby’s body. She seemed to nurse it, as a mother might nurse her child; and as she swayed from side to side, I could see first the curve of the creature’s head, resting on her thin left arm, and then its feet nea
r the crook of her right elbow. And now she was crooning to it in a cracked falsetto chant that might have been a lullaby or perhaps some incantation.

  “She rocked the child slowly at first, but very rapidly the pace quickened, until her body was swaying to and fro from the hips, and from side to side, at such a rate that, to me, she looked as though she were falling all ways at once. And simultaneously her shrill chanting became faster and faster, and every instant more nerve-sawing.

  “Next she suddenly changed the motion. She gripped the thing she was nursing by its arms, and began to dance it up and down, still moving with incredible agility, and crooning more damnably than ever. I could see the small, puckered face of the thing above her head every time she danced it up, and then, as she brought it down again, I lost sight of it for a second, until she danced it up once more. I kept my eyes fixed upon the thing’s face every time it came into view, and I swear it was not an optical illusion—it began to be alive. Its eyes were open and moving, and its mouth was working, like that of a child which tries to laugh but is too young to do it properly. Its face ceased to be like that of a new-born baby at all. It was distorted by a horrible animation. It was the most unearthly sight.

  “Juggins saw it, too, for I could hear him drawing his breath harder and shorter than a healthy man should.

  “Then, all in a moment, the hag did something. I did not see clearly precisely what it was; but it looked to me as though she bent forward and kissed it; and at that very instant a cry went up like the wail of a lost soul. It may have been something in the jungle, but I know my Malayan forests pretty thoroughly, and I have never heard any cry like it before nor since. The next thing we knew was that the old hag had thrown the body back into the grave, and was dumping down the earth and jumping on it, while that strange cry grew fainter and fainter. It all happened so quickly that I had not had time to think or move before I was startled back into full consciousness by the sharp crack of Juggins’s revolver fired close to my ear.

  “‘She’s burying it alive!’ he cried.

  “It was a queer thing for a man to say, who had seen the child lying stark and dead more than thirty hours earlier; but the same thought was in my mind, too, as we both started forward at a run. The hag had vanished into the jungle as silently as a shadow. Juggins had missed her, of course. He was always a rotten bad shot. However, we had no thought for her. We just flung ourselves upon the grave, and dug at the earth with our hands, until the baby lay in my arms. It was cold and stiff, and putrefaction had already begun its work. I forced open its mouth, and saw something that I had expected. The tip of its tongue was missing. It looked as though it had been bitten off by a set of shocking bad teeth, for the edge left behind was like a saw.

  “‘The thing’s quite dead,’ I said to Juggins.

  “‘But it cried—it cried!’ whimpered Juggins. ‘I can hear it now. To think that we let that horrible creature murder it.’

  “He sat down with his head in his hands. He was utterly unmanned.

  “Now that the fright was over, I was beginning to be quite brave again. It is a way I have.

  “‘Rot,’ I said. ‘The thing’s been dead for hours, and anyway, here’s your precious specimen if you want it.’

  “I had put it down, and now pointed at it from a distance. Its proximity was not pleasant. Juggins, however, only shuddered.

  “‘Bury it, in Heaven’s name,’ he said, his voice broken by sobs. ‘I would not have it for the world. Besides, it was alive. I saw and heard it.’

  “Well, I put it back in its grave, and next day we left the Sâkai country. Juggins had a whacking dose of fever, and anyway we had had about enough of the Sâkai and of all their engaging habits to last us for a bit.

  “We swore one another to secrecy as Juggins, when he got his nerve back, said that the accuracy of our observations was not susceptible of scientific proof, which, I understand, was the rock his religion had gone to pieces on; and I did not fancy being told that I was drunk or that I was lying. You, however, know something of the uncanny things of the East, so to-night I have broken our vow. Now I’m going to turn in. Don’t give me away.”

  Young Middleton died of fever and dysentery, somewhere upcountry, a year or two later. His name was not Middleton, of course; so I am not really “giving him away,” as he called it, even now. As for his companion, though when I last heard of him he was still alive and a shining light in the scientific world, I have named him Juggins, and as the family is a large one, he will run no great risk of being identified.

  * * *

  1. “Close season,” i.e. from the beginning of November to the end of February, during which time the rivers on the eastern seaboard of the Malay Peninsula used to be closed to traffic on account of the North East Monsoon.

  2. Se-noi—one of the two main branches, into which the Sâkai are divided. The other is called Tê-mi-au by the Se-noi. All the Sâkai dialects are variants of the languages spoken by these two principal tribes, which, though they have many words in common, differ from one another almost as much as, say, Italian from Spanish.

  3. Sêlâdang. The gaur or wild buffalo. It is the same as the Indian variety, but in the Malay Peninsula attains to a greater size than in any other part of Asia.

  POWERS OF THE AIR

  J. D. Beresford

  (1873–1947)

  Beresford never quite achieved the reputation he deserved, and today is remembered primarily for two early works of science fiction, The Hampdenshire Wonder (1911), about a superhuman child born a generation or two too early, and Goslings (1913), a catastrophe novel in which a plague takes nearly all of England’s men but none of its women. The Hampdenshire Wonder interestingly anticipates later supermen novels like Philip Wylie’s Gladiator (1930) and Olaf Stapledon’s Odd John (1935) while being stylistically superior to either, while Goslings is one of the first male-written utopias to try to depict an all-female society in a sober and sympathetic fashion.

  But Beresford wrote considerably more than just those two novels. Born to a clergyman and crippled as a child by polio, Beresford began writing in his thirties and quickly produced an array of novels, short stories, criticism (particularly of his mentor, H. G. Wells), and biographies. In middle age his interest in science fiction and horror was replaced by an interest in religious and spiritual topics, and his work took on increasingly religious overtones and themes, though the fantastic element was rarely missing from them.

  An unusual work of horror for Beresford, whose primary genres were scientific romance and religious fantasy, “Powers of the Air,” which originally appeared in the magazine Seven Arts (October, 1917), inverts the common trope of the wise scholar and the ignorant peasant to striking effect.

  I FORESAW THE danger that threatened him. He was so ignorant, and his sight had been almost destroyed in the city streets. A trustful ignorance is the beginning of wisdom, but these townspeople are conceited with their foolish book-learning; and reading darkens the eyes of the mind.

  I began to warn him in early October when the gales roar far up in the sky. They are harmless then; they tear at the ricks and the slate roofs, and waste themselves in stripping the trees; but we are safe until the darkness comes.

  I took him to the crown of the stubble land, and turned him with his back to the dark thread of the sea. I pointed to the rooks tumbling about the sky like scattered leaves that sported in a mounting wind.

  “We are past the turn,” I said. “The black time is coming.”

  He stood thoughtlessly watching the ecstatic rooks. “Is it some game they play?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “They belong to the darkness,” I told him.

  He looked at me in that slightly forbearing way of his, and said, “Another of your superstitions?”

  I was silent for a moment. I stared down at the texture of black fields ploughed for winter wheat, and thought of all the writing that lay before us under that wild October hill, all the clear signs that he could never be taught
to read.

  “Knowledge,” I said. I was afraid for him, and I wished to save him. He had been penned in that little world of the town like a caged gull. He had been blinded by staring at the boards of his coop.

  He smiled condescendingly. “You are charmingly primitive still,” he said. “Do you worship the sun in secret, and make propitiatory offerings to the thunder?”

  I sighed, knowing that if I would save him I must try to reach his mind by the ear, by the dull and clumsy means of language. That is the fetish of these townspeople. They have no wisdom, only a little recognition of those things that can be described in printed or spoken words. And I dreaded the effort of struggling with the infirmity of this obstinate blind youth.

  “I came out here to warn you,” I began.

  “Against what?” he asked.

  “The forces that have power in the black time,” I said. “Even now they are beginning to gather strength. In a month it will not be safe for you to go out on the cliffs after sunset. You may not believe me, but won’t you accept my warning in good faith?”

  He patronized me with his smile. “What are these forces?” he asked.

  That is the manner of these book-folk. They ask always for names. If they can but label a thing in a word or in a volume of description they are satisfied that they have achieved knowledge. They bandy these names of theirs as a talisman.

  “Who knows?” I replied. “We have learnt their power. Call them what you will, you cannot change them by any baptism.”

  “Well, what do they do?” he said, still tolerant. “Have you ever seen them?” he added, as if he would trick me.

  I had, but how could I describe them to him? Can one explain the colors of autumn to a man born blind? Or is there any language which will set out the play of a breaker among the rocks? How then could I talk to him of that which I had known only in the fear of my soul?