by A. C. Benson
‘So Franklyn went in and I was left alone.
‘It was perfectly quiet: there was not a ripple on the water, which was about eight feet below me, as I got up from my chair and sat on the low wall. There was a sort of glimmer on the water from the moon behind, and I could see a yellow streak clean across the surface from the house opposite among the black woods. It was as warm as summer too.’
Father Brent threw his cigarette away, and sat a little forward in his chair. I began to feel more interested. He was plainly interested himself, for he clasped his hands round a knee, and gave a quick look into our faces. Then he looked back again at the fire as he went on.
‘Then across the streak of yellow light and where the moon glimmered, I saw a kind of black line, moving. It was coming toward me, and there seemed to be a sort of disturbance behind. I stood up and waited, wondering what it was. I could hear Franklyn pulling out a drawer in the bedroom overhead, but everything else was deadly still.
‘As I stood, it came nearer swiftly; it was just a high ripple in the water, and a moment later the flat surface below heaved up, and I could hear it lapping and splashing on the face of the wall.
‘It was exactly as if some big ship had gone up the estuary. I strained my eyes out, but there was nothing to be seen. There was the glimmer of the moon on the water, the house-lights burning half-a-mile away, and the black woods beyond. There was a beach, rocks and shingle on my right, curving along toward a place called Meopas; and I could hear the wave hiss and clatter all along it as it went up-stream.
‘Then I sat down again.
‘I cannot say I was exactly frightened; but I was very much puzzled. It surely could not be a tidal wave; there was certainly no ship; it could not be anything swimming, for the wave was like the wave of a really large vessel.
‘In a minute or two Franklyn came down with the Nestors, and I told him. He laughed at me. He said it must have been a breeze, or the turn of the tide, or something. Then he said he had been in to look at Jack, and had found him in a sort of nightmare, tossing and moaning. He had not awakened him, he said, but just touched him and said a word or two, and the boy had turned over and continued to sleep.
‘But I would not let him change the subject. I persisted it had been a really big wash of some kind.
He stared at me.
‘“Take a cigarette,” he said, “I found them at last under a hat.”
‘But I went on at him. It had made an impression on me, and I was a little uncomfortable.
‘“It is bosh,” he said. “But we will go and see if you like. The wall will be wet if there was a big wave.”
‘He fetched a lantern, and we went down the steps that led round the side of the embankment into the water. I went first, until my feet were on the last step above the water. He carried the lantern.
‘Then I heard him exclaim:
‘“You are standing in a pool,” he said.
‘I looked down and saw that it was so; the steps, three of them at least, were shining in the light of the lantern.
‘I put out my hand for the lantern, held on to a ring by my left hand and leaned out as far as I could, looking at the face of the wall. It was wet and dripping for at least four feet above the mark of the high tide.
‘I told him, and he came down and looked too, and then we went up again to the house.
‘We neither of us said very much more that evening. The only suggestion that Franklyn could make was that it must have been a very odd kind of tidal wave. For myself, I knew nothing about tidal waves; but I gathered from his tone that this certainly could not have been one.
‘We sat out about half-an-hour more, but there was no sound again.
‘When we went up to bed we peeped into Jack’s room. He was lying perfectly quiet on his right side turned away from the window which was open, but there was a little frown, I thought, on his forehead, and his eyes seemed screwed up.’
The priest stopped again.
We were all very quiet. The story was not exciting, but it was distinctly interesting, and I could see the others were puzzled. Perhaps what impressed us most was the very matter-of-fact tone in which the story was told.
The Rector put in a word during the silence.
‘How do you know it was not a tidal wave?’ he asked.
‘It may have been, Father,’ said the young priest. ‘But that is not the end.’
He filled his lungs with smoke, blew it out and went on.
‘Nothing whatever of any interest happened for the next day or two, except that Franklyn asked a boatman at Meopas whether he had heard anything of a wave on the Monday night. The man looked at us and shook his head, still looking at us oddly.
‘“I was in bed early,” he said.
‘On the Thursday afternoon Franklyn got a note asking him to dine in Truro, to meet some one who had come down from town. I told him to go, of course, and he went off in his dog-cart about half-past six.
‘Jack and I dined together at half-past seven, and, I may say, we made friends. He was less shy when his father was away. I think Franklyn laughed at him a little too much, hoping to cure him of his fancies.
‘The boy told me some of them, though, that night. I don’t remember any of them particularly, but I do remember the general effect, and I was really impressed by the sort of insight he seemed to have into things. He said some curious things about trees and their characters. Perhaps you remember MacDonald’s Phantastes. It was rather like that. He was fond of beeches, I gathered, and thought himself safe in them; he liked to climb them and to think that the house was surrounded by them. And there was a lot of things like that he said. I remember too that he hated cypresses and cats and the twilight.
‘“But I am not afraid of the dark,” he said. “I like the dark as much as the light, and I always sleep with my windows open and no curtains.”’
‘Well,’ went on Father Brent, ‘the boy said goodnight and went to bed about nine. I sat in the smoking-room a bit, for it had turned a little cold, and about ten stepped out onto the terrace.
‘It was perfectly still and cloudy. I forget whether there was a moon. At any rate, I did not see it. There was just the black gulf of water, with the line of light across it from the house opposite. Then I went indoors and shut the windows.
‘I read again for a while and finished my book. I had said my Office, so I looked about for another novel. Then I remembered there had been one I wanted to read in Franklyn’s room overhead, so I took a candle and went up. Jack’s room was over the smoking-room, and his father’s was beyond it on the right, and there was a door between them. Both faced the front, remember.
‘Franklyn’s room had three windows, two looking on to the river and one upstream toward Truro, over the beach I spoke of before. I went in there; and saw that the door was open between the two rooms, so I slipped off my shoes for fear of disturbing the boy, and went across to the bookshelf that stood between the two front windows. All three windows were open. Franklyn was mad about fresh air.
‘I was bending down to look at the backs of the books, and had my finger on the one I wanted, when I heard a kind of moan from the boy’s room.
‘I stood up, startled, and it came again. Why, he had had a nightmare only three days before, I remembered. As I stood there wondering whether it would be kind to wake him, I heard another sound.
‘It was a noise that came through the side window that looked up the beach, and it was the noise of a breaking wave.’
The priest made a momentary pause, and as he flicked the end of his cigarette, I saw his fingers tremble very slightly.
‘I didn’t hesitate then, but went straight into the room next door, and as I went across the floor I heard the boy moaning and tossing. It was pitch dark and I could see nothing. I was thinking that tidal waves don’t come downstream.
‘Then my knees struck the edge of the bed.
‘“Jack,” I said, “Jack.”
‘There was a rustle from the bed-clothe
s, and (I should have thought) long before he could have awakened, I heard his feet on the floor, and then felt him brush past me. Then I saw him outlined against the pale window with his hands on the glass over his head. Then I was by him, taking care not to touch him.
‘All this took about five seconds, I suppose, from the time when I heard the wave on the beach. I stared out now over the boy’s head, but there was nothing in the world to be seen but the black water and the glimmer of the light across it.
‘Jack was perfectly silent, but I could see that he was watching. He didn’t seem to know I was there.
‘Then I whispered to him rather sharply.
‘“What is it, Jack? What do you see?”
‘He said nothing, and I repeated my question.
‘Then he answered, almost as if talking to himself. “Ships,” he said, “three ships.”
‘Now I swear there was nothing there. I thought it was a nightmare.
‘“Nonsense,” I said. “How can you see them? It’s too dark.”
‘“A light in each,” he said, “in the bows – blazing!”
‘As he said it I saw his head turn slowly to the left as if he was following them. Then there came the sound of the wave breaking on the stonework just below the windows.
‘“Are you frightened?” I said suddenly.
‘“Yes,” said the boy.
‘“Why?”
‘“I don’t know.”
‘Then I saw his hands come down from the window and cover his face, and he began to moan again.
‘“Come back to bed,” I said, but I daren’t touch him. I could see he was sleep-walking.
‘Then he turned, went straight across the room, still making an odd sound, and I heard him climb into bed.
‘I covered him up, and went out.’
Father Brent stopped again. He had rather a curious look in his face, and I saw that his cigarette had gone out. None of us spoke or moved.
Then he went on again, abruptly:
‘Well, you know, I didn’t know I was frightened exactly until I came out on to the landing. There was a tall glass there on the right hand of the staircase, and just as I came opposite I thought I heard the hiss of the wave again, and I nearly screamed. It was only the wheels of Franklyn’s dog-cart coming up the drive, but as I looked in the glass I saw that my face was like paper. We had a long talk about the Phoenicians that evening. Franklyn looked them out in the Encyclopaedia, but there was nothing particularly interesting.
‘Well, that’s all. Give me a match, Father. This beastly thing’s gone out.’
We had no theories to suggest.
THE SNAKE, THE LEPER AND THE GREY FROST
A.C. Benson
In the heart of the Forest of Seale lay the little village of Birnewood Fratrum, like a lark’s nest in a meadow of tall grass. It was approached by green wood-ways, very miry in winter. The folk that lived there were mostly woodmen. There was a little church, the stones of which seemed to have borrowed the hue of the forest, and close beside it a small timbered house, the Parsonage, with a garden of herbs. Those who saw Birnewood in the summer, thought of it as a place where a weary man might rest for ever, in an ancient peace, with the fresh mossy smell of the wood blowing through it, and the dark cool branching covert to muse in on every side. But it was a different place in winter, with ragged clouds rolling overhead and the bare boughs sighing in the desolate gales; though again in a frosty winter evening it would be fair enough, with the red sun sinking over miles of trees.
From the village green a little track led into the forest, and, a furlong or two inside, ended in an open space thickly overgrown with elders, where stood the gaunt skeleton of a ruined tower staring with bare windows at the wayfarer. The story of the tower was sad enough. The last owner, Sir Ralph Birne, was on the wrong side in a rebellion, and died on the scaffold, his lands forfeited to the crown. The tower was left desolate, and piece by piece the villagers carried away all that was useful to them, leaving the shell of a house, though at the time of which I speak the roof still held, and the floors, though rotting fast, still bore the weight of a foot.
In the Parsonage lived an old priest, Father John, as he was called, and with him a boy who was held to be his nephew, Ralph by name, now eighteen years of age. The boy was very dear to Father John, who was a wise and loving man. To many it might have seemed a dull life enough, but Ralph had known no other, having come to the Parsonage as a child. Of late indeed Ralph had begun to feel a strange desire grow and stir within him, to see what the world was like outside the forest; such a desire would come on him at early morning, in the fresh spring days, and he would watch some lonely traveller riding slowly to the south with an envious look; though as like as not the wayfarer would be envying the bright boy, with his background of quiet woods. But such fancies only came and went, and he said nothing to the old priest about them, who nevertheless had marked the change for himself with the instinct of love, and would sometimes, as he sate with his breviary, follow the boy about with his eyes, in which the wish to keep him strove with the knowledge that the bird must some day leave the nest.
One summer morning, the old priest shut his book, with the air of a man who has made up his mind in sadness, and asked Ralph to walk with him. They went to the tower, and there, sitting in the ruins, Father John told Ralph the story of the house, which he had often heard before. But now there was so tender and urgent a tone in the priest’s voice that Ralph heard him wonderingly; and at last the priest very solemnly, after a silence, said that there was something in his mind that must be told; and he went on to say that Ralph was indeed the heir of the tower; he was the grandson of Sir Ralph, who died upon the scaffold; his father had died abroad, dispossessed of his inheritance; and the priest said that in a few days he himself would set out on a journey, too long deferred, to see a friend of his, a Canon of a neighbouring church, to learn if it were possible that some part of the lands might be restored to Ralph by the king’s grace. For the young king that had newly come to the throne was said to be very merciful and just, and punished not the sins of the fathers upon the children; but Father John said that he hardly dared to hope it; and then he bound Ralph to silence; and then after a pause he added, taking one of the boy’s hands in his own, ‘And it is time, dear son, that you should leave this quiet place and make a name for yourself; my days draw to an end; perhaps I have been wrong to keep you here to myself, but I have striven to make you pure and simple, and if I was in fault, why, it has been the fault of love.’ And the boy threw his arms round the priest’s neck and kissed him, seeing that tears trembled in his eyes, and said that he was more than content, and that he should never leave his uncle and the peaceful forest that he loved. But the priest saw an unquiet look in his eye, as of a sleeper awakened, and knew the truth.
A few days after, the priest rode away at sunrise; and Ralph was left alone. In his head ran an old tale, which he had heard from the woodmen, of a great treasure of price, which was hidden somewhere in the tower. Then it came into his mind that there dwelt not far away in the wood an ancient wise man who gave counsel to all who asked for it, and knew the virtues of plants, and the courses of buried springs, and many hidden things beside. Ralph had never been to the house of the wise man, but he knew the direction where it lay; so with the secret in his heart, he made at once for the place. The day was very hot and still, and no birds sang in the wood. Ralph walked swiftly along the soft green road, and came at last upon a little grey house of plaster, with beams of timber, that stood in a clearing near a spring, with a garden of its own; a fragrant smell came from a sprawling bush of box, and the bees hummed busily over the flowers. There was no smoke from the chimney, and the single window that gave on the road, in a gable, looked at him like a dark eye. He went up the path, and stood before the door waiting, when a high thin voice, like an evening wind, called from within, ‘Come in and fear not, thou that tarriest on the threshold.’ Ralph with a strange stirring of the blood at the silver so
und of the voice, unlatched the door and entered. He found himself in a low dark room, with a door opposite him; in the roof hung bundles of herbs; there was a large oak table strewn with many things of daily use, and sitting in a chair, with his back to the light, sat a very old thin man, with a frosty beard, clad in a loose grey gown. Over the fireplace hung a large rusty sword; the room was very clean and cool, and the sunlight danced on the ceiling, with the flicker of moving leaves.
‘Your name and errand?’ said the old man, fixing his grey eyes, like flint stones, upon the boy, not unkindly. ‘Ralph,’ said the boy. ‘Ralph,’ said the old man, ‘and why not add Birne to Ralph? that makes a fairer name.’
Ralph was so much bewildered at this strange greeting, that he stood confused – at which the old man pointed to a settle, and said, ‘And now, boy, sit down and speak with me; you are Ralph from Birnewood Parsonage, I know – Father John is doubtless away – he has no love for me, though I know him to be a true man.’
Then little by little he unravelled the boy’s desire, and the story of the treasure. Then he said, kindly enough, ‘Yes, it is ever thus – well, lad, I will tell you; and heed my words well. The treasure is there; and you shall indeed find it; but prepare for strange sounds and sights.’ And as he said this, he took the young hand in his own for a moment, and a strange tide of sensation seemed to pass along the boy’s veins. ‘Look in my face,’ the old man went on, ‘that I may see that you have faith – for without faith such quests are vain.’ Ralph raised his eyes to those of the old man, and then a sensation such as he had never felt before came over him; it was like looking from a window into a wide place, full of darkness and wonder.
Then the old man said solemnly, ‘Child, the time is come – I have waited long for you, and the door is open.’
Then he said, with raised hand, ‘The journey is not long, but it must be done in a waking hour; sleep not on the journey; that first. And of three things beware – the Snake, and the Leper, and the Grey Frost; for these three things have brought death to wiser men than yourself. There,’ he added, ‘that is your note of the way; now make the journey, if you have the courage.’