Cruelty

by Roald Dahl

  Once again, Peter didn’t move.

  Ernie came up close to the smaller boy and bent down and stuck his face right up to Peter’s. ‘I’m tellin’ you for the last time,’ he said, soft and dangerous. ‘Go get ’er!’

  Tears were running down Peter’s face as he went slowly down the bank and entered the water. He waded out to the dead swan and picked it up tenderly with both hands. Underneath it were two tiny cygnets, their bodies covered with yellow down. They were huddling together in the centre of the nest.

  ‘Any eggs?’ Ernie shouted from the bank.

  ‘No,’ Peter answered. ‘Nothing.’ There was a chance, he felt, that when the male swan returned, it would continue to feed the young ones on its own if they were left in the nest. He certainly did not want to leave them to the tender mercies of Ernie and Raymond.

  Peter carried the dead swan back to the edge of the lake. He placed it on the ground. Then he stood up and faced the two others. His eyes, still wet with tears, were blazing with fury. ‘That was a filthy thing to do!’ he shouted. ‘It was a stupid pointless act of vandalism! You’re a couple of ignorant idiots! It’s you who ought to be dead instead of the swan! You’re not fit to be alive!’

  He stood there, as tall as he could stand, splendid in his fury, facing the two taller boys and not caring any longer what they did to him.

  Ernie didn’t hit him this time. He seemed just a tiny bit taken aback at first by this outburst, but he quickly recovered. And now his loose lips formed themselves into a sly, wet smirk and his small close-together eyes began to glint in a most malicious manner. ‘So you like swans, is that right?’ he asked softly.

  ‘I like swans and I hate you!’ Peter cried.

  ‘And am I right in thinkin’,’ Ernie went on, still smirking, ‘am I absolutely right in thinkin’ that you wished this old swan down ’ere were alive instead of dead?’

  ‘That’s a stupid question!’ Peter shouted.

  ‘ ’Ee needs a clip over the ear-’ole,’ Raymond said.

  ‘Wait,’ Ernie said. ‘I’m doin’ this exercise.’ He turned back to Peter. ‘So if I could make this swan come alive and go flyin’ round the sky all over again, then you’d be ’appy. Right?’

  ‘That’s another stupid question!’ Peter cried out. ‘Who d’you think you are?’

  ‘I’ll tell you ’oo I am,’ Ernie said. ‘I’m a magic man, that’s ’oo I am. And just to make you ’appy and contented, I am about to do a magic trick that’ll make this dead swan come alive and go flyin’ all over the sky once again.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Peter said. ‘I’m going.’ He turned and started to walk away.

  ‘Grab ’im!’ Ernie said.

  Raymond grabbed him.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ Peter cried out.

  Raymond slapped him on the cheek, hard. ‘Now, now,’ he said. ‘Don’t fight with auntie, not unless you want to get ’urt.’

  ‘Gimme your knife,’ Ernie said, holding out his hand. Raymond gave him his knife.

  Ernie knelt down beside the dead swan and stretched out one of its enormous wings. ‘Watch this,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the big idea?’ Raymond asked.

  ‘Wait and see,’ Ernie said. And now, using the knife, he proceeded to sever the great white wing from the swan’s body. There is a joint in the bone where the wing meets the side of the bird, and Ernie located this and slid the knife into the joint and cut through the tendon. The knife was very sharp and it cut well, and soon the wing came away all in one piece.

  Ernie turned the swan over and severed the other wing.

  ‘String,’ he said, holding out his hand to Raymond.

  Raymond, who was grasping Peter by the arm, was watching fascinated. ‘Where’d you learn ’ow to butcher up a bird like that?’ he asked.

  ‘With chickens,’ Ernie said. ‘We used to nick chickens from up at Stevens Farm and cut ’em up into chicken parts and flog ’em to a shop in Aylesbury. Gimme the string.’

  Raymond gave him the ball of string. Ernie cut off six pieces, each about a yard long.

  There are a series of strong bones running along the top edge of a swan’s wing, and Ernie took one of the wings and started tying one end of the bits of string all the way along the top edge of the great wing. When he had done this, he lifted the wing with the six string ends dangling from it and said to Peter, ‘Stick out your arm.’

  ‘You’re absolutely mad!’ the smaller boy shouted. ‘You’re demented!’

  ‘Make ’im stick it out,’ Ernie said to Raymond.

  Raymond held up a clenched fist in front of Peter’s face and dabbed it gently against his nose. ‘You see this,’ he said. ‘Well I’m goin’ to smash you right in the kisser with it unless you do exactly as you’re told, see? Now, stick out your arm, there’s a good little boy.’

  Peter felt his resistance collapsing. He couldn’t hold out against these people any longer. For a few seconds, he stared at Ernie. Ernie with the tiny close-together black eyes gave the impression he would be capable of doing just about anything if he got really angry. Ernie, Peter felt at that moment, might quite easily kill a person if he were to lose his temper. Ernie, the dangerous backward child, was playing games now and it would be very unwise to spoil his fun. Peter held out an arm.

  Ernie then proceeded to tie the six string ends one by one to Peter’s arm, and when he had finished, the white wing of the swan was securely attached along the entire length of the arm itself.

  ‘Ow’s that, eh?’ Ernie said, stepping back and surveying his work.

  ‘Now the other one,’ Raymond said, catching on to what Ernie was doing. ‘You can’t expect ’im to go flyin’ round the sky with only one wing, can you?’

  ‘Second wing comin’ up,’ Ernie said. He knelt down again and tied six more lengths of string to the top bones of the second wing. Then he stood up again. ‘Let’s ’ave the other arm,’ he said. Peter, feeling sick and ridiculous, held out his other arm. Ernie strapped the wing tightly along the length of it.

  ‘Now!’ Ernie cried, clapping his hands and dancing a little jig on the grass. ‘Now we got ourselves a real live swan all over again! Didn’t I tell you I was a magic man? Didn’t I tell you I was goin’ to do a magic trick and make this dead swan come alive and go flyin’ all over the sky? Didn’t I tell you that?’

  Peter stood there in the sunshine beside the lake on this beautiful May morning, the enormous, limp and slightly bloodied wings dangling grotesquely at his sides. ‘Have you finished?’ he said.

  ‘Swans don’t talk,’ Ernie said. ‘Keep your flippin’ beak shut! And save your energy, laddie, because you’re goin’ to need all the strength and energy you got when it comes to flyin’ round in the sky.’ Ernie picked up his gun from the ground, then he grabbed Peter by the back of the neck with his free hand and said, ‘March!’

  They marched along the bank of the lake until they came to a tall and graceful willow tree. There they halted. The tree was a weeping willow, and the long branches hung down from a great height and almost touched the surface of the lake.

  ‘And now the magic swan is goin’ to show us a bit of magic flyin’,’ Ernie announced. ‘So what you’re goin’ to do, Mister Swan, is to climb up to the very top of this tree, and when you get there you’re goin’ to spread out your wings like a clever little swannee-swan-swan and you’re goin’ to take off!’

  ‘Fantastic!’ cried Raymond. ‘Terrific! I like it very much!’

  ‘So do I,’ Ernie said. ‘Because now we’re goin’ to find out just exactly ’ow clever this clever little swannee-swan-swan really is. ’Ee’s terribly clever at school, we all know that, and ’ee’s top of the class and everything else that’s lovely, but let’s see just exactly ’ow clever ’ee is when ’ee’s at the top of the tree! Right, Mister Swan?’ He gave Peter a push towards the tree.

  How much further could this madness go? Peter wondered. He was beginning to feel a little mad himself, as though nothing was real any more and none o
f it was actually happening. But the thought of being high up in the tree and out of reach of these hooligans at last was something that appealed to him greatly. When he was up there, he could stay up there. He doubted very much if they would bother to come up after him. And even if they did, he could surely climb away from them along a thin limb that would not take the weight of two people.

  The tree was a fairly easy one to climb, with several low branches to give him a start up. He began climbing. The huge white wings dangling from his arms kept getting in the way, but it didn’t matter. What mattered now to Peter was that every inch upwards was another inch away from his tormentors below. He had never been a great one for tree-climbing and he wasn’t especially good at it, but nothing in the world was going to stop him from getting to the top of this one. And once he was there, he thought it unlikely they would even be able to see him because of the leaves.

  ‘Higher!’ shouted Ernie’s voice. ‘Keep goin’!’

  Peter kept going, and eventually he arrived at a point where it was impossible to go higher. His feet were now standing on a branch that was about as thick as a person’s wrist, and this particular branch reached far out over the lake and then curved gracefully downwards. All the branches above him were very thin and whippy, but the one he was holding on to with his hands was quite strong enough for the purpose. He stood there, resting after the climb. He looked down for the first time. He was very high up, at least fifty feet. But he couldn’t see the two boys. They were no longer standing at the base of the tree. Was it possible they had gone away at last?

  ‘All right, Mister Swan!’ came the dreaded voice of Ernie. ‘Now listen carefully!’

  The two of them had walked some distance away from the tree to a point where they had a clear view of the small boy at the top. Looking down at them now, Peter realized how very sparse and slender the leaves of a willow tree were. They gave him almost no cover at all.

  ‘Listen carefully, Mister Swan!’ the voice was shouting. ‘Start walking out along that branch you’re standin’ on! Keep goin’ till you’re right over the nice muddy water! Then you take off!’

  Peter didn’t move. He was fifty feet above them now and they weren’t ever going to reach him again. From down below, there was a long silence. It lasted maybe half a minute. He kept his eyes on the two distant figures in the field. They were standing quite still, looking up at him.

  ‘All right then, Mister Swan!’ came Ernie’s voice again. ‘I’m gonna count to ten, right? And if you ain’t spread them wings and flown away by then, I’m gonna shoot you down instead with this little gun! And that’ll make two swans I’ve knocked off today instead of one! So here we go, Mister Swan! One! … Two! … Three! … Four! … Five! … Six! …’

  Peter remained still. Nothing would make him move from now on.

  ‘Seven! … Eight! … Nine! … Ten!’

  Peter saw the gun coming up to the shoulder. It was pointing straight at him. Then he heard the crack of the rifle and the zip of the bullet as it whistled past his head. It was a frightening thing. But he still didn’t move. He could see Ernie loading the gun with another bullet.

  ‘Last chance!’ yelled Ernie. ‘The next one’s gonna get you!’

  Peter stayed put. He waited. He watched the boy who was standing among the buttercups in the meadow far below with the other boy beside him. The gun came up once again to the shoulder.

  This time he heard the crack at the same instant the bullet hit him in the thigh. There was no pain, but the force of it was devastating. It was as though someone had whacked him on the leg with a sledgehammer, and it knocked both feet off the branch he was standing on. He scrabbled with his hands to hang on. The small branch he was holding on to bent over and split.

  Some people, when they have taken too much and have been driven beyond the point of endurance, simply crumble and give up. There are others, though they are not many, who will for some reason always be unconquerable. You meet them in time of war and also in time of peace. They have an indomitable spirit and nothing, neither pain nor torture nor threat of death, will cause them to give up.

  Little Peter Watson was one of these. And as he fought and scrabbled to prevent himself from falling out of the top of that tree, it came to him suddenly that he was going to win. He looked up and he saw a light shining over the waters of the lake that was of such brilliance and beauty he was unable to look away from it. The light was beckoning him, drawing him on, and he dived towards the light and spread his wings.

  Three different people reported seeing a great white swan circling over the village that morning, a schoolteacher called Emily Mead, a man who was replacing some tiles on the roof of the chemist’s shop whose name was William Eyles, and a boy called John Underwood who was flying his model aeroplane in a nearby field.

  And that morning, Mrs Watson, who was washing up some dishes in her kitchen sink, happened to glance up through the window at the exact moment when something huge and white came flopping down on to the lawn in her back garden. She rushed outside. She went down on her knees beside the small crumpled figure of her only son. ‘Oh, my darling!’ she cried, near to hysterics and hardly believing what she saw. ‘My darling boy! What happened to you?’

  ‘My leg hurts,’ Peter said, opening his eyes. Then he fainted.

  ‘It’s bleeding!’ she cried and she picked him up and carried him inside. Quickly she phoned for the doctor and the ambulance. And while she was waiting for help to come, she fetched a pair of scissors and began cutting the string that held the two great wings of the swan to her son’s arms.

  Poison

  First published in Collier’s (June 1950)

  It must have been around midnight when I drove home, and as I approached the gates of the bungalow I switched off the headlamps of the car so the beam wouldn’t swing in through the window of the side bedroom and wake Harry Pope. But I needn’t have bothered. Coming up the drive I noticed his light was still on, so he was awake anyway – unless perhaps he’d dropped off while reading.

  I parked the car and went up the five steps to the balcony, counting each step carefully in the dark so I wouldn’t take an extra one which wasn’t there when I got to the top. I crossed the balcony, pushed through the screen doors into the house itself and switched on the light in the hall. I went across to the door of Harry’s room, opened it quietly and looked in.

  He was lying on the bed and I could see he was awake. But he didn’t move. He didn’t even turn his head towards me, but I heard him say, ‘Timber, Timber, come here.’

  He spoke slowly, whispering each word carefully, separately, and I pushed the door right open and started to go quickly across the room.

  ‘Stop. Wait a moment, Timber.’ I could hardly hear what he was saying. He seemed to be straining enormously to get the words out.

  ‘What’s the matter, Harry?’

  ‘Sshhh!’ he whispered. ‘Sshhh! For God’s sake, don’t make a noise. Take your shoes off before you come nearer. Please do as I say, Timber.’

  The way he was speaking reminded me of George Barling after he got shot in the stomach when he stood leaning against a crate containing a spare aeroplane engine, holding both hands on his stomach and saying things about the German pilot in just the same hoarse straining half-whisper Harry was using now.

  ‘Quickly, Timber, but take your shoes off first.’

  I couldn’t understand about taking off the shoes but I figured that if he was as ill as he sounded I’d better humour him, so I bent down and removed the shoes and left them in the middle of the floor. Then I went over to his bed.

  ‘Don’t touch the bed! For God’s sake, don’t touch the bed!’ He was still speaking like he’d been shot in the stomach and I could see him lying there on his back with a single sheet covering three-quarters of his body. He was wearing a pair of pyjamas with blue, brown and white stripes, and he was sweating terribly. It was a hot night and I was sweating a little myself, but not like Harry. His whole face was wet and th
e pillow around his head was sodden with moisture. It looked like a bad go of malaria to me.

  ‘What is it, Harry?’

  ‘A krait,’ he said.

  ‘A krait! Oh my God! Where’d it bite you? How long ago?’

  ‘Shut up,’ he whispered.

  ‘Listen, Harry,’ I said, and I leaned forward and touched his shoulder. ‘We’ve got to be quick. Come on now, quickly, tell me where it bit you.’ He was lying there very still and tense as though he was holding on to himself hard because of sharp pain.

  ‘I haven’t been bitten,’ he whispered. ‘Not yet. It’s on my stomach. Lying there asleep.’

  I took a quick pace backwards. I couldn’t help it, and I stared at his stomach or rather at the sheet that covered it. The sheet was rumpled in several places and it was impossible to tell if there was anything underneath.

  ‘You don’t really mean there’s a krait lying on your stomach now?’

  ‘I swear it.’

  ‘How did it get there?’ I shouldn’t have asked the question because it was easy to see he wasn’t fooling. I should have told him to keep quiet.

  ‘I was reading,’ Harry said, and he spoke very slowly, taking each word in turn and speaking it carefully so as not to move the muscles of his stomach. ‘Lying on my back reading and I felt something on my chest, behind the book. Sort of tickling. Then out of the corner of my eye saw this little krait sliding over my pyjamas. Small, about ten inches. Knew I mustn’t move. Couldn’t have anyway. Lay there watching it. Thought it would go over top of the sheet.’ Harry paused and was silent for a few moments. His eyes looked down along his body towards the place where the sheet covered his stomach, and I could see he was watching to make sure his whispering wasn’t disturbing the thing that lay there.

  ‘There was a fold in the sheet,’ he said, speaking more slowly than ever now and so softly I had to lean close to hear him. ‘See it, it’s still there. It went under that. I could feel it through my pyjamas, moving on my stomach. Then it stopped moving and now it’s lying there in the warmth. Probably asleep. I’ve been waiting for you.’ He raised his eyes and looked at me.