XXVI
- THE LUMINOUS SPECK
I
awake suddenly. It is still dark. I turn over, once or twice, in my endeavors
to sleep again; but I cannot sleep. My head is aching, slightly; and, by turns
I am hot and cold. In a little, I give up the attempt, and stretch out my hand,
for the matches. I will light my candle, and read, awhile; perhaps, I shall be
able to sleep, after a time. For a few moments, I grope; then my hand touches
the box; but, as I open it, I am startled, to see a phosphorescent speck of
fire, shining amid the darkness. I put out my other hand, and touch it. It is
on my wrist. With a feeling of vague alarm, I strike a light, hurriedly, and
look; but can see nothing, save a tiny scratch.
'Fancy!'
I mutter, with a half sigh of relief. Then the match burns my finger, and I
drop it, quickly. As I fumble for another, the thing shines out again. I know,
now, that it is no fancy. This time, I light the candle, and examine the place,
more closely. There is a slight, greenish discoloration 'round the scratch. I
am puzzled and worried. Then a thought comes to me. I remember the morning
after the Thing appeared. I remember that the dog licked my hand. It was this
one, with the scratch on it; though I have not been even conscious of the
abasement, until now. A horrible fear has come to me. It creeps into my brain -
the dog's wound, shines at night. With a dazed feeling, I sit down on the side
of the bed, and try to think; but cannot. My brain seems numbed with the sheer
horror of this new fear.
Time
moves on, unheeded. Once, I rouse up, and try to persuade myself that I am
mistaken; but it is no use. In my heart, I have no doubt.
Hour
after hour, I sit in the darkness and silence, and shiver, hopelessly...
The
day has come and gone, and it is night again.
This
morning, early, I shot the dog, and buried it, away among the bushes. My sister
is startled and frightened; but I am desperate. Besides, it is better so. The
foul growth had almost hidden its left side. And I - the place on my wrist has
enlarged, perceptibly. Several times, I have caught myself muttering prayers - little
things learnt as a child. God, Almighty God, help me! I shall go mad.
Six
days, and I have eaten nothing. It is night. I am sitting in my chair. Ah, God!
I wonder have any ever felt the horror of life that I have come to know? I am
swathed in terror. I feel ever the burning of this dread growth. It has covered
all my right arm and side, and is beginning to creep up my neck. Tomorrow, it
will eat into my face. I shall become a terrible mass of living corruption.
There is no escape. Yet, a thought has come to me, born of a sight of the
gun-rack, on the other side of the room. I have looked again - with the
strangest of feelings. The thought grows upon me. God, Thou knowest, Thou must
know, that death is better, aye, better a thousand times than This. This!
Jesus, forgive me, but I cannot live, cannot, cannot! I dare not! I am beyond
all help - there is nothing else left. It will, at least, spare me that final
horror...
I
think I must have been dozing. I am very weak, and oh! so miserable, so
miserable and tired - tired. The rustle of the paper, tries my brain. My
hearing seems preternaturally sharp. I will sit awhile and think...
"Hush!
I hear something, down - down in the cellars. It is a creaking sound. My God,
it is the opening of the great, oak trap. What can be doing that? The
scratching of my pen deafens me ... I must listen... There are steps on the stairs; strange padding
steps, that come up and nearer... Jesus,
be merciful to me, an old man. There is something fumbling at the door-handle.
O God, help me now! Jesus - The door is opening - slowly. Somethi - "
That
is all(16)
XXVII
- CONCLUSION
I
put down the Manuscript, and glanced across at Tonnison: he was sitting,
staring out into the dark. I waited a minute; then I spoke.
"Well?"
I said.
He
turned, slowly, and looked at me. His thoughts seemed to have gone out of him
into a great distance.
"Was
he mad?" I asked, and indicated the MS., with a half nod.
Tonnison
stared at me, unseeingly, a moment; then, his wits came back to him, and,
suddenly, he comprehended my question.
"No!"
he said.
I
opened my lips, to offer a contradictory opinion; for my sense of the saneness
of things, would not allow me to take the story literally; then I shut them
again, without saying anything. Somehow, the certainty in Tonnison's voice
affected my doubts. I felt, all at once, less assured; though I was by no means
convinced as yet.
After
a few moments' silence, Tonnison rose, stiffly, and began to undress. He seemed
disinclined to talk; so I said nothing; but followed his example. I was weary;
though still full of the story I had just read.
Somehow,
as I rolled into my blankets, there crept into my mind a memory of the old
gardens, as we had seen them. I remembered the odd fear that the place had
conjured up in our hearts; and it grew upon me, with conviction, that Tonnison
was right.
It
was very late when we rose - nearly midday; for the greater part of the night
had been spent in reading the MS.
Tonnison
was grumpy, and I felt out of sorts. It was a somewhat dismal day, and there
was a touch of chilliness in the air. There was no mention of going out fishing
on either of our parts. We got dinner, and, after that, just sat and smoked in
silence.
Presently,
Tonnison asked for the Manuscript: I handed it to him, and he spent most of the
afternoon in reading it through by himself.
It
was while he was thus employed, that a thought came to me: -
"What
do you say to having another look at - ?" I nodded my head down stream.
Tonnison
looked up. "Nothing!" he said, abruptly; and, somehow, I was less
annoyed, than relieved, at his answer.
After
that, I left him alone.
A
little before teatime, he looked up at me, curiously.
"Sorry,
old chap, if I was a bit short with you just now;" (just now, indeed! he
had not spoken for the last three hours) "but I would not go there
again," and he indicated with his head, "for anything that you could
offer me. Ugh!" and he put down that history of a man's terror and hope
and despair.
The
next morning, we rose early, and went for our accustomed swim: we had partly
shaken off the depression of the previous day; and so, took our rods when we
had finished breakfast, and spent the day at our favorite sport.
After
that day, we enjoyed our holiday to the utmost; though both of us looked
forward to the time when our driver should come; for we were tremendously
anxious to inquire of him, and through him among the people of the tiny hamlet,
whether any of them could give us information about that strange garden, lying
away by itself in the heart of an almost unknown tract of country.
At
last, the day came, on which we expected the driver to come across for us. He
arrived early, while we were still abed; and, the first thing we knew, he was
at the opening of the tent, inquiring whether we had had good sport. We replied
in the affirmative; and then, both together, almost in the same breath, we
asked the question that was uppermost in our minds: - Did he know anything
about an old garden, and a great pit, and a lake, situated some miles away,
down the river; also, had he ever heard of a great house thereabouts?
No,
he did not, and had not; yet, stay, he had heard a rumor, once upon a time, of
a great, old house standing alone out in the wilderness; but, if he remembered
rightly it was a place given over to the fairies; or, if that had not been so,
he was certain that there had been something "quare" about it; and,
anyway, he had heard nothing of it for a very long while - not since he was
quite a gossoon. No, he could not remember anything particular about it; indeed,
he did not know he remembered anything "at all, at all" until we
questioned him.
"Look
here," said Tonnison, finding that this was about all that he could tell
us, "just take a walk 'round the village, while we dress, and find out
something, if you can."
With
a nondescript salute, the man departed on his errand; while we made haste to
get into our clothes; after which, we began to prepare breakfast.
We
were just sitting down to it, when he returned.
"It's
all in bed the lazy divvils is, sor," he said, with a repetition of the
salute, and an appreciative eye to the good things spread out on our provision
chest, which we utilized as a table.
"Oh,
well, sit down," replied my friend, "and have something to eat with
us." Which the man did without delay.
After
breakfast, Tonnison sent him off again on the same errand, while we sat and
smoked. He was away some three-quarters of an hour, and, when he returned, it
was evident that he had found out something. It appeared that he had got into
conversation with an ancient man of the village, who, probably, knew more - though
it was little enough - of the strange house, than any other person living.
The
substance of this knowledge was, that, in the "ancient man's" youth -
and goodness knows how long back that was - there had stood a great house in
the center of the gardens, where now was left only that fragment of ruin. This
house had been empty for a great while; years before his - the ancient man's - birth.
It was a place shunned by the people of the village, as it had been shunned by
their fathers before them. There were many things said about it, and all were
of evil. No one ever went near it, either by day or night. In the village it
was a synonym of all that is unholy and dreadful.
And
then, one day, a man, a stranger, had ridden through the village, and turned
off down the river, in the direction of the House, as it was always termed by
the villagers. Some hours afterward, he had ridden back, taking the track by
which he had come, toward Ardrahan. Then, for three months or so, nothing was
heard. At the end of that time, he reappeared; but now, he was accompanied by
an elderly woman, and a large number of donkeys, laden with various articles.
They had passed through the village without stopping, and gone straight down
the bank of the river, in the direction of the House.
Since
that time, no one, save the man whom they had chartered to bring over monthly
supplies of necessaries from Ardrahan, had ever seen either of them: and him,
none had ever induced to talk; evidently, he had been well paid for his
trouble.
The
years had moved onward, uneventfully enough, in that little hamlet; the man
making his monthly journeys, regularly.
One
day, he had appeared as usual on his customary errand. He had passed through
the village without exchanging more than a surly nod with the inhabitants and
gone on toward the House. Usually, it was evening before he made the return
journey. On this occasion, however, he had reappeared in the village, a few
hours later, in an extraordinary state of excitement, and with the astounding
information, that the House had disappeared bodily, and that a stupendous pit
now yawned in the place where it had stood.
This
news, it appears, so excited the curiosity of the villagers, that they overcame
their fears, and marched en masse to the place. There, they found everything,
just as described by the carrier.
This
was all that we could learn. Of the author of the MS., who he was, and whence
he came, we shall never know.
His
identity is, as he seems to have desired, buried forever.
That
same day, we left the lonely village of Kraighten. We have never been there
since.
Sometimes,
in my dreams, I see that enormous pit, surrounded, as it is, on all sides by
wild trees and bushes. And the noise of the water rises upward, and blends - in
my sleep - with other and lower noises; while, over all, hangs the eternal
shroud of spray.
Grief(17)
Fierce hunger reigns within my
breast, I had not dreamt that this whole world,
Crushed in the hand of God, could
yield
Such bitter essence of unrest, Such
pain as Sorrow now hath hurled
Out of its dreadful heart,
unsealed!
Each sobbing breath is but a cry,
My heart-strokes knells of agony,
And my whole brain has but one
thought
That nevermore through life shall I
(Save in the ache of memory)
Touch hands with thee, who now art
naught!
Through the whole void of night I
search, So dumbly crying out to thee;
But thou are not; and night's vast
throne
Becomes an all stupendous church
With star-bells knelling unto me
Who in all space am most alone!
An hungered, to the shore I creep,
Perchance some comfort waits on me
From the old Sea's eternal heart;
But lo! from all the solemn deep,
Far voices out of mystery
Seem questioning why we are apart!
"Where'er I go I am alone Who
once, through thee, had all the world.
My breast is one whole raging pain
For that which was, and now is
flown Into the Blank where life is hurled
Where all is not, nor is
again!"
FOOTNOTES:
(1) An apparently unmeaning interpolation. I
can find no previous reference in the MS. to this matter. It becomes clearer,
however, in the light of succeeding incidents. - Ed.
(2) Here, the writing becomes undecipherable,
owing to the damaged condition of this part of the MS. Below I print such
fragments as are legible. - Ed.
(3) NOTE. - The severest scrutiny has not
enabled me to decipher more of the damaged portion of the MS. It commences to
be legible again with the chapter entitled "The Noise in the Night."
- Ed.
(4) The Recluse uses this as an illustration,
evidently in the sense of the popular conception of a comet. - Ed.
(5) Evidently referring to something set forth
in the missing and mutilated pages. See Fragments, Chapter 14 - Ed.
(6) No further mention is made of the moon.
From what is said here, it is evident that our satellite had greatly increased
its distance from the earth. Possibly, at a later age it may even have broken
loose from our attraction. I cannot but regret that no light is shed on this
point. - Ed.
(7) Conceivably, frozen air. - Ed.
(8) See previous footnote. This would explain
the snow (?) within the room. - Ed.
(9) I am confounded that neither here, nor
later on, does the Recluse make any further mention of the continued north and
south movement (apparent, of course,) of the sun from solstice to solstice. - Ed.
(10) At this time the sound-carrying atmosphere
must have been either incredibly attenuated, or - more probably - nonexistent.
In the light of this, it cannot be supposed that these, or any other, noises
would have been apparent to living ears - to hearing, as we, in the material
body, understand that sense. - Ed.
(11) I can only suppose that the time of the
earth's yearly journey had ceased to bear its present relative proportion to
the period of the sun's rotation. - Ed.
(12) A careful reading of the MS. suggests
that, either the sun is traveling on an orbit of great eccentricity, or else
that it was approaching the green star on a lessening orbit. And at this
moment, I conceive it to be finally torn directly from its oblique course, by
the gravitational pull of the immense star. - Ed.
(13) It will be noticed here that the earth was
"slowly traversing the tremendous face of the dead sun." No
explanation is given of this, and we must conclude, either that the speed of
time had slowed, or else that the earth was actually progressing on its orbit
at a rate, slow, when measured by existing standards. A careful study of the
MS. however, leads me to conclude that the speed of time had been steadily
decreasing for a very considerable period. - Ed.
(14) See first footnote, Chapter 18.
(15) Without doubt, the flame-edged mass of the
Dead Central Sun, seen from another dimension. - Ed.
(16) NOTE. - From the unfinished word, it is
possible, on the MS., to trace a faint line of ink, which suggests that the pen
has trailed away over the paper; possibly, through fright and weakness. - Ed.
(17) These stanzas I found, in pencil, upon a
piece of foolscap gummed in behind the fly-leaf of the MS. They have all the
appearance of having been written at an earlier date than the Manuscript.--Ed.