The Collected Fiction of William Hope Hodgson: The Dream Of X & Other Fantastic Visions (13 page)

The sound appeared to come from the greyness that dwelt away beyond a little wood of submarine growths, that trailed up their roots, so hushed and noiseless, out of a near-by vale in the sea-bottom.

As Granfer stared, everything about him darkened into a wonderful and rather dreadful Blackness. This passed, and he was able to see again; but somehow, as it might be said, newly. The shrill, sweet, childish singing had ceased; but there was something beside the Sea-Horse . . . a little, agile figure, that caused the Sea-Horse to bob and bound at its moorings. And, suddenly, the little figure was astride the Sea-Horse, and the Horse was free, and two twinkling legs urged it across the sea-bottom towards Granfer.

Granfer thought that he stood up, and ran to meet the boy; but Nebby dodged him, the Sea-Horse curvetting magnificently; and immediately Nebby began to gallop round and round Granfer, singing:—

“An’ we’s under the sea, b’ys,

Where the Wild Horses go,

Horses wiv tails

As big as ole whales

All jiggin’ around in a row,

An’ when you ses Whoa!

Them debbils does go!”

The voice of the blue-eyed mite was ineffably gleeful; and abruptly, tremendous youth invaded Granfer, and a glee beyond all understanding.

7

On the deck of the barge, Ned and Binny were in great doubt and trouble. The weather had been growing heavy and threatening, during all the late afternoon; and now it was culminating in a tremendous, black squall, which was coming swiftly down upon them.

Time after time, Binny had attempted to signal Granfer Zacchy to come up; but Granfer had taken a turn with his life-line round a hump of rock that protruded out of the sea-bottom; so that Binny was powerless to do aught; for there was no second set of diving gear aboard.

All that the two men could do, was to wait, in deep anxiety, keeping the pump going steadily, and standing-by for the signal that was never to come; for by that time, old Granfer Zacchy was sitting very quiet and huddled against the rock, round which he had hitched to prevent Binny from signalling him, as Binny had become prone to do, when Granfer stayed below, out of all reason and wisdom.

And all the time, Ned kept the un-needed pump going, and far down in the grey depth, the air came out in a continual series of bubbles, around the big copper helmet. But Granfer was breathing an air of celestial sweetness, all unwitting and un-needing of the air that Ned laboured faithfully to send to him.

The squall came down in a fierce haze of rain and foam, and the ungainly old craft swung round, jibbing heavily at her kedge-rope, which gave out a little twanging sound, that was lost in the roar of the wind. The unheard twanging of the rope, ended suddenly in a dull thud, as it parted; and the bluff old barge fell, off broadside on to the weight of the squall. She drifted with astonishing rapidity, and the life-line and the air-pipe flew out, with a buzz of the unwinding drums, and parted, with two differently toned reports, that were plain in an instant’s lull in the roaring of the squall.

Binny had run forrard to the bows, to try to get over another kedge; but now he came racing aft again, shouting. Ned still pumped on mechanically, with a look of dull, stunned horror in his eyes; the pump driving a useless jet of air through the broken remnant of the air-pipe. Already, the barge was a quarter of a mile to leeward of the diving-ground, and the men could do no more than hoist the foresail, and try to head her in safely over the bar, which was now right under their lee.

Down in the sea, old Granfer Zacchy had altered his position; the jerk of the air-pipe had done that. But Granfer was well enough content; not only for the moment; but for Eternity; for as Nebby rode so gleefully round and round him, there had come a change in all things; there were strange and subtile lights in all the grey twilights of the deep, that seemed to lead away and away into stupendous and infinitely beautiful distances.

“Is you listenin’, Granfer?” Old Zacchy heard Nebby say; and discovered suddenly that Nebby was insisting that he should race him across the strangely glorified twilights, that bounded them now eternally.

“Sure, b’y,” said Granfer Zacchy, undismayed; and Nebby wheeled his charger.

“Gee-Up!” shouted Nebby, excitedly, and his small legs began to twinkle ahead in magnificent fashion; with Granfer running a cheerful and deliberate second.

And so passed Granfer Zacchy and Nebby into the Land where little boys may ride Sea-Horses for ever, and where Parting becomes one of the Lost Sorrows.

And Nebby led the way at a splendid gallop; maybe, for all that I have any right to know, to the very Throne of the Almighty, singing, shrill and sweet:—

“An we’s under the sea, b’ys,

Where the Wild Horses go,

Horses wiv tails

As big as ole whales

All jiggin’ around in a row,

An’ when you ses Whoa!

Them debbils does go!”

And overhead (was it only a dozen fathoms!) there rushed the white-maned horses of the sea, mad with the glory of the storm, and tossing ruthless from crest to crest, a wooden go-horse, from which trailed a length of broken spun yarn.

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How the Honourable Billy Darrell Raised the Wind

P
ollie,” said the Honourable Billy to his young wife, “what were you christened?”

“Mary,” she replied.

“Then who was the first idiot to call you ‘Pollie’?” he asked.

“Everyone have called me that always,” said the Honourable Mrs. Darrell.

“Asses!” declared the Honourable Billy. “I shall call you Mary in future, for ever. And remember, Mary, that it should be really ‘everyone has.’ Now, dinna forget, lassie!”

Mary Darrell—but lately Mary Ryden, mill-girl—sighed a little, and grimaced prettily. “ Fine” talk held so many unsuspected entanglements; but she was learning swiftly, almost minute by minute, the ways and the speech of her young, and certainly lovable, lord.

“Mary,” said the Honourable Billy, some minutes later, looking up from his bank-book, “we’ve just exactly five pounds and six shillings left in the bank. My Uncle John promised me a thousand pounds the day I married you, or else I’d never have had the cheek to ask you—”

“Husht! Dear, do husht talking like that!” interrupted Mary. “As if I wouldn’t be proud to be your wife, so how poor you was.”

“ ‘Were,’ bless you,” said the Honourable Billy, drawing her gently to him.

His wife nodded, and continued.

“You must be a sensible boy, and let me go back to the mill until your stories are selling better, dear,” she said coaxingly. “I should feel such a proud girl.”

“Never!” remarked the Honourable Billy, very quietly, but in a tone that told her it was hopeless to press the point; though, in her heart, she believed that necessity would presently compel him to let her go back to her mill-work, where she could earn from twenty-five to twenty-eight shillings per week—sufficient to keep the two of them comfortably.

The Honourable Billy went to the corner cupboard, and reached down a bill-file, which he brought to the table, and began to examine.

“Two pounds three and sixpence to Tauton,” he muttered, jotting down the amount on an envelope.

“I could do without butcher’s meat,” said Mary. “I love potatoes, and we could save a bit that way, dear.”

“Yes,” said the Honourable Billy grimly. “We might feed you on good plain water, whilst I have a good steak to my dinner! Mary, if I catch you doing that sort of thing, there’ll be trouble!”

He lifted several more bills off the file.

“Seventeen and six to Motts for redecoratin’,” he read out. “One pound fifteen to Jenkins for groceries. Fourteen pounds to Tuttles for new furniture. Tailor—poor devil!—wants something on account. I owe him ten pounds. Thank God, anyway, you made me pay the rent out of that last cheque. There’s half a dozen old accounts here, and the big bill of Williams’s for the pictures I bought, depending on that thousand of my uncle’s that he forgot about, and then went and bust, poor old chap!”

He stopped speaking, and totted up the whole of their debts.

“Sixty-three pounds sixteen and nine-pence!” he declared at last. “And we’ve five pun sax in the bank; no stories sold, and meanwhile we’ve got to live. Tell you what, lassie—I’ve just got to rustle, and let you see I’m not just such a piece of show-goods as I know you imagine in that quaint little heart o’ thine. I guess I’ve got to raise the wind pretty sudden, an’ I’m going to do it, too, even if I indulge in burglary!”

“Why not let me go back to the mill, dear, really?” ventured his wife once more.

“Mary,” said the Honourable Billy, taking her on to his knee, “ hold your tongue!”

Which Mary did, literally, until her laughter forced her to let go.

“It’s so slippy,” she explained, with sublime impertinence. “And, anyway, I know you’ll have to let me have my own way in the end.”

And in the same moment in which she concluded this prophecy, there was a knock at the front door. She returned, carrying an opened letter, set out in varying sized print, and the blanks filled in with spidery writing.

“It’s from some people called Stubbs,” she said, looking very white and frightened. “They say as we’ve to pay Williams’s bill by next Wednesday, or they’ll summons us. And it was give to old George Cardman”—referring to the old weaver next door, who strongly disapproved of the Honourable Billy—“and now the whole Court will know”—meaning the Farm Court, in which their little cottage stood. “The postman ought to be more careful.” And she fought to keep from crying.

“Cheer up, little woman!” said the Honourable Billy, taking the letter from her. “I’m going to raise some money jolly soon now. You’ll see.” Yet how this was to be achieved he had no distinct notion, and Pollie felt that this was so.

“Oh, let me go back to the mill, dear, until we’re clear!” she begged him once more. “Do—do let me, dear! I should be so much happier, you don’t know. I’ve always had such a horror of debt!”

“No!” said the Honourable Billy, almost fiercely. “You’re never going back there again!”

And with that from her young lord and master she became silent, yet loving him queerly the more, even whilst her judgment made her feel impatient with him.

An hour later big Tom Holden called. He was the steam-lurry man at Grafter’s mill, where Pollie had worked before she married the lovable but absurdly poor Honourable Billy. Tom, as it chanced, had been the Honourable Billy’s rival, and had eventually fought with him concerning Pollie, with the result that he had found himself knocked out in something under a minute, much to his astonishment. He had eventually become the Honourable Billy’s staunchest friend and admirer.

For a time Tom sat chatting quietly, but in a half-hearted fashion as if his thoughts were on the wander and his interest not truly in the topics raised. Eventually he caught the Honourable Billy’s attention with a quick glance, and nodded meaningly towards the door, having first made sure that Mary was not looking at him.

From this manoeuvre the Honourable Billy gathered that Tom wished to speak to him privately outside; so that when, a few minutes later, the big driver rose to go, he reached for his cap.

“I’ll come a few steps with you, Tom,” he said. “I feel I want to stretch my legs.” He turned to his wife. “Sha’n’t be five minutes, dear,” he explained, and followed Tom.

For perhaps a minute big Tom Holden walked at a rapid rate, wordless. Eventually he jerked out, apparently apropos of nothing:

“T’ match at Jackson’s Green is off.”

“Oh!” said the Honourable Billy, immediately interested, for he knew that Holden referred to a boxing match that had been arranged between a local champion called Dan Natter, and Blacksmith Dankley, who worked a shoeing forge on the Longsite Road, and was reckoned the best man with his hands for many miles. “That’s a beastly pity, Tom!” he added. “Why’s it off?”

“Dan’s sprained hisself—’s ankle or summat,” replied Holden. “Doctor’s sure’s he con’t fight, not for a three-month. I wor in Jackson’s place t’-neet, an’ he wor tur’ble cut up. He’s like ta be, for he’s bet big money ’s he’ll find a mon to lick t’ feightin’ blacksmith i’ twenty roonds.”

“Well,” said the Honourable Billy, “why doesn’t he get another man ? There’s three weeks yet to the fight.”

“He con’t,” replied Holden. “Dan’s t’ best mon i’ these parts, an’ a likely lad. Not but Dankley’s the best mon to my thinkin’.”

He relapsed into silence, and for some moments increased the speed of his steps, his actions suggesting suddenly to the Honourable Billy that he wrestled with some mental problem, or with a natural diffidence to say something that was in his mind. Abruptly he said:

“T’ purse wor a hundred pounds, an’ t’ winner to share t’ gate-money.”

And again he fell to wordlessness and quick walking. Suddenly he brought out the thing that was in his mind.

“Happen tha’d be too proud to try for ’t?” he said, with a queer little note of awkwardness in his voice.

“Me?” demanded the Honourable Billy, lost to all, save astonishment. “Good Lord!” Then, after an instant’s pause: “I’m not half good enough. They’d never let me try.”

“Tha’ con ax ’em!” said Tom Holden briefly, and still walking.