Wave: An Egyptian Aftermath (eBook)

Algernon Blackwood (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2018
458 Seiten
Charles River Editors (Verlag)
978-1-5183-9698-4 (ISBN)

Infos

Algernon Blackwood was a prolific British author best known for his ghost stories.  Blackwood's most famous work includes The Willows and The Wendigo.  This edition of The Wave: An Egyptian Aftermath includes a table of contents.

Textauszug

CHAPTER II.

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AS A RESULT OF HAVING told everything to his father, Tommy’s nightmare, however, largely ceased to trouble him. He had found the relief of expression, which is confession, and had laid upon the older mind the burden of his terror. Once a month, once a week, or even daily if he wanted to, he could repeat the expression as the need for it accumulated, and the load which decency forbade being laid upon his mother, the stern-faced man could carry easily for him.

The comfortable sensation that forgiveness is the completion of confession invaded his awakening mind, and had he been older this thin end of a religious wedge might have persuaded him to join what his mother called that ‘vast conspiracy.’ But even at this early stage there was something stalwart and self-reliant in his cast of character that resisted the cunning sophistry; vicarious relief woke resentment in him; he meant to face his troubles alone. So far as he knew, he had not sinned, yet the Wave, the Whiff, the Eyes were symptoms of some fate that threatened him, a premonition of something coming that he must meet with his own strength, something that he could only deal with effectively alone, since it was deserved and just. One day the Wave would fall; his father could not help him then. This instinct in him remained unassailable. He even began to look forward to the time when it should come—to have done with it and get it over, conquering or conquered.

The premonition, that is, while remaining an obsession as before, transferred itself from his inner to his outer life. The nightmare, therefore, ceased. The menacing interest, however, held unchanged. Though the name had not hitherto occurred to him, he became a fatalist. ‘It’s got to come; I’ve got to meet it. I will.’

‘Well, Tommy,’ his father would ask from time to time, ‘been dreaming anything lately?’

‘Nothing, Daddy. It’s all stopped.’

‘Wave, eyes, and whiff all forgotten, eh?’

Tommy shook his head. ‘They’re still there,’ he answered slowly, ‘but——’ He seemed unable to complete the sentence. His father helped him at a venture.

‘But they can’t catch you—is that it?’

The boy looked up with a dogged expression in his big grey eyes. ‘I’m ready for them,’ he replied. And his father laughed and said, ‘Of course. That’s half the battle.’

He gave him a present then—one of the packets of tissue-paper—and Tommy took it in triumph to his room. He opened it in private, but the contents seemed to him without especial interest. Only the Whiff was, somehow, sweet and precious; and he kept the packet in a drawer apart where the fossils and catapult and air-gun ammunition could not interfere with it, hiding the key so that Tim and the servants could not find it. And on rare occasions, when the rest of the household was asleep, he performed a little ritual of his own that, for a boy of his years, was distinctly singular.

When the room was dark, lit in winter by the dying fire, or in summer by the stars, he would creep out of bed, make quite sure that Tim was asleep, stand on a chair to reach the key from the top of the big cupboard, and carefully unlock the drawer. He had oiled the wood with butter, so that it was silent. The tissue-paper gleamed dimly pink; the Whiff came out to meet him. He lifted the packet, soft and crackling, and set it on the window-sill; he did not open it; its contents had no interest for him, it was the perfume he was after. And the moment the perfume reached his nostrils there came a trembling over him that he could not understand. He both loved and dreaded it. This manly, wholesome-minded, plucky little boy, the basis of whose steady character was common sense, became the prey of a strange, unreasonable fantasy. A faintness stole upon him; he lost the sense of kneeling on a solid chair; something immense and irresistible came piling up behind him; there was nothing firm he could push against to save himself; he began shuffling with his bare feet, struggling to escape from something that was coming, something that would probably overwhelm him yet must positively be faced and battled with. The Wave was rising. It was the wavy feeling.

He did not turn to look, because he knew quite well there was nothing in the room but beds, a fender, furniture, vague shadows and his brother Tim. That kind of childish fear had no place in what he felt. But the Wave was piled and curving over none the less; it hung between him and the shadowed ceiling, above the roof of the house; it came from beyond the world, far overhead against the crowding stars. It would not break, for the time had not yet come. But it was there. It waited. He knelt beneath its mighty shadow of advance; it was still arrested, poised above his eager life, competent to engulf him when the time arrived. The sweep of its curved mass was mountainous. He knelt inside this curve, small, helpless, but not too afraid to fight. The perfume stole about him. The Whiff was in his nostrils. There was a strange, rich pain—oddly remote, yet oddly poignant.…

And it was with this perfume that the ritual chiefly had to do. He loved the extraordinary sensations that came with it, and tried to probe their meaning in his boyish way. Meaning there was, but it escaped him. The sweetness clouded something in his brain, and made his muscles weak; it robbed him of that resistance which is fighting strength. It was this battle that he loved, this sense of shoving against something that might so easily crush and finish him. There was a way to beat it, a way to win—could he but discover it. As yet he could not. Victory, he felt, lay more in yielding and going-with than in violent resistance.

And, meanwhile, in an ecstasy of this half yielding, half resisting, he lent himself fully to the overmastering tide. He was conscious of attraction and repulsion, something that enticed, yet thrust him backwards. Some final test of manhood, character, value, lay in the way he faced it. The strange, rich pain stole marvellously into his blood and nerves. His heart beat faster. There was this exquisite seduction that contained delicious danger. It rose upon him out of some inner depth he could not possibly get at. He trembled with mingled terror and delight. And it invariably ended with a kind of inexpressible yearning that choked him, crumpled him inwardly, as he described it, brought the moisture, hot and smarting, into his burning eyes, and—each time to his bitter shame— left his cheeks wet with scalding tears.

He cried silently; there was no heaving, gulping, audible sobbing, just a relieving gush of heartfelt tears that took away the strange, rich pain and brought the singular ritual to a finish. He replaced the tissue-paper, blotted with his tears; locked the drawer carefully; hid the key on the top of the cupboard again, and tumbled back into bed.

Downstairs, meanwhile, a conversation was in progress concerning the welfare of the growing hero.

‘I’m glad that dream has left him anyhow. It used to frighten me rather. I did not like it,’ observed his mother.

‘He doesn’t speak to you about it any more?’ the father asked.

For months, she told him, Tommy had not mentioned it. They went on to discuss his future together. The other children presented fewer problems, but Tommy, apparently, felt no particular call to any profession.

‘It will come with a jump,’ the doctor inclined to think. ‘He’s been on the level for some time now. Suddenly he’ll grow up and declare his mighty mind.’

Father liked humour in the gravest talk; indeed the weightier the subject, the more he valued a humorous light upon it. The best judgment, he held, was shaped by humour, sense of proportion lost without it. His wife, however, thought ‘it a pity.’ Grave things she liked grave.

‘There’s something very deep in Tommy,’ she observed, as though he were developing a hidden malady.

‘Hum,’ agreed her husband. ‘His subconscious content is unusual, both in kind and quantity.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘It’s possible he may turn out an artist, or a preacher. If the former, I’ll bet his output will be original; and, as for the latter,’—he paused a second—’he’s too logical and too fearless to be orthodox. Already he thinks things out for himself.’

‘I should like to see him in the Church, though,’ said Mother. ‘He would do a lot of good. But he is uncompromising, rather.’

‘His honesty certainly is against him,’ sighed his father. ‘What do you think he asked me the other day?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, John.’ The answer completed itself with the unspoken ‘He never asks me anything now.’

‘He came straight up to me and said, ‘Father, is it good to feel pain? To let it come, I mean, or try to dodge it?’’

‘Had he hurt himself?’ the woman asked quickly. It seemed she winced.

‘Not physically. He had been feeling something inside. He wanted to know how ‘a man’ should meet the case.’

‘And what did you tell him, dear?’

‘That pain...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 22.3.2018
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Anthologien
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Klassiker / Moderne Klassiker
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• Schlagworte: bizarre • British • Classic • ghost • Horror • The Damned • the empty house • The Wendigo • The Willows • Weird
• ISBN-10: 1-5183-9698-4 / 1518396984
• ISBN-13: 978-1-5183-9698-4 / 9781518396984