although he was aware that it held something important which he ought not to relinquish. Deliberately he chose to let it go, and, in a matter of seconds, all memory evaporated. A blank curtain descended upon everything that had preceded this awakening. He was nothing. He had nothing save gnawing hunger and aching limbs.
Presently he rose and left the place. The early sun shone on wet grass and many tall thin stones which rose up on all sides, at haphazard, throwing strange shadows. For a time the shadows occupied him, but he did not like the stones. Then, turning, he saw a building. The shed, in which he had spent the night, leant against it, in a nettled hollow. This building also offended him. There was a solid squareness about the main part of it which accorded ill with the stumpy cone above it. He turned his eyes away. A picture came into his mind: bacon on a plate. He wanted that, but, in this place of stones and grass, there did not seem to be any.
A cock crew triumphantly, and he moved towards the sound as though to a summons. But at one point he turned aside to examine a stone that he liked. It was close to the wall, half hidden in long grass, but it had a better shape than the others and the top of it curved gracefully. There were words on it and his heart warmed as he read them, for he knew that a hand like his own had cut them.
HERE LIES
SIMON BENBOW. Ob: 1744.
I know that my Redeemer liveth.
The cock crew again and he went on, through a lychgate into a sleeping village street. There was no food here, but there was a noise which promised food, had always signified food. He knew that much, although as yet he made no effort to name the round, smooth, warm shapes which it evoked. This noise had arisen in the same direction in which the cock was crowing:
CHOOK! Chook-chook-chook. CHOOK! Chook, chook, chook.…
He found a narrow lane leading towards it, between two thatched cottages. Wooden fences railed off gardens. Beyond them was a meadow full of hen-houses. He climbed a gate and found what he wanted in a nesting-box behind one of them. They were warm and smooth and brown. He broke the shells and almost laughed with pleasure as they slid down his throat. Five minutes later, feeling much better, he climbed the gate, regainedthe lane, and wandered back to the street. This was very wide. A strip of grass, planted with pollarded trees, separated the cottages on either side from the road. In the grass he found something that attracted him—two blocks of stone, side by side, one twice the height of the other. He liked their proportions, and sat down upon the lower stone. The climbing sun began to warm his stiff limbs.
Now that his physical discomforts were assuaged the mental blank became a more distressing evil. He wanted to escape from the past, to leave it as far behind him as possible. But he did not know how to advance or where to go. To give a name to anything, even to himself, was to look backwards. He flinched from any name, any word, which was not offered to him here .
The village was waking up and, with it, the sounds of early morning. A dog barked. A pump handle squeaked and whined. Doves cooed on a thatched roof. Some doors were opened and curtains were drawn back from windows. There were, besides, many faint, indefinable sounds—thuds, clanks, humming, far-off voices, the whole orchestra of life tuning up. One or two people went down the street and cast looks askance at the queer tramp sitting on the old horse-block. But he sat on, motionless, until his ear was greeted by a fresh sound, familiar, reassuring, as much an answer to his needs as the cluck of the hen had been.
Chip … chip … chip-chip … chip … chip-chip-chip … chip. …
He saw the stone, the chisel, the hammer and the hands that held them. He rose and went in search of these things, over the soft wet grass, past the houses. As he went, the sound grew louder:
Chip-chip … chip … chip .…
The stone, the chisel, the
Presently he rose and left the place. The early sun shone on wet grass and many tall thin stones which rose up on all sides, at haphazard, throwing strange shadows. For a time the shadows occupied him, but he did not like the stones. Then, turning, he saw a building. The shed, in which he had spent the night, leant against it, in a nettled hollow. This building also offended him. There was a solid squareness about the main part of it which accorded ill with the stumpy cone above it. He turned his eyes away. A picture came into his mind: bacon on a plate. He wanted that, but, in this place of stones and grass, there did not seem to be any.
A cock crew triumphantly, and he moved towards the sound as though to a summons. But at one point he turned aside to examine a stone that he liked. It was close to the wall, half hidden in long grass, but it had a better shape than the others and the top of it curved gracefully. There were words on it and his heart warmed as he read them, for he knew that a hand like his own had cut them.
HERE LIES
SIMON BENBOW. Ob: 1744.
I know that my Redeemer liveth.
The cock crew again and he went on, through a lychgate into a sleeping village street. There was no food here, but there was a noise which promised food, had always signified food. He knew that much, although as yet he made no effort to name the round, smooth, warm shapes which it evoked. This noise had arisen in the same direction in which the cock was crowing:
CHOOK! Chook-chook-chook. CHOOK! Chook, chook, chook.…
He found a narrow lane leading towards it, between two thatched cottages. Wooden fences railed off gardens. Beyond them was a meadow full of hen-houses. He climbed a gate and found what he wanted in a nesting-box behind one of them. They were warm and smooth and brown. He broke the shells and almost laughed with pleasure as they slid down his throat. Five minutes later, feeling much better, he climbed the gate, regainedthe lane, and wandered back to the street. This was very wide. A strip of grass, planted with pollarded trees, separated the cottages on either side from the road. In the grass he found something that attracted him—two blocks of stone, side by side, one twice the height of the other. He liked their proportions, and sat down upon the lower stone. The climbing sun began to warm his stiff limbs.
Now that his physical discomforts were assuaged the mental blank became a more distressing evil. He wanted to escape from the past, to leave it as far behind him as possible. But he did not know how to advance or where to go. To give a name to anything, even to himself, was to look backwards. He flinched from any name, any word, which was not offered to him here .
The village was waking up and, with it, the sounds of early morning. A dog barked. A pump handle squeaked and whined. Doves cooed on a thatched roof. Some doors were opened and curtains were drawn back from windows. There were, besides, many faint, indefinable sounds—thuds, clanks, humming, far-off voices, the whole orchestra of life tuning up. One or two people went down the street and cast looks askance at the queer tramp sitting on the old horse-block. But he sat on, motionless, until his ear was greeted by a fresh sound, familiar, reassuring, as much an answer to his needs as the cluck of the hen had been.
Chip … chip … chip-chip … chip … chip-chip-chip … chip. …
He saw the stone, the chisel, the hammer and the hands that held them. He rose and went in search of these things, over the soft wet grass, past the houses. As he went, the sound grew louder:
Chip-chip … chip … chip .…
The stone, the chisel, the
Similar Books
