A TROPIC NIGHT
"Come and compare
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,
Nor fix on fond bodies to circumscribe thy prayer."
BYRON.
For a week the wet monsoon had frolicked insolently along the coast, the
intermittent north-east breeze, pert of promise but flabby of performance,
giving way to evening calms. Then came slashing south-easters which,
having discourteously bundled the cloud banks over the mountains, retired
with a spasm upon the reserves of the Pacific.
All day long the sea had been pale blue with changeful silvery lights,
and now the moon, halfway down on her westward course, shines over a
scene solemn in its stillness--the peace and repose more impressive than
all the recent riot and haste.
Here on the verge of the ocean, at the extreme limit of the spit of soft,
shell-enamelled sand, where the breakers had roared in angry monotone,
the ears thrilled with tender sounds. Though all the winds were dead the
undertones of the sea linger in lulling harmonies. The tepid tide on the
warm sand crisply rustles and hisses as when satin is crumpled and
smartly rent. Weird, resonant tappings, moans, and gurgles come from a
hollow log drifting, with infinite slowness. Broken sighs and gasps tell
where the ripples advancing in echelon wander and lose their way among
blocks of sandstone. As the tide rose it prattled and gurgled, toying
with tinkling shells and clinking coral, each tone separate and distinct,
however thin and faint. My solitary watch gives the rare delight of
analysing the night thoughts of the ocean, profound in its slumber though
dreamily conscious of recent conflict with the winds. All the frail
undertones suppressed, during the bullying day now have audience. Sounds
which crush and crowd have wearied and retired. The timid and shy
venture forth to join the quiet revelry of the night.
On its northern aspect the sand spit is the steeper. There the folds of
the sea fall in velvety thuds ever so gentle, ever so regular. On the
southern slope, where the gradient is easy, the wavelets glide up with
heedless hiss and slide back with shuffling whisper, scarce moving the
garlands of brown seaweed which a few hours before had been torn from the
borders of the coral garden with mischievous recklessness.
The sounds of this most stilly night are almost wholly of the faintly
pulsing sea--sibilant and soft. Twice have the big-eyed stone plovers
piped demoniacally. Once there were flutterings among the nutmeg pigeons
in the star-proof jungle of the crowded inlet to the south. A cockatoo has
shrieked out in dismay at some grim nightmare of a snake. Two swamp
pheasants have assured each other in bell-like cadences that the night is
far spent, and all is well.
As the moon sinks a ghostly silence prevails. Even the subdued tones of
the sea are hushed. Though I listen with aching intentness no sense of
sound comes to my relief. Thus must it be to be bereft of hearing. This
death-like pause, this awful blank, this tense, anxious lapse, this
pulseless, stifling silence is brief. A frail moan, just audible, comes
from the direction of the vanishing moon. There is a scarcely perceptible
stir in the warm air--a sensation of coming coolness rather than of
motion, and a faint odour of brine. A mile out across the channel a black
band has settled on the shining water.
How entrancing these night-tinted sights and soft sounds! While I loll
and peer and listen I am alert and still, for the primitive passions of
the universe are shyly exercised. To be sensitive to them all the
faculties must be acutely strained. With this lisping, coaxing,
companionable sea the serene and sparkling sky, the glow beyond the
worlds, the listening isles--demure and dim--the air moist, pacific and
fragrant--what concern of mine if the smoky messenger from the stuffy town
never comes? This is the quintessence of life. I am alive at last. Such
keen tingling, thrilling perceptions were never mine before. Now do I
realise the magnificent, the prodigious fact of being. Mine not only a
part in the homely world, but a fellowship with the glorious firmament.
It is night--the thoughtful, watchful, wakeful, guardian night, with no
cloud to sully its tremulous radiance. How pretty a fable, I reflect,
would the ancients have associated with the Southern Cross, shimmering
there in the serene sky! Dare I, at this inspiring moment, attempt what
they missed, merely because they lacked direct inspiration? Those who
once lived in Egypt saw the sumptuous southern jewel, and it may again
glitter vainly for the bewilderment of the Sphinx if the lazy world
lurches through space long enough. Yes, let me invent a myth--and not tell
it, but rather think of the origin of the Milky Way and so convince
myself of the futility of modern inventions.
Juno's favourite flowers were, it is written, the dittany (a milk-like
plant), the flaunting poppy, and the fragrant lily. Once, as she slept,
Jupiter placed the wonderfully begotten Hercules to her alien, repugnant
breasts. Some of the milk dripped and as it fell was dissipated in the
heavens--and there is the Milky Way. Other drops reached the earth and,
falling on the lily, which hitherto had been purple, purified it to
whiteness. In similar guise might the legend of the Southern Cross be
framed--but who has the audacity to reveal it! And have not the
unimaginative blacks anticipated the stellar romance?
As I gaze into those serene and capricious spaces separating the friendly
stars I am relieved of all consciousness of sense of duration. Time was
not made for such ecstasies, which are of eternity. The warm sand nurses
my body. My other self seeks consolation among the planets.
"Thin huge stage presenteth naught but show
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment."
A grey mist masks the winding of a mainland river. Isolated blotches
indicate lonely lagoons and swamps where slim palms and lank tea-trees
stand in crowded, whispering ranks knee-deep in dull brown water. The
mist spreads. Black hilltops are as islands jutting out from a grey
supermundane sea.
Come! Let me bid defiance to this clumsy dragon of vapour worming its
ever-lengthening, ever-widening tail out from the close precincts of a
mangrove creek. Shock-headed it rolls and squirms. Soft-headed, too, for
the weakest airs knead and mould it into ever-varying shapes. Now it has
a lolling, impudent tongue--a truly unruly member, wagging
disrespectfully at the decent night. Now a perky top-knot, and presently
no head at all. Lumbering, low-lying, cowardly--a plaything, a toy, a
mockery, a sport for the wilful zephyrs. Now it lifts a bully head as it
creeps unimpeded across the sea and spreads, infinitely soft,
all-encompassing. As if by magic the mainland is blotted out. The sea is
dark and death-like, the air clammy, turgid, and steamy. Heavy vapour
settles upon the hills of the Island, descending slowly and with the
passivity of fate, until there is but a thin stratum of clear air between
the gloomy levels and the portentous pall.
Lesser islands to the south are merely cloud-capped. This lower level with
blurred and misty edges may not be further compressed, but the air is
warm, thick, sticky, and so saturated with vegetable odours that even the
salt of the sea has lost its savour.
A low, quavering whistle heralds the approach of a nervous curlew,
running and pausing, and stamping, its script--an erratic scrawl of
fleurs-de-lis--on the easy sand. Halting on the verge of the water, it
furtively picks up crabs as if it were a trespasser, conscious of a
shameful or wicked deed and fearful of detection. It is not night nor yet
quite day, but this keen-eyed, suspicious bird knows all the permanent
features of the sand-spit. The crouching, unaccustomed shape bewilders
it; it pipes inquiringly, stops, starts with quick, agitated steps,
snatches a crab--a desperate deed--and flies off with a penetrating cry
of warning.
A long-billed shore plover takes up the alarm, and blunderingly races
towards instead of from me, whimpering "plin, plin" as it passes and,
still curious though alert, steps and bobs and ducks--all its movements
and flight impulsive and staccato.
The grey mist whitens. A luminous patch indicates the east. The light
increases. The cumbersome vapour is sopped up by the sun, and the
coo-hooing of many pigeons makes proclamation of the day. Detached and
erratic patches of ripples appear--tiptoe touches of sportful elves
tripping from the isles to the continent, whisking merrily, the faintest
flicks of dainty toes making the glad sea to smile. Parcelled into
shadows, bold, yet retreating, the dimness of the night, purple on the
glistening sea, stretches from the isles towards the long, orange-tinted
beach.
Let there be no loitering of the shadows. The gloomy isles have changed
from black to purple and from purple to blue, and as the imperious sun
flashes on the mainland a smudge of brown, blurred and shifting, in the
far distance--the only evidence of the existence of human schemes and
agitations--the only stain on the celestial purity of the
morning--betokens the belated steamer for the coming of which the
joy-giving watches of the tropic night have been kept.