The observatory at Avu, in Borneo, stands on the spur of the mountain.
To the north rises the old crater, black against the unfathomable blue
of the sky. From the little circular building, with its mushroom dome,
the slopes plunge steeply downward into the black mysteries of the
tropical forest beneath. The little house in which the observer and his
assistant live is about fifty yards from the observatory, and beyond
this are the huts of their native attendants.
Thaddy, the chief observer, was down with a slight fever. His assistant,
Woodhouse, paused for a moment in silent contemplation of the tropical
night before commencing his solitary vigil. The night was very silent.
Now and then voices and laughter came from the native huts, or the cry
of some strange animal was heard from the midst of the mystery of the
forest. Nocturnal insects appeared in ghostly fashion out of the
darkness, and fluttered round his light. He thought, perhaps, of all the
possibilities of discovery that still lay in the black tangle beneath
him; for to the naturalist the virgin forests of Borneo are still a
wonderland, full of strange questions and half-suspected discoveries.
Woodhouse carried a small lantern in his hand, and its yellow glow
contrasted vividly with the infinite series of tints between
lavender-blue and black in which the landscape was painted. His hands
and face were smeared with ointment against the attacks of the
mosquitoes.
Even in these days of celestial photography, work done in a purely
temporary erection, and with only the most primitive appliances in
addition to the telescope, still involves a very large amount of cramped
and motionless watching. He sighed as he thought of the physical
fatigues before him, stretched himself, and entered the observatory.
The reader is probably familiar with the structure of an ordinary
astronomical observatory. The building is usually cylindrical in shape,
with a very light hemispherical roof capable of being turned round from
the interior. The telescope is supported upon a stone pillar in the
centre, and a clockwork arrangement compensates for the earth’s
rotation, and allows a star once found to be continuously observed.
Besides this, there is a compact tracery of wheels and screws about its
point of support, by which the astronomer adjusts it. There is, of
course, a slit in the movable roof which follows the eye of the
telescope in its survey of the heavens. The observer sits or lies on a
sloping wooden arrangement, which he can wheel to any part of the
observatory as the position of the telescope may require. Within it is
advisable to have things as dark as possible, in order to enhance the
brilliance of the stars observed.
The lantern flared as Woodhouse entered his circular den, and the
general darkness fled into black shadows behind the big machine, from
which it presently seemed to creep back over the whole place again as
the light waned. The slit was a profound transparent blue, in which six
stars shone with tropical brilliance, and their light lay, a pallid
gleam, along the black tube of the instrument. Woodhouse shifted the
roof, and then proceeding to the telescope, turned first one wheel and
then another, the great cylinder slowly swinging into a new position.
Then he glanced through the finder, the little companion telescope,
moved the roof a little more, made some further adjustments, and set the
clockwork in motion. He took off his jacket, for the night was very hot,
and pushed into position the uncomfortable seat to which he was
condemned for the next four hours. Then with a sigh he resigned himself
to his watch upon the mysteries of space.
There was no sound now in the observatory, and the lantern waned
steadily. Outside there was the occasional cry of some animal in alarm
or pain, or calling to its mate, and the intermittent sounds of the
Malay and Dyak servants. Presently one of the men began a queer chanting
song, in which the others joined at intervals. After this it would seem
that they turned in for the night, for no further sound came from their
direction, and the whispering stillness became more and more profound.
The clockwork ticked steadily. The shrill hum of a mosquito explored the
place and grew shriller in indignation at Woodhouse’s ointment. Then the
lantern went out and all the observatory was black.
Woodhouse shifted his position presently, when the slow movement of the
telescope had carried it beyond the limits of his comfort.
He was watching a little group of stars in the Milky Way, in one of
which his chief had seen or fancied a remarkable colour variability. It
was not a part of the regular work for which the establishment existed,
and for that reason perhaps Woodhouse was deeply interested. He must
have forgotten things terrestrial. All his attention was concentrated
upon the great blue circle of the telescope field—a circle powdered, so
it seemed, with an innumerable multitude of stars, and all luminous
against the blackness of its setting. As he watched he seemed to himself
to become incorporeal, as if he too were floating in the ether of space.
Infinitely remote was the faint red spot he was observing.
Suddenly the stars were blotted out. A flash of blackness passed, and
they were visible again.
“Queer,” said Woodhouse. “Must have been a bird.”
The thing happened again, and immediately after the great tube shivered
as though it had been struck. Then the dome of the observatory resounded
with a series of thundering blows. The stars seemed to sweep aside as
the telescope swung round and away from the slit in the roof.
“Great Scott!” cried Woodhouse. “What’s this?”
Some huge, vague, black shape, with a flapping something like a wing,
seemed to be struggling in the aperture of the roof. In another moment
the slit was clear again, and the luminous haze of the Milky Way shone
warm and bright.
The interior of the roof was perfectly black, and only a scraping sound
marked the whereabouts of the unknown creature.
Woodhouse had scrambled from the seat to his feet. He was trembling
violently and in a perspiration with the suddenness of the occurrence.
Was the thing, whatever it was, inside or out? It was big, whatever else
it might be. Something shot across the skylight, and the telescope
swayed. He started violently and put his arm up. It was in the
observatory, then, with him. It was clinging to the roof, apparently.
What the devil was it? Could it see him?
He stood for perhaps a minute in a state of stupefaction. The beast,
whatever it was, clawed at the interior of the dome, and then something
flapped almost into his face, and he saw the momentary gleam of
starlight on a skin like oiled leather. His water-bottle was knocked off
his little table with a smash.
The sense of some strange bird-creature hovering a few yards from his
face in the darkness was indescribably unpleasant to Woodhouse. As his
thought returned he concluded that it must be some night-bird or large
bat. At any risk he would see what it was, and pulling a match from his
pocket, he tried to strike it on the telescope seat. There was a smoking
streak of phosphorescent light, the match flared for a moment, and he
saw a vast wing sweeping towards him, a gleam of grey-brown fur, and
then he was struck in the face and the match knocked out of his hand.
The blow was aimed at his temple, and a claw tore sideways down to his
cheek. He reeled and fell, and he heard the extinguished lantern smash.
Another blow followed as he fell. He was partly stunned, he felt his own
warm blood stream out upon his face. Instinctively he felt his eyes had
been struck at, and, turning over on his face to protect them, tried to
crawl under the protection of the telescope.
He was struck again upon the back, and he heard his jacket rip, and then
the thing hit the roof of the observatory. He edged as far as he could
between the wooden seat and the eyepiece of the instrument, and turned
his body round so that it was chiefly his feet that were exposed. With
these he could at least kick. He was still in a mystified state. The
strange beast banged about in the darkness, and presently clung to the
telescope, making it sway and the gear rattle. Once it flapped near him,
and he kicked out madly and felt a soft body with his feet. He was
horribly scared now. It must be a big thing to swing the telescope like
that. He saw for a moment the outline of a head black against the
starlight, with sharply-pointed upstanding ears and a crest between
them. It seemed to him to be as big as a mastiff’s. Then he began to
bawl out as loudly as he could for help.
At that the thing came down upon him again. As it did so his hand
touched something beside him on the floor. He kicked out, and the next
moment his ankle was gripped and held by a row of keen teeth. He yelled
again, and tried to free his leg by kicking with the other. Then he
realised he had the broken water-bottle at his hand, and, snatching it,
he struggled into a sitting posture, and feeling in the darkness towards
his foot, gripped a velvety ear, like the ear of a big cat. He had
seized the water-bottle by its neck and brought it down with a shivering
crash upon the head of the strange beast. He repeated the blow, and then
stabbed and jobbed with the jagged end of it, in the darkness, where he
judged the face might be.
The small teeth relaxed their hold, and at once Woodhouse pulled his leg
free and kicked hard. He felt the sickening feel of fur and bone giving
under his boot. There was a tearing bite at his arm, and he struck over
it at the face, as he judged, and hit damp fur.
There was a pause; then he heard the sound of claws and the dragging of
a heavy body away from him over the observatory floor. Then there was
silence, broken only by his own sobbing breathing, and a sound like
licking. Everything was black except the parallelogram of the blue
skylight with the luminous dust of stars, against which the end of the
telescope now appeared in silhouette. He waited, as it seemed, an
interminable time.
Was the thing coming on again? He felt in his trouser-pocket for some
matches, and found one remaining. He tried to strike this, but the floor
was wet, and it spat and went out. He cursed. He could not see where the
door was situated. In his struggle he had quite lost his bearings. The
strange beast, disturbed by the splutter of the match, began to move
again. “Time!” called Woodhouse, with a sudden gleam of mirth, but the
thing was not coming at him again. He must have hurt it, he thought,
with the broken bottle. He felt a dull pain in his ankle. Probably he
was bleeding there. He wondered if it would support him if he tried to
stand up. The night outside was very still. There was no sound of any
one moving. The sleepy fools had not heard those wings battering upon
the dome, nor his shouts. It was no good wasting strength in shouting.
The monster flapped its wings and startled him into a defensive
attitude. He hit his elbow against the seat, and it fell over with a
crash. He cursed this, and then he cursed the darkness.
Suddenly the oblong patch of starlight seemed to sway to and fro. Was he
going to faint? It would never do to faint. He clenched his fists and
set his teeth to hold himself together. Where had the door got to? It
occurred to him he could get his bearings by the stars visible through
the skylight. The patch of stars he saw was in Sagittarius and
south-eastward; the door was north—or was it north by west? He tried to
think. If he could get the door open he might retreat. It might be the
thing was wounded. The suspense was beastly. “Look here!” he said, “if
you don’t come on, I shall come at you.”
Then the thing began clambering up the side of the observatory, and he
saw its black outline gradually blot out the skylight. Was it in
retreat? He forgot about the door, and watched as the dome shifted and
creaked. Somehow he did not feel very frightened or excited now. He felt
a curious sinking sensation inside him. The sharply-defined patch of
light, with the black form moving across it, seemed to be growing
smaller and smaller. That was curious. He began to feel very thirsty,
and yet he did not feel inclined to get anything to drink. He seemed to
be sliding down a long funnel.
He felt a burning sensation in his throat, and then he perceived it was
broad daylight, and that one of the Dyak servants was looking at him
with a curious expression. Then there was the top of Thaddy’s face
upside down. Funny fellow Thaddy, to go about like that! Then he grasped
the situation better, and perceived that his head was on Thaddy’s knee,
and Thaddy was giving him brandy. And then he saw the eyepiece of the
telescope with a lot of red smears on it. He began to remember.
“You’ve made this observatory in a pretty mess,” said Thaddy.
The Dyak boy was beating up an egg in brandy. Woodhouse took this and
sat up. He felt a sharp twinge of pain. His ankle was tied up, so were
his arm and the side of his face. The smashed glass, red-stained, lay
about the floor, the telescope seat was overturned, and by the opposite
wall was a dark pool. The door was open, and he saw the grey summit of
the mountain against a brilliant background of blue sky.
“Pah!” said Woodhouse. “Who’s been killing calves here? Take me out of
it.”
Then he remembered the Thing, and the fight he had had with it.
“What _was_ it?” he said to Thaddy—“the Thing I fought with?”
“_You_ know that best,” said Thaddy. “But, anyhow, don’t worry yourself
now about it. Have some more to drink.”
Thaddy, however, was curious enough, and it was a hard struggle between
duty and inclination to keep Woodhouse quiet until he was decently put
away in bed, and had slept upon the copious dose of meat-extract Thaddy
considered advisable. They then talked it over together.
“It was,” said Woodhouse, “more like a big bat than anything else in the
world. It had sharp, short ears, and soft fur, and its wings were
leathery. Its teeth were little, but devilish sharp, and its jaw could
not have been very strong or else it would have bitten through my
ankle.”
“It has pretty nearly,” said Thaddy.
“It seemed to me to hit out with its claws pretty freely. That is about
as much as I know about the beast. Our conversation was intimate, so to
speak, and yet not confidential.”
“The Dyak chaps talk about a Big Colugo, a Klang-utang—whatever that may
be. It does not often attack man, but I suppose you made it nervous.
They say there is a Big Colugo and a Little Colugo, and a something else
that sounds like gobble. They all fly about at night. For my own part I
know there are flying foxes and flying lemurs about here; but they are
none of them very big beasts.”
“There are more things in heaven and earth,” said Woodhouse,—and Thaddy
groaned at the quotation,—“and more particularly in the forests of
Borneo, than are dreamt of in our philosophies. On the whole, if the
Borneo fauna is going to disgorge any more of its novelties upon me, I
should prefer that it did so when I was not occupied in the observatory
at night and alone.”