MARTIN PLAYS WITH THE WAVES
After a night spent in the roar of the sea, a drenched and bruised
prisoner among the rocks, it was nice to see the dawn again. No
sooner was it light than Martin set about trying to make his escape.
He had been washed by that big wave into a deep cleft among the
rocks and masses of hard clay, and shut in there he could not see the
water nor anything excepting a patch of sky above him. Now he began
climbing over the stones and crawling and forcing himself through
crevices and other small openings, making a little progress, for he
was sore from his bruises and very weak from his long fast, and at
intervals, tired and beaten, he would drop down crying with pain and
misery. But Martin was by nature a very resolute little boy, and
after two or three minutes' rest his tears would cease, and he would
be up struggling on determinedly as before. He was like some little
wild animal when it finds itself captive in a cage or box or room,
who tries without ceasing to find a way out. There may be no way,
but it will not give up trying to find one. And at last, after so
much trying, Martin's efforts were rewarded: he succeeded in getting
into the steep passage by which he had come down to the sea on the
previous day, and in the end got to the top of the cliff once more.
It was a great relief, and after resting a little while he began to
feel glad and happy at the sight before him: there was the glorious
sea again, not as he had seen it before, its wide surface roughened
by the wind and flecked with foam; for now the water was smooth, but
not still; it rose and fell in vast rollers, or long waves that were
like ridges, wave following wave in a very grand and ordered manner.
And as he gazed, the clouds broke and floated away, and the sky grew
clear and bright, and then all at once the great red sun came up out
of the waters!
But it was impossible for him to stay there longer when there was
nothing to eat; his extreme hunger compelled him to get up and leave
the cliff and the sandy hills behind it; and then for an hour or two
he walked feebly about searching for sweet roots, but finding none.
It would have gone hard with him then if he had not seen some low,
dark-looking bushes at a distance on the dry, yellow plain, and gone
to them. They looked like yew-bushes, and when he got to them he
found that they were thickly covered with small berries; on some
bushes they were purple-black, on others crimson, but all were ripe,
and many small birds were there feasting on them. The berries were
pleasant to the taste, and he feasted with the little birds on them
until his hunger was satisfied; and then, with his mouth and fingers
stained purple with the juice, he went to sleep in the shade of one
of the bushes. There, too, he spent the whole of that day and the
night, hearing the low murmur of the sea when waking, and when
morning came he was strong and happy once more, and, after filling
himself with the fruit, set off to the sea again.
Arrived at the cliff, he began walking along the edge, and in about
an hour's time came to the end of it, for there it sloped down to
the water, and before him, far as he could see, there was a wide,
shingled beach with low sand-hills behind it. With a shout of joy he
ran down to the margin, and the rest of that day he spent dabbling
in the water, gathering beautiful shells and seaweed and
strangely-painted pebbles into heaps, then going on and on again,
still picking up more beautiful riffraff on the margin, only to leave,
it all behind him at last. Never had he spent a happier day, and
when it came to an end he found a sheltered spot not far from the sea,
so that when he woke in the night he would still hear the deep, low
murmur of the waves on the beach.
Many happy days he spent in the same way, with no living thing to
keep him company, except the little white and grey sanderlings that
piped so shrill and clear as they flitted along the margin before him;
and the great sea-gulls that uttered hoarse, laughter-like cries as
they soared and hovered above his head. "Oh, happy birds!" exclaimed
Martin, clapping his hands, and shouting in answer to their cries.
Every day Martin grew more familiar with the sea, and loved it more,
and it was his companion and playmate. He was bolder than the little
restless sanderlings that ran and flitted before the advancing waves,
and so never got their pretty white and grey plumage wet: often he
would turn to meet the coming wave, and let it break round and rush
past him, and then in a moment he would be standing knee-deep in the
midst of a great sheet of dazzling white foam, until with a long
hiss as it fled back, drawing the round pebbles with it, it would be
gone, and he would laugh and shout with glee. What a grand old
play-fellow the sea was! And it loved him, like the big spotted cat
of the hills, and only pretended to be angry with him when it wanted
to play, and would do him no harm. And still he was not satisfied,
but grew bolder and bolder, putting himself in its power and trusting
to its mercy. He could play better with his clothes off; and one day,
chasing a great receding wave as far as it would go, he stood up
bravely to encounter the succeeding wave, but it was greater than
the last, and lifting him in its great green arms it carried him high
up till it broke with a mighty roar on the beach; then instead of
leaving him stranded there it rushed back still bearing him in its
arms out into the deep. Further and further from the shore it
carried him, until he became terrified, and throwing out his little
arms towards the land, he cried aloud, "Mother! Mother!"
He was not calling to his own mother far away on the great plain; he
had forgotten her. Now he only thought of the beautiful woman of the
Hills, who was so strong, and loved him and made him call her
"Mother"; and to her he cried in his need for help. Now he
remembered her warm, protecting bosom, and how she had cried every
night at the fear of losing him; how when he ran from her she
followed him, calling to him to return. Ah, how cold was the sea's
bosom, how bitter its lips!
Struggling still with the great wave, struggling in vain, blinded
and half-choked with salt water, he was driven violently against a
great black object tumbling about in the surf, and with all the
strength of his little hands he clung to it. The water rolled over
him, and beat against him, but he would not lose his hold; and at
last there came a bigger wave and lifted him up and cast him right
on to the object he was clinging to. It was as if some enormous
monster of the sea had caught him up and put him in that place, just
as the Lady of the Hills had often snatched him up from the edge of
some perilous precipice to set him down in a safe place.
There he lay exhausted, stretched out at full length, so tossed
about on the billows that he had a sensation of being in a swing;
but the sea grew quiet at last, and when he looked up it was dark,
the stars glittering in the dim blue vault above, and the smooth,
black water reflecting them all round him, so that he seemed to be
floating suspended between two vast, starry skies, one immeasurably
far above, the other below him. All night, with only the twinkling,
trembling stars for company, he lay there, naked, wet, and cold,
thirsty with the bitter taste of sea-salt in his mouth, never daring
to stir, listening to the continual lapping sound of the water.
Morning dawned at last; the sea was green once more, the sky blue,
and beautiful with the young, fresh light. He was lying on an old
raft of black, water-logged spars and planks lashed together with
chains and rotting ropes. But alas! there was no shore in sight, for
all night long he had been drifting, drifting further and further
away from land.
A strange habitation for Martin, the child of the plain, was that
old raft! It had been made by shipwrecked mariners, long, long ago,
and had floated about the sea until it had become of the sea, like a
half-submerged floating island; brown and many-coloured seaweeds had
attached themselves to it; strange creatures, half plant and half
animal, grew on it; and little shell-fish and numberless slimy,
creeping things of the sea made it their dwelling-place. It was
about as big as the floor of a large room, all rough, black, and
slippery, with the seaweed floating like ragged hair many yards long
around it, and right in the middle of the raft there was a large
hole where the wood had rotted away. Now, it was very curious that
when Martin looked over the side of the raft he could see down into
the clear, green water a few fathoms only; but when he crept to the
edge of the hole and looked into the water there, he was able to see
ten times further down. Looking in this hole, he saw far down a
strange, fish-shaped creature, striped like a zebra, with long
spines on its back, moving about to and fro. It disappeared, and then,
very much further down, something moved, first like a shadow, then
like a great, dark form; and as it came up higher it took the shape
of a man, but dim and vast like a man-shaped cloud or shadow that
floated in the green translucent water. The shoulders and head
appeared; then it changed its position and the face was towards him
with the vast eyes, that had a dim, greyish light in them, gazing up
into his. Martin trembled as he gazed, not exactly with fear, but
with excitement, because he recognized in this huge water-monster
under him that Old Man of the Sea who had appeared and talked to him
in his dream when he fell asleep among the rocks. Could it be,
although he was asleep at the time, that the Old Man really had
appeared before him, and that his eyes had been open just enough to
see him?
By-and-by the cloud-like face disappeared, and did not return though
he watched for it a long time. Then sitting on the black, rotten
wood and brown seaweed he gazed over the ocean, a vast green, sunlit
expanse with no shore and no living thing upon it. But after a while
he began to think that there was some living thing in it, which was
always near him though he could not see what it was. From time to
time the surface of the sea was broken just as if some huge fish had
risen to the surface and then sunk again without showing itself. It
was something very big, judging from the commotion it made in the
water; and at last he did see it or a part of it--a vast brown
object which looked like a gigantic man's shoulder, but it might
have been the back of a whale. It was no sooner seen than gone, but
in a very short time after its appearance cries as of birds were
heard at a great distance. The cries came from various directions,
growing louder and louder, and before long Martin saw many birds
flying towards him.
On arrival they began to soar and circle round above him, all
screaming excitedly. They were white birds with long wings and long
sharp beaks, and were very much like gulls, except that they had an
easier and swifter flight.
Martin rejoiced at seeing them, for he had been in the greatest
terror at the strangeness and loneliness of the sea now that there
was no land in sight. Sitting on the black raft he was constantly
thinking of the warning words his mother of the hills had spoken
--that the sea would kiss him with cold salt lips and take him down
into the depths where he would never see the light again. O how
strange the sea was to him now, how lonely, how terrible! But birds
that with their wings could range over the whole world were of the
land, and now seemed to bring the land near him with their white
forms and wild cries. How could they help him? He did not know, he
did not ask; but he was not alone now that they had come to him, and
his terror was less.
And still more birds kept coming; and as the morning wore on the
crowd of birds increased until they were in hundreds, then in
thousands, perpetually wheeling and swooping and rising and hovering
over him in a great white cloud. And they were of many kinds, mostly
white, some grey, others sooty brown or mottled, and some wholly
black. Then in the midst of the crowrd of birds he saw one of great
size wheeling about like a king or giant among the others, with wings
of amazing length, wild eyes of a glittering yellow, and a yellow
beak half as long as Martin's arm, with a huge vulture-like hook at
the end. Now when this mighty bird swooped close down over his head,
fanning him with its immense wings, Martin again began to be alarmed
at its formidable appearance; and as more and more birds came, with
more of the big kind, and the wild outcry they made increased, his
fear and astonishment grew; then all at once these feelings rose to
extreme terror and amazement at the sight of a new bird-like
creature a thousand times bigger than the largest one in the
circling crowd above, coming swiftly towards him. He saw that it was
not flying but swimming or gliding over the surface of the sea; and
its body was black, and above the body were many immense white wings
of various shapes, which stood up like a white cloud.
Overcome with terror he fell flat on the raft, hiding his face in
the brown seaweed that covered it; then in a few minutes the sea
became agitated and rocked him in his raft, and a wave came over him
which almost swept him into the sea. At the same time the outcry of
the birds were redoubled until he was nearly deafened by their
screams, and the screams seemed to shape themselves into words.
"Martin! Martin!" the birds seemed to be screaming. "Look up, Martin,
look up, look up!" The whole air above and about him seemed to be
full of the cries, and every cry said to him, "Martin! Martin! lookup!
lookup!"
[Illustration: ]
Although dazed with the awful din and almost fainting with terror
and weakness, he could not resist the command. Pressing his hands on
the raft he at last struggled up to his knees, and saw that the
feared bird-like monster had passed him by: he saw that it was a
ship with a black hull, its white sails spread, and that the motion
of the water and the wave that swept over him had been created by
the ship as it came close to the raft. It was now rapidly gliding
from him, but still very near, and he saw a crowd of strange-looking
rough men, with sun-browned faces and long hair and shaggy beards,
leaning over the bulwarks staring at him. They had seen with
astonishment the corpse, as they thought, of a little naked white
boy lying on the old black raft, with a multitude of sea-birds
gathered to feed on him; now when they saw him get up on his knees
and look at them, they uttered a great cry, and began rushing
excitedly hither and thither, to pull at ropes and lower a boat.
Martin did not know what they were doing; he only knew that they
were men in a ship, but he was now too weak and worn-out to look at
or think of more than one thing at a time, and what he was looking at
now was the birds. For no sooner had he looked up and seen the ship
than their wild cries ceased, and they rose up and up like a white
cloud to scatter far and wide over sky and sea. For some moments he
continued watching them, listening to their changed voices, which
now had a very soft and pleasant sound, as if they were satisfied
and happy. It made him happy to hear them, and he lifted his hands
up and smiled; then, relieved of his terror and overcome with
weariness, he closed his eyes and dropped once more full length upon
his bed of wet seaweed. At that the men stared into each other's face,
a very strange startled look coming into their eyes. And no wonder!
For long, long months, running to years, they had been cruising in
those lonely desolate seas, thousands of miles from home, seeing no
land nor any green thing, nor dear face of woman or child: and now
by some strange chance a child had come to them, and even while they
were making all haste to rescue it, putting their arms out to take
it from the sea, its life had seemingly been snatched from them!
But he was only sleeping.
[Illustration: ]
NOTE
_When I arranged with Mr. Hudson for the publication of an
American Edition of_ A Little Boy Lost, _I asked him to write a
special foreword to his American readers. He replied with a
characteristic letter, and, taking him at his word. I am printing it
on the following pages_.
ALFRED A. KNOPF.
_Dear Mr. Knopf_:
Your request for a Foreword to insert in the American
reprint of the little book worries me. A critic on
this side has said that my Prefaces to reprints of my
earlier works are of the nature of parting kicks, and I
have no desire just now to kick this poor innocent.
That evil-tempered old woman, Mother Nature, in one
of her worst tantrums, has been inflicting so many cuffs
and blows on me that she has left me no energy or disposition
to kick anything--even myself.
The trouble is that I know so little about it. Did
I write this book? What then made me do it?
In reading a volume of Fors Clavigera I once came
upon a passage which sounded well but left me in a
mist, and it relieved me to find a footnote to it in which
the author says: "This passage was written many
years ago and what I was thinking about at the time
has quite escaped my memory. At all events, though
I let it stand, I can find no meaning in it now."
Little men may admire but must not try to imitate
these gestures of the giants. And as a result of a little
quiet thinking it over I seem able to recover the idea
I had in my mind when I composed this child's story
and found a title for it in Blake. Something too of the
semi-wild spirit of the child hero in the lines:
"Naught loves another as itself....
And, father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little birds
That pick up crumbs about the door."
There nature is, after picking up the crumbs to fly
away.
A long time ago I formed a small collection of children's
books of the early years of the nineteenth century;
and looking through them, wishing that some of
them had fallen into my hands when I was a child I
recalled the books I had read at that time--especially
two or three. Like any normal child I delighted in
such stories as the Swiss Family Robinson, but they
were not the books I prized most; they omitted the very
quality I liked best--the little thrills that nature itself
gave me, which half frightened and fascinated at the
same time, the wonder and mystery of it all. Once in a
while I got a book with something of this rare element
in it, contained perhaps in some perfectly absurd
narrative of animals taking human shape or using human
speech, with such like transformations and vagaries;
they could never be too extravagant, fantastic and incredible,
so long as they expressed anything of the feeling
I myself experienced when out of sight and sound
of my fellow beings, whether out on the great level
plain, with a glitter of illusory water all round me, or
among the shadowy trees with their bird and insect
sounds, or by the waterside and bed of tall dark bullrushes
murmuring in the wind.
These ancient memories put it in my mind to write
a book which, I imagined, would have suited my peculiar
taste of that early period, the impossible story
to be founded on my own childish impressions and adventures,
with a few dreams and fancies thrown in and
two or three native legends and myths, such as the one
of the Lady of the Hills, the incarnate spirit of the
rocky Sierras on the great plains, about which I heard
from my gaucho comrades when on the spot--the
strange woman seldom viewed by human eyes who is
jealous of man's presence and is able to create sudden
violent tempests to frighten them from her sacred
haunts.
That's the story of my story, and to the question in
your publisher's practical mind, I'm sorry to have to
say I don't know. I have no way of finding out, since
children are not accustomed to write to authors to tell
them what they think of their books. And after all
these excuses it just occurs to me that children do not
read forewords and introductions; they have to be addressed
to adults who do not read children's books, so
that in any case it would be thrown away. Still if a
foreword you must have, and from me, I think you will
have to get it out of this letter.
I remain,
Yours cordially,
W. H. HUDSON.
November 14,1917.