TIM'S PARTICULAR ADVENTURE
Tim's "particular adventure" was of another kind. It was a
self-repeater--of some violence, moreover, when the smallness of the
hero is considered. Whether in after-life he become an astronomer-poet
or a "silver-and-mechanical engineer"--both dreams of his--he will ever
be sharp upon rescuing something. A lost star or a burning mine will be
his objective, but with the essential condition that it
be--unattainable. Achievement would mean lost interest. For Tim's
desire was, is, and ever will be insatiable. Profoundest mystery,
insoluble difficulty, and endless searching were what his soul demanded
of life. For him all ponds were bottomless, all gipsies older than the
moon. He felt the universe within him, and was born to seek its
inexplicable "explanation"--outside. The realisation of such passion,
however, is not necessarily confined to writers of epics and lyrics.
Tim was a man of action before he was a poet. "Forever questing" was
his unacknowledged motto. Besides asking questions about stars and
other inaccessible incidents of his Cosmos, he liked to "go busting
about," as he called it--again with one essential condition that the
thing should never come to an end by merely happening. Its mystery must
remain its beauty.
"I want to save something from an awful, horrible death," he announced
one evening, looking up from _Half-hours with English Battles_ for a
sign of beauty in distress.
"Not so easy," his uncle warned him, equally weary of another overrated
book--his own.
"But I feel like it," he replied. "Come on."
Uncle Felix still held back. "That you feel like it doesn't prove that
there's anything that _wants_ rescuing," he objected.
The boy stared at him with patient tolerance and surprise.
"I promised," he said simply.
It was the other's turn to stare. "And when, pray?" They had been alone
for the last half hour. It seemed strange.
"Oh--just now," replied the boy carelessly. "A few minutes ago--about."
"Indeed!" It seemed stranger still. No one had come in. Yet Tim never
prevaricated.
"Yes," he said, "I gave my wordy honour." It was so gravely spoken
that, while pledges involving life and death were obviously not new to
him, this one was of exceptional kind.
"Who, then, did you promise--whom, I mean?" the man demanded, fixing
him with his stern blue eyes.
And the answer came out pat: "Myself!"
"Aha!" said the other, with a sigh and a raising of the eyebrows, by
way of apology. "That settles it--"
"Of course."
"Because what you think and say, you must also act," the man continued.
"If you promise yourself a thing, and then don't do it, you've simply
told a lie." And he drew another sigh. He scented action coming.
"Let's go at once and find it," said Tim, putting a text-book into
seven words. He hitched his belt up, and looked round to make sure his
sisters were not within reach of interference. There was a moment's
pause, during which Uncle Felix hitched his will up. They rose, then,
standing side by side. They left the room arm in arm on their way into
the garden. The dusk was already laying its first net of shadows to
catch the Night.
"Hadn't you better change first?" asked Tim, thoughtfully, on his way
down. He glanced at his companion's white flannel suit. "You're so
awfully visible."
"Visible!" It was not his bulk. Tim was never deliberately rude. Was it
the risk of staining that he meant?
"Any one can see you miles away like that."
The other understood instantly. In an adventure everything sees,
everything has eyes, everything watches. The world is alive and full of
eyes. He hesitated a moment.
"Oh, that's all right," he replied. "To be easily seen is the best way.
It disarms curiosity at once. Tell all about yourself and nobody ever
thinks anything. It's trying to hide that makes the world suspect you.
Keep nothing back and show yourself is the best way to go about
unnoticed. I've tried it."
"Ah," exclaimed Tim, in an eager whisper, "same as walking into the
strawberry-bed without asking--"
"So my white clothes are just the thing," said the other, avoiding the
pit laid for him.
"Of course, yes." Tim still chased the big idea in his mind. "Besides,"
he added, full of another splendid thought, "like that they won't
expect you to do very much. They'll watch _you_ instead of me."
There was confusion in the utterance, but things were rather crowding
in upon him, to tell the truth, and imagination leaped ahead upon two
trails at once. He looked at his big companion with more approval.
"You'll do," he signified, pulling his cap over his eyes, thrusting
both hands in his pockets, and slithering rapidly down the bannisters
in advance.
"Thanks," said Uncle Felix, following him, three steps at a time, with
effort.
In the hall they paused a moment--a question of doors.
"Back," said Uncle Felix.
"Front's better," decided the boy. "Then nobody'll think anything, you
see." He was quick to put the new principle into practice.
On the lawn there was another pause, this time a question of direction.
"The wood, of course!" And they set off together at a steady trot. Few
words were wasted when Tim went "busting about" in this way. Uncle
Felix resigned himself and looked to him for guidance; there was some
one to be rescued; there was danger to be run; the risk was bigger than
either of them realised; but more than that he knew not.
"Got a handkerchief with you?" the boy asked presently.
"Yes, thanks; got everything," panted the other.
"For signalling," was offered three minutes later by way of
explanation, "in case we get lost--or anything like that."
"Quite so."
"Is it a clean one?"
"Yes."
"Good!"
They climbed the swinging gate of iron, rushed the orchard, crossed the
smaller hayfield in the open, heedless of the rabbits that rolled like
fat balls into pockets made to fit them, slipped out of sight behind a
stack of straw whose threatening lopsidedness seemed to support a
ladder, and so eventually came to a breathless and perspiring halt upon
the edges of a--wood.
It was a very ordinary wood, small, inconspicuous, and unimposing. No
big trees towered; there was no fence of thick, black trunks. It was
not mysterious, like the dense evergreens on the other side of the
grounds where the west wind shook half a mile of dripping branches in
stormy weather:
Where the yew trees are gigantic,
And the yellow coast of "Spain,"
Breasting on the dim "Atlantic,"
Stores the undesired rain.
It grew there in a kind of untidy muddle, on the very outskirts of the
estate, meekly--rather disappointingly, Uncle Felix thought. There was
no hint of anything haunted or terrible about it. Round rabbits fussed
busily about its edges, darting as though pulled by wires, and the
older wood-pigeons, no doubt, slept comfortably in its middle. But game
despised it heartily, and traps were never laid. There was not even a
trespassers' board, without which no wood is properly attractive.
Indeed, for most people it was simply not worth the trouble of entering
at all. Apparently no one ever bothered about it.
Yet, precisely for these very reasons, it was real. Tim described it
afterwards as a "naked" wood. It had no fence to hold it together, it
was not dressed up by human beings, it just grew naturally. To this
very openness and want of concealment it owed its deep security, its
safety was due entirely to the air of innocence it wore. But in reality
it was disguised. It was a forest--without a middle, without a heart.
"This is our wood," announced Tim in a low voice, as they stood and
mopped their faces. His tone suggested that they would enter at their
peril.
"And is it a big wood?" the other asked with caution, as though he had
not noticed it before.
"Much bigger than it looks," the boy replied. "You can easily get
lost." Then added, with the first touch of awe about him, "It has no
centre."
"That's the worst kind," said his companion shivering slightly. "Like a
pond that has no bottom."
Tim nodded. His face had grown a trifle paler. He showed no immediate
anxiety to make the first advance, reserving that privilege for his
comrade. A breath of wind stole out and set the dry leaves rustling.
"We must look out," he said at length. "There'll be a sign."
Uncle Felix listened attentively to every word. The boy had moved up
closer to him. "And if anything happens one of us must climb a tree and
signal. _You've_ got the clean handkerchief. You see, it's at the
centre that it gets rather nasty--because anybody who gets there simply
disappears and is never heard of again. That's why there's no centre at
all _really_. It's a terrible rescue we've got to do."
The adventure fulfilled the desire of his heart, for, since there was
no centre, the search would last for ever.
"Keep a sharp look-out for the sign," replied the man, feeling a small
hand steal into his own. "We'd better go in before it gets any darker."
"Oh, that's nothing," was the whispered comment. "The great thing is
not to lose our way. Just follow me!"
They then went into this wood without a centre, without a middle,
without a heart. Into this heartless wood they moved stealthily, Uncle
Felix singing under his breath to keep his courage up:
"A wood is a mysterious place,
It never looks you in the face,
But stares _behind_ you all the time.
Your safest plan is just to--climb!
For, otherwise you lose your way,
The week, the month, the time of day;
It turns you round, it makes you blind,
And in the end you lose your mind!
Avoid the centre,
If you enter!
"It grows upon you--grows immense,
Its peace is _not_ indifference,
It sees you--and it takes offence,
It knows you're interfering.
Its sleepliness is all pretence,
With trunks and twigs and foliage dense
It's watching you, alert, intense,
It's furious; it's peering.
"Upon the darkening paths below,
Whichever way you try to go
You'll meet with strange resistance.
So climb a tree and wave your hand,
The birds will see and understand,
And _may_ bring you assistance.
Avoid the centre,
If you enter,
For once you're there
You--disappear!
Smothered by depth and distance!"
Tim listened without a sign of interest. Every one has his peculiarity,
he supposed, and, provided his companion did not dance as well as sing,
it was all right. The noise was unnecessary, perhaps, still--the sound
of a human voice was not without its charm. The house was a very long
way off; the gardeners never came this way. A wood _was_ a mysterious
place! "Is that all?" he asked--but whether glad or sorry, no man could
possibly have told.
"For the present," came the reply, and the sound of both their voices
fell a little dead, muffled by the density of the undergrowth. "Are we
going right?"
"There'll be a sign," Tim explained again. And the way he said it, the
air of positive belief in tone and manner, stung the man's
consciousness with a thrill of genuine adventure. It began to creep
over him. He kept near to the comforting presence of the boy, aware in
quite a novel way of the Presence of the Wood. This very ordinary wood,
without claim to particular notice, much less to a notice-board,
changed his normal feelings by arresting their customary flow. An
unusual sensation replaced what he meant to feel, expected to feel. He
was aware of strangeness. He felt included in the purpose of a crowd of
growing trees. "But it's just a common little wood," he assured
himself, realising as he said it that both adjectives were wrong. For
nothing left to itself is ever common, and as for "little"--well, it
had suddenly become enormous.
Outside, in what was called the big world, things were going on with
frantic hurry and change, but in here the leisured calm was huge,
gigantic, so much so that the other dwindled into a kind of lost
remoteness. "Smothered by depth and distance," he could almost forget
it altogether. Out there nations were at war, republics fighting,
empires tottering to ruin; great-hearted ladies were burning furniture
and stabbing lovely pictures (not their own) to prove themselves
intelligent enough to vote; and gallant gentlemen were flying across
the Alps and hunting for the top and bottom of the earth instead of
hurrying to help them. All manner of tremendous things were happening
at a frightful pace--while this unnoticed wood just stood and grew,
watching the sun and stars and listening to the brushing winds. Its
unadvertised foliage concealed a busy universe of multitudinous, secret
life.
How still the trees were--far more imposing than in a storm! Still,
quiet things are much more impressive than things that draw attention
to themselves by making a noise. They are more articulate. The strength
of all these trees emerged in their silence. Their steadiness might
easily wear one down.
And now, into its quiet presence, a man and a boy from that distressful
outer world had entered. They moved with effort and difficulty into its
untrodden depths. Uninvited and unasked, they sought its hidden and
invisible centre, the mysterious heart of it which the younger of the
adventurers could only describe by saying that "It isn't there, because
when you get there, you disappear!" Two ways of expressing the same
thing, of course! Moreover, entering involved getting out again. Escape
and Rescue--the Wood always in opposition--took possession of the man's
slow mind....
It was already thick about them, and the trees stood very still. The
branches drooped, motionless in the warm evening air. The twigs
pointed. Each leaf had an eye, but a hidden, lidless eye. The saplings
saw them, but the heavier trunks _observed_ them. It was known in what
direction they were going, the direction, however, being chosen and
insisted on by the Wood. Their very steps were counted. The whole
business of the trees was suspended while they passed. They were being
watched. And the stillness was so deep that it forced them, too, to
make as little noise as possible. They moved with the utmost caution,
pretending that a snapping twig might betray their presence, yet
knowing quite well that each detail of their blundering advance was
marked down with the accuracy of an instantaneous photograph. Tim,
usually in advance, looked round from time to time, with a finger on
his lips; and though he himself made far more noise than his companion,
he stared with reproach when the latter snapped a stick or let a leafy
branch swish through the air too loudly.
"Oh, hush!" he whispered. "Please do hush!" and the same moment caught
his own foot in a root, placed cunningly across the path, and sprawled
forward with the noise of an explosion. But he made no reference to the
matter. His own noises did no harm apparently. He was perfectly honest
about it, not merely putting the blame elsewhere to draw attention from
himself. His uncle's size and visibility were co-related in his mind.
Being convinced that he moved as stealthily and soundlessly as a
Redskin, it followed obviously that his companion _didn't_.
The dusk had noticeably deepened when at length they reached a little
clearing and stood upright, perspiring freely, and both a little
flustered. The silence was really extraordinary. It seemed they had
entered a private place, a secret chamber where they had no right, and
were intruders. The clearing formed a circle, and from the open sky
overhead a grey, mysterious light fell softly on the leafy walls. They
paused and peered about them.
"Hark! What's that?" asked Tim in a whisper.
"Nothing," replied the other.
"But I heard it," the boy insisted; "something rushing."
"I'm rather out of breath, perhaps."
The boy looked at him reproachfully. His expression suggested "Why
_are_ you so noisy and enormous? It's hopeless, really!" But aloud he
merely said, "It's got awfully dark all of a sudden."
"It's the wood does that," replied Uncle Felix. "Outside it's only
twilight. I think we'd better be getting on."
"We're getting there," observed the boy.
"But we shan't be able to see the sign if this darkness gets worse,"
said the other apprehensively.
The answer gave him quite a turn. "It's been--ages and ages ago!"
The idea of rescue meanwhile had merged insensibly into escape, but
neither remarked upon the change. It was only that the original emotion
had spread a bit. Tim and Uncle Felix stood close together in this
solemn clearing, waiting, peering about them, listening intently. But
Tim had seen the sign; he knew what he was doing all the time; he was
in more intimate relations with the Being of the Wood than his great
floundering Uncle possibly could be.
"Which way, do _you_ think?" asked the latter anxiously.
There seemed no possible exit from the clearing, no break anywhere in
the leafy walls; even the entrance was covered up and hidden. The Wood
blocked further advance deliberately.
"We're lost," said Tim bluntly, turning round and round. His eyes
opened to their widest. "You've simply taken a wrong turning somewhere."
And before Uncle Felix could expostulate or say a word in self-defence,
the inevitable reward of his mistake was upon him.
"_You've_ got the handkerchief!"
Already the boy was looking about him for a suitable tree.
"But _you_ saw the sign, Tim," he began excuses; "and it's _your_ wood;
I've never been here before--"
"That one looks the easiest," suggested Tim, pointing to a beech. It
had one low branch, but the trunk was smooth and slippery as ice. He
pushed aside the foliage with his hands to make an opening towards it.
"I'll help you up." Tim spoke as though there was no time to lose.
But help came just then unexpectedly from another quarter--there was a
sudden battering sound. Something went past them through the branches
with a crashing noise. It was terrific, the way it smashed and
clattered overhead, making a clapping rattle that died away into the
distance with strange swiftness. They jumped; their hearts stood still
a moment. It was so horribly close. But the stillness that followed the
uproar was far worse than the noise. It felt as though the Wood had
stretched a hand and aimed a crafty blow at them from behind the shield
of foliage. A quiver of visible silence ran across the leafy walls.
They stood stock still, staring blankly into each other's eyes.
"A wood-pigeon!" whispered Uncle Felix, recovering himself first.
"We've been _seen_!"
A faint smile passed over Tim's startled face. There was no other
expression in it. The tension was distressingly acute. One sentence,
however, came to the lips of both adventurers. They uttered it under
their breath together:
"It's--disappeared!"
Instinctively they held hands then. Tim stood, rooted to the ground.
"The _centre!_" They whispered it almost inaudibly. The horror of the
spot where people vanished was upon them both. The power of the Wood
had worn them down.
"Yes, but don't _say_ it," cried Uncle Felix; "above all, don't say it
aloud." And he clapped one hand upon his own mouth, and the other upon
the boy's, as Tim came cuddling closer to his comforting expanse of
side. "That only wakes it up, and--"
He did not finish the sentence. Instead, his mind began to think
tremendously. They were both badly frightened. What was the best thing
to be done? At first he thought: "Keep perfectly still, and make no
slightest movement; a quiet person is not noticed." But, the next
instant, came the truer wisdom: "If anything unusual occurs, go on
doing exactly what you were doing before. Hold the atmosphere, as it
were." And on this latter inspiration he decided to act at once--
Only to discover that Tim had realised it before him. The boy was
pulling at him. "_Do_ come on, Uncle!" he was saying. "We shall go mad
with fright if we keep on standing here--we shall be raving lunatics!"
They set off wildly then, plunging helter-skelter into the silent,
heartless wood. The trees miraculously opened up a way for them as they
dived and stooped and wriggled forward. In which direction they were
going neither of them had the least idea, but as neither one nor the
other disappeared, it was clear they had not reached the actual centre.
They gasped and spluttered, their breath grew shorter, the darkness
increased. They came to all sorts of curious places that deceived them;
ways opened invitingly, then closed down again and blocked advance;
there were clearings that were obviously false, open places that were
plainly sham; and a dozen times they came to spots that seemed
familiar, but which really they had never seen before. Sense of
direction left them, for they continually changed the angle, compelled
by the undergrowth to do so. Twigs leaped at them and stung their
faces, Tim's cheeks were splashed with mud, Uncle Felix's clean white
flannels showed irregular lines of dirty water to his knees. It was
altogether a tremendous affair in which rescue and escape were madly
mingled with furious attack and terrified retreat. Everything was
moving, and in all directions at once. They rushed headlong through the
angry Wood. But the Wood itself rushed ever past them. It was roused.
The confusion and bewilderment had got a little more than they could
manage, indeed, when--quite marvellously and unexpectedly--the darkness
lifted. They saw trees separately instead of in a whirling mass. The
trunks stood more apart from one another. There were patches of faint
light. More--there was a line of light. It shone, grey and welcome,
some dozen yards in front of them.
"Come on!" cried Tim. "Follow me!"
And two minutes later they found themselves outside, torn, worn, and
breathless, upon the edge--standing exactly at the place where they had
entered three-quarters of an hour before. They had made an enormous
circle. Panting and half collapsed, they stood side by side in an
exhausted heap.
"We're out," said Tim, with immense relief. Profoundly satisfied with
himself, he looked round at his bedraggled Uncle. It was plain that he
had rescued some one from "an awful-anorrible death."
"At last!" replied the other gratefully, aware that he was the rescued
one. "But only just in time!"
And they moved away in the deepening dusk towards the house, whose
welcome lights shone across the intervening hayfield.