Читать книгу Little God Ben - J. Farjeon Jefferson - Страница 8

Ben had something of the ostrich in him. When he fell flat he remained flat, hoping that trouble would pass over him. He remained flat now.

Nothing happened. This, in a world where nine-tenths of the happenings were unpleasant, was satisfactory. A condition not to be disturbed. He stayed where he was till he forgot where he was, and drifted into a series of entirely new adventures. The only one he remembered when he returned from them to consciousness was a unique journey in a boat made entirely of cheese. This should have been agreeable, since he liked cheese and was very hungry, but every time he ate the cheese he made a hole in the boat and the sea poured in. It was the sea that woke him up. Dampness slid round his boots and along to his knees. The cheese, on the other hand, vanished, and in its place against his mouth was sand.

He turned over and sat up. Around him were vague forms, enjoying the lethargy from which he had just emerged. In the dim light of dawn he counted them. Six wet little heaps. With himself, seven. He, the seventh, was the most conspicuous but the least complete. Recent rigours had deprived him of all garments above the waist, betraying the tattooings of a regretted youth.

The heap nearest to him was Lord Cooling. His leg was only a few inches away, and the once-immaculate trouser was rucked up, revealing a sodden sock and suspender. Another heap, almost as close, was Ruth Sheringham. She, also, showed more leg than seemed to Ben respectable. He wondered whether he ought to do something about it. The other heaps were not, to him, identifiable; but we may identify them, and compare them with their normal attitudes.

One was the film star, Richard Ardentino; his normal attitude was splendidly erect, with face raised to the light. One was Henry Smith; his favourite attitude was under a suburban rose-arch (he grew the best roses in Wembley), or playing cards in the 8.59 to Broad Street. One was Ernest Medworth, whose more familiar attitude was poring over Stock Exchange figures to discover whether, scrupulously or otherwise, they could be turned to his advantage. And the last was Elsie Noyes. Her attitude was best expressed at the head of a line of girl guides …

‘Yus, but where’s the Third Orficer?’ wondered Ben suddenly.

He should have made an eighth little heap.

The absence of the Third Officer began to worry Ben even more than the absence of skirt over Ruth Sheringham’s leg. He rose slowly to his feet, and peered beyond the heaps.

He could not see much. Just a misty, creepy dimness. A grey veil that screened—what? Away to the east, beyond the wicked breakers and across the heaving sea, faint light began to illuminate the horizon, but here the grey veil still reigned supreme, concealing all but the nearest objects.

‘It’s narsty,’ thought Ben.

Nevertheless, he stole forward, slowly and uneagerly, stepping carefully among the mounds and envying them their immobility. He had been much happier before he had ceased to be a mound himself. But somewhere through that grey veil, Ben decided, was the Third Officer, and if he’d got into trouble—well, somebody would have to find him, wouldn’t they?

As he advanced, turning his back upon the shore, the dimness became more creepy. It seemed to be full of ghostly slits, and he did not know whether the darkness in front of him were cliff, wall, or forest. Something ran over his foot. By insisting it was a crab he just saved himself from screaming. But even crabs weren’t nice. Some of these Pacific blighters had claws that …

‘Wozzat?’ gulped Ben.

He leapt, and then stood stock still, while another panic passed. The new oppression had seemed like a figure. Not the Third Officer’s figure. A figure twice as tall, if not three times; standing motionless. But where was it now? A figure that size couldn’t come and go without a sound! The only sound Ben heard was the thumping of his heart.

‘I better git back,’ thought Ben unsteadily. ‘Yer wants two at this job!’

He turned. The sensation that the giant was now behind him caused him to take a header over a large stone. He dived into two arms. They were the arms of the Third Officer.

‘Lumme!’ gasped Ben.

‘Can’t you stand?’ asked the Third Officer, trying to make him erect.

‘My knees is funny,’ explained Ben.

‘All of you’s funny,’ replied the Third Officer.

‘Well, yer give me a shock!’

‘The shock was mutual.’

‘Oo’s wot?’

‘Never mind. Where are you going?’

‘I ain’t, I’m comin’ back.’

‘Where were you going, then?’

‘Ter look fer you, like.’

‘Very nice of you,’ smiled the Third Officer. ‘Well, now you’ve found me like. Did you find anything else?’

‘Yus,’ answered Ben, with unpleasant recollection.

‘What?’

‘Bloke twen’y foot ’igh.’

‘What are you talking about?’ came the sharp demand.

‘Bloke twen’y foot ’igh,’ replied Ben. Then he added, ‘Mindjer, I ain’t sure wot I seed ’im, but if I seed ’im, that’s wot ’e was.’

The Third Officer frowned, then regarded Ben searchingly.

‘Anything left in the bottle, sonny?’ he inquired.

‘If I ’ad a bottle, there wouldn’t be,’ said Ben.

‘Where did you see this Gargantuan creature?’

‘Oo?’

‘Where did you see this giant?’

‘Be’ind me. ’Ave a look. I’ve ’ad mine, and one’s enuff.’

‘Most kind!’ murmured the Third Officer, and stared over Ben’s shoulder.

Then, Ben gazing east and the Third Officer gazing west, each man saw an interesting sight.

Ben saw the sun rise. It slipped into view over the rim of the world, at first the tiniest curve of gold, then a gradually developing disc. The sea threw off its shroud and woke up. It became a madly dancing expanse of water, with a wide, shimmering path stretching from horizon to shore.

The Third Officer saw what the sun rose on. He saw a forest awaken. He saw the tops of great trees catching the first upward rays. He saw the amber light flow down. He saw Ben’s giant …

‘Wozzer matter?’ jerked Ben suddenly.

The Third Officer did not reply immediately. Then he said:

‘Turn round and see—but take it quietly.’

It has been mentioned that Ben had an instinct for interpreting tones. He knew by the Third Officer’s tone that when he turned he was going to witness a peculiarly unpleasant sight, and for this very sound reason he did not turn immediately. But at last the operation could no longer be postponed with credit to the Merchant Service, and he twisted his neck round, though not his body and his legs. You need those to run with.

The sight that met his anxious eyes was definitely unpleasant. It was, in fact, the giant. Ben had over-estimated the giant’s height, which was nearer ten feet than twenty; even so, it was sufficiently above the average to be impressive. There were, however, other features more disturbing still. The giant’s staring eyes had large white rings painted round them. His great mouth extended almost from ear to ear in a humourless grin. His nose had three nostrils. Ben counted them several times, very rapidly, and there was no mistake about it; he wondered, even in the grip of terror, whether they all functioned.

The one satisfactory thing about the giant was his perfect immobility. He was standing on a pedestal, carved in rock.

‘Coo!’ muttered Ben.

‘In the language of Shakespeare,’ answered the Third Officer, ‘you have said it.’

Then Ben made another discovery. The giant was merely one member of a little family party. The other members—there were four in all, but there surely should have been five, since a fifth pedestal was empty—were of varying sizes. They were all equal in ugliness, however, and they were all staring unblinkingly towards the rising sun, standing out with uncanny brilliance against their background of dense foliage. The points that stood out most brilliantly were the staring optics themselves. They were not of rock. They were gold.

Ben did the only obvious thing. He shut his own eyes very tight, counted ten, and then opened them again. The family party was still there.

‘Yes, I tried that,’ murmured the Third Officer. ‘It doesn’t work.’

‘Lumme!’ whispered Ben. ‘’Ave they come dahn ter ’ave a bathe?’

A voice behind him made him start.

‘Excuse me,’ said the voice, ‘but do you both see what I see?’

A sadly shrunken Lord Cooling stood behind them.

‘We do,’ replied the Third Officer, ‘and we are just discussing theories. My friend here suggests that they have appeared for their morning dip.’

‘Well, tastes vary,’ commented Lord Cooling. ‘Personally, I have lost my enthusiasm for the water. What is the alternative theory?’

‘Fairly obvious, I think,’ said the Third Officer.

‘Yus, Guy Forks fact’ry,’ suggested Ben.

‘These flashes of rare intelligence are a little overpowering,’ observed Lord Cooling, attempting to preserve his dignity by screwing in his monocle. He had saved his monocle, though he had lost nearly all else. ‘May I have your own thought, Mr Haines?’

‘Well, sir—the island’s inhabited,’ answered Haines.

‘Ah! And would you call that an advantage, now—or not?’

‘It does rather depend, sir, on the inhabitants.’

‘Exactly. But are you sure? These examples of art may belong to a pre-Epstein Age? For instance, I understand they exist on Easter Island, which is no longer cannibalistic?’

‘’Ere! Wot’s that?’ jerked Ben.

Haines threw Lord Cooling a warning glance.

‘I haven’t suggested that these inhabitants are cannibalistic,’ he said.

‘I will accept that, with a private reservation,’ smiled Lord Cooling. ‘Perhaps my mind moves rather fast, but I agree that, in any case, one must fit one’s words to one’s company.’

‘Just as well, sir,’ nodded Haines. ‘All the company isn’t present, either.’

‘True, Mr Haines. While I was trying hard not to wake up a few minutes ago, I thought I missed your own company?’

‘I dare say, sir.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Mouching around.’

‘Have you done any mouching in that unpleasant forest?’

‘Not yet. Our stoker is the real pioneer—though he returned from his pioneering rather hurriedly. I was trying to find bits of the boat.’

‘Any luck?’

Haines shook his head gravely.

‘The bits I did find were quite useless. It’s the provisions we want.’

‘Very true. We may not quite appreciate the—er—native fare. Which brings us back to the natives. You’ve not seen any, of course?’

‘No.’

‘Then let us assume the race is extinct.’

‘We can’t, sir. I came upon a footprint or two—and that’s why I’m not too keen on those things!’ He jerked his head towards the statues. ‘Still, we’ll get through this all right. I—I hope, sir, I can count on you for optimism?’

‘I am a company promoter, Mr Haines,’ replied Lord Cooling. ‘You can count on my optimism implicitly.’

But Haines had suddenly ceased to listen. His eyes gazed beyond Lord Cooling towards the beach. The other little heaps were stirring, and the heap he was most interested in had risen and was coming towards them.

As Ruth Sheringham approached, her sodden blue dress clinging to her pathetically but in no way, Haines considered, detracting from her charm, her lithe body stiffened, and she stopped. But she only paused for a few seconds. She came on again without any visible signs of panic.

‘Well done, Miss Sheringham,’ said Haines.

‘Did you think I was the fainting kind?’ she retorted. ‘Aren’t they pretty?’

‘Go on!’ muttered Ben in astonishment.

Lord Cooling regarded Ben with growing disapproval.

‘Historians of the future may deduce that Miss Sheringham did not quite mean what she said,’ he suggested with frigid sarcasm, ‘and they may also record that a stoker who talked too much was presented as a peace offering to a cannibal chief!’

‘Well, ain’t you torkin’ too much?’ retorted Ben, with a boldness he would never have shown on the ship. ‘We sed we was goin’ ter keep mum abart them cannerbuls!’

‘Cannibals?’ repeated Ruth.

‘Will you shut up?’ Haines exclaimed to Ben.

‘Well, why does heverybody sit on me?’ answered Ben. ‘I was born sat on, and I’m fair sick of it, that’s a fack!’

Lord Cooling sighed.

‘If you will give me your name and permanent address,’ he said, ‘I will write you a letter of apology and post it in the nearest pillar-box. Meanwhile, here come the others. It appears to be a tortoise race—with, I notice, our film star an easy winner. Well, perhaps their voices will be a little more useful than our own—’

He stopped abruptly, gazed at something on the ground, stooped, and picked it up. It was a small white object.

‘What’s that?’ inquired Haines, arrested by the other’s rather ominous interest.

‘I hope a beef-bone,’ murmured Lord Cooling.

Haines stepped nearer Ruth. In spite of her tight hold on herself, she had given a little shiver.

‘Cold, isn’t it?’ she smiled. The sunlight, gaining in intensity every minute, gave her the lie. ‘In these wet things, you know.’

‘Yes, I know, Miss Sheringham,’ Haines smiled back, reassuringly. ‘And I know something else—there’s nothing whatever to be worried about.’

‘Course not,’ nodded the girl. ‘Everything’s just too lovely to believe!’

Then the four other little heaps drew up and stared at the hideous statuary. It was Elsie Noyes who, forgetful of the discipline of a girl guide captain, expressed the common emotion by exclaiming:

‘Oh, my God!’

If she forgot her part, so did Ardentino and Henry Smith, whose faces would not have been recognised in Elstree or Wembley Park. Ernest Medworth, on the other hand, soon reverted to type. He found himself staring at the golden eyes, and wondering what they were worth.

‘Someone’s been busy here!’ he commented.

‘Yes, I don’t imagine these things came up from seed,’ answered Cooling.

‘Ha, ha, very funny!’ laughed Smith, uneasily. ‘That’s good, that is! They’re not exactly roses!’

He laughed alone. The fact depressed and annoyed him. Dash it all, did they think he felt like laughing? But one had to try to put a cheerful face on things—one had to be British, and all that. Pity there weren’t a few of his train companions here to help keep the old flag flying.

He tried again. ‘Well, you’ve got to say it’s pretty here,’ he remarked. ‘Take away the waxworks, and it’s a bit like Rottingdean before they spoilt it.’

‘Don’t make us home-sick, Mr Smith,’ pleaded Lord Cooling, cynically.

‘The fellow’s an idiot!’ grunted Medworth.

Smith’s cheeks flamed. ‘What’s the matter with everybody?’ he snapped. ‘Can’t one make a passing remark?’

‘The sooner your remarks pass, the better!’ retorted Medworth, rudely. ‘This isn’t the time for reminiscences!’

‘Now, now, we mustn’t lose one’s temper, that’s the first thing one mustn’t do!’ cried Miss Noyes, quoting from her book of rules. ‘If these—these heathen gods or whatever they are mean that the place is inhabited, well, we know where we are, that’s something, and we must organise against them—organise!’

She was hardly the best tonic for frayed nerves. Smith was the only member who was grateful to her. She had at least diverted attention from himself.

‘I suppose that is what they mean?’ inquired Ardentino, glancing towards the Third Officer.

‘That this island’s inhabited?’ replied Haines. ‘Yes, there’s not much doubt about that.’

‘Well—er—we want it to be inhabited, don’t we?’

‘Depends upon the inhabitants,’ answered Medworth.

‘Yes, we only move among the best people,’ added Ruth. ‘What happens if they’re not in Debrett?’

The question was not answered. Somewhere in the forest, a twig snapped.

Personal differences were forgotten. For ten seconds eight people stood motionless. The gods themselves were not more still. Then another twig snapped.

‘I think,’ suggested Lord Cooling quietly, ‘we swallow pride—momentarily—and take cover?’

‘I don’t think—I know!’ muttered Medworth.

‘Nah fer the runnin’ race!’ said Ben.

And led it.