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</html>";s:4:"text";s:34451:"Its effect stepped over imagination. But shall I, as an outsider, observing with unexcited mind, see anything, know anything, be aware of anything at all, let alone the drawing of it? It had the air of a palace still. Hence the significant fact that all religions and "mythological" systems begin with a story of a flood—some cataclysmic upheaval that destroyed the world. His experience was of the slightest; the love and veneration felt for his own mother had set the entire sex upon the heights. It was all over in a minute. Henriot started; a sense of momentary acute discomfort again ran over him. Page 2- Algernon Blackwood Other Authors. The woman, that is, was familiar to him—to some part of his being that had dropped stitches of old, old memory. Henriot did not know. There isn't much of a climax and it's all quite predictable , I was surprised considering the high regard I have for his other short stories, Blackwood was born in Shooter's Hill (today part of south-east London, but then part of northwest Kent) and educated at Wellington College. The least human whisper in these subterraneans, dug out first four thousand years ago, revived ominous Powers that stalked beside him, forbidding and premonitive. Henriot exclaimed. This, briefly told, was the first manoeuvre by which Fate introduced them. He's her favourite nephew, and she's as rich as a pig. The points of the compass stood out boldly at the bottom. The wind that brought it stirred a veil that had hung for ages motionless.... She had been saying many things that he had missed while his mind went searching. His father was a Post Office administrator who, according to Peter Penzoldt, "though not devoid of genuine good-heartedness, had appallingly narrow religious ideas." He could have waited thus a thousand years it seemed. She was a big and sombre personality. The face was clean shaven, dark, and strong; thick hair, straight yet bushy, was slightly unkempt; it was streaked with grey; and an unexpected mobility when he smiled ran over the features that he seemed to hold rigid by deliberate effort. He waved an answer, and passed quickly on. It was like his dream in London. "Curious," they said, then turned away—to go on digging in the sand. Other Life: An Anthology of Non-Terrestrial Biology. Moreover, what Vance watched so intently was himself, and the reactions in himself this remarkable woman produced. Some hours later, before this surface sleep passed into genuine slumber, Henriot woke—with an appalling feeling that the Desert had come creeping into his room and now stared down upon him where he lay in bed. "A sack like that is the wonder of the world," he laughed again, kicking the unwieldy, sausage-shaped monster into a corner of the room, and sitting down to write the thrilling labels: "Felix Henriot, Alexandria via Marseilles." The Desert played with him. There seemed a hint of questioning in that glance; it might almost have been a tentative invitation. Why in the world did he hesitate and shrink? It blew against his windows, but at first so faintly that he hardly noticed it. Moreover, a nation naturally devout could attract a type of soul unknown to a nation that denies all faith. The Power has provided itself with a vehicle of manifestation. No Jacket. It seemed next day that he had dreamed it. But it was the woman seated next him who absorbed his attention really, even while this thought flashed and went its way. The rest confused me beyond words or memory; though I must confess it did not seem—well, not utter rot exactly. For he noticed the italics Vance made use of. covers attached but very worn and soiled. Long before he came, perhaps all through the day, these two had laboured with their arduous preparations. It stretched forth an arm. I am interested.". For a long time he could not recover their names. Henriot was interested; more, he was half seduced; but, as yet, he did not mean to be included in their purposes, whatever these might be. The little incident had upset him, though for the life of him he could not imagine why. Mere artificial oasis, its existence was temporary, held on lease, just for ninety-nine centuries or so. And he said it was the period called the Night of Power—time when the Desert encroaches and spirits are close.". The night held neither sound nor movement. And Henriot, for the life of him, could not "place" these two. "It will change things a bit—at last," he sighed, settling back into his chair. And he understood why this return of life had all along suggested a Procession and could be no mere momentary flash of vision. He was always ready for a move, and his sojourn in cities was but breathing-space while he gathered pennies for further wanderings. And his voice, singing of those "yellow bees in the ivy bloom," mingled with the crying of the rising wind about his windows. Contents: And Henriot bridled, yet wondering why he did so. Firmly determined to keep caution uppermost, yet he went unresistingly to a secluded corner by the palms where they could talk in privacy. The emotion that produced Innisfree passed strongly through him. They used, as it were, materials that lay ready to their hand. ", "Would be required the clever pencil of a fearless looker-on—some one not engaged in the actual evocation. Impatiently, yet with confusion somewhere, he stuffed them in. He, too, had worshipped thus. All restlessness now had left him. Now it took the lead. It needed for its visible expression—many. The strange half-lights of sunset began to play their witchery then upon the landscape. To human impressions thus he was fresh and vividly sensitive. The mind got lost. He brought his eyes closer to the other, lowering his voice again. Vance was sharply on the alert. "Tell Felix, dear, about the time you met the nephew—horrid creature—in the Valley of the Kings," he heard his wife say presently. He had forgotten Vance, the Birmingham man who sought the North at midnight with a pocket compass. All stories are from the public domain and are formatted for any desktop printer. About this Item: Blackwood Brothers Quartet, Memphis, TN. The wind nipped keenly here again, coming over the leagues of cooling sand. The concentration of his mind incessantly upon them removed it grain by grain and speck by speck. He realised that appearances were visible letters of a soundless language, a language he once had known. The wind took off his voice like a flying feather of sound. Dimly it stirred and moved about the depths within him, never clearly seen, indefinite, felt as a yearning after unrecoverable knowledge. There is no cry in the world like that of the homeless wind. But now, while he packed and sang, these hopes of enthusiastic younger days stirred again—because the emotion that gave them birth was real and true in him. ", "She said five words—and her voice—it'll make you laugh—it was metallic like a gong: 'You are in danger here.' He went himself on foot. His voice was low, in keeping with the scene, but the words dropped with a sharp distinctness into the other's heart like grains of sand that pricked the skin before they smothered him. But this he was properly aware of only afterwards—that she had cleverly, mercilessly pumped him of all he had ever known or read upon the subject. One sitting beside him need not have seen anything at all. He spoke with a simple frankness that was meant to be disarming. Not yet was the moment when his skill might be of use. 1 - Sand by Algernon Blackwood (English) Paperback Book Free Shipping! A restlessness, as of that wandering wind, woke in his heart—the desire to be off and away. But how can I help? Henriot thought of an idol carved in stone, stone hard and black, with eyes that stared across the sand into a world of things non-human, very far away, forgotten of men. ", "These Powers, you suggest, then—their Kas, as it were—may still—", But she waved aside the interruption. They would be absorbed into the vortex, mere corpuscles pressed into the service of this sphere of action of a mighty Body.... How these perceptions reached him with such conviction, Henriot could never say. Error rating book. I wanted to kick the beggar for practising such bally rubbish, and in such a place too. He even stole out on to his balcony to see if the stranger perhaps was looking through some wonderful apparatus at the heavens. "Confound my old imagination," he thought, "what tricks it plays me! Then establish it. A good deal more was being paid besides. He was never alone. These many deserts were really one. For the Desert, the stupendous thing that mothers little Helouan, produced it. Of himself, as Felix Henriot, indeed, he hardly seemed aware. But desire now was far too strong for caution. They are many and various, astonishingly circumstantial often, and vouched for by persons the reverse of credulous. Egypt itself was colonised by a group of Atlantean priests who brought their curious, deep knowledge with them. The fields along the Delta are packed with birds now: they're home early this year on their way to the North. Why had Vance put that idea into his mind, this idea of so peculiar danger? He turned to go back to bed, curiously trembling. She had heard the potent summons of her old, time-honoured ritual. Tales by one the greatest practitioners of supernatural literature. He felt that his mind, too, had dived and searched among the heavenly bodies that live in silent, changeless peace remote from the world of men. Careering over the waste of Desert moved the army of dark Splendours, that dwarfed any organic structure called a body men have ever known. He saw the enormous sarcophagi of granite in their gloomy chambers where the sacred bulls once lay, swathed and embalmed like human beings, and, in the flickering candle light, the mood of ancient rites surged round him, menacing his doubts and laughter. Sand blocked all the avenues of younger emotion, leaving the channels of something in him incalculably older, open and clean swept. But their passage brought him back to things of modern life, and to some standard of familiar measurement. Side by side with it, his desire to join himself to the purposes of the woman increased steadily. Only in this brief way could he attempt to sum up the storm she roused in him. It was about astrology and rituals and the worship of the old Egyptians, and I don't know what else besides. The Algernon Blackwood Collection features: "It is the Night of Power—in the old Egyptian Calendar, you know," he answered with assumed lightness almost, "the final moment of Leyel-el-Sud, the period of Black Nights when the Desert was held to encroach with—with various possibilities of a supernatural order. The Universe partnered them. Whether it was the real one, or merely adopted to warm a cooling courage, he could not tell. ", "A church?" I don't know much more now—except that he's a dangerous sort of charlatan-devil, I think. Travelling was only for the rich; mere wanderers must pig it. Jinx:The:Poet {the Literary Masochist, Ink Ninja & Word Roamer}. He went searching through the sands of forgotten ages, and wandering among the ruins of a vanished time. He came back with the magic of the Desert in his blood, hotel-life tasteless and insipid by comparison. This wind brought life. But the Procession of life, needing a group, a host, an army for its physical expression, reached at that moment the nearer end of the huge avenue. Henriot walked on and on, aware of utter loneliness. Mansfield read it in a shamefaced tone, evidently prepared for laughter: "'Whether I strike you on the back or in the face determines what kind of answering force I rouse in you. synopsis British writer Algernon Blackwood (1869-1951) wrote an immense quantity of weird fiction, short and long, over a career that spanned five decades. He had once been there; there were many people, but insignificant people. Out of Stock. At night the jackals cried in the darkness round his cautiously-fed camp fire—small, because wood had to be carried—and in the day-time kites circled overhead to inspect him, and an occasional white vulture flapped across the blue. His first impression that these two belonged to what may be called the "crank" order was justified by the conversation. The woman left a couple of books behind her on the table one night, and Henriot, after a moment’s hesitation, took them out after her. And, if he did not definitely see the awful thing, at least he was aware that it had come to pass. They looked up grandly, understood why he was there, and then—slowly withdrew their mysterious, penetrating gaze. written by Missyshears August 22, 2018. And he stood on a heap of things to wedge them down still tighter. He had it at last. He loved the gigantic peace the Desert gave him. For a moment the stream of movement seemed to pause and look up into his face, then instantly went on again upon its swift career. Before memory brought up her clouding associations, some brilliance flashed a light upon him. "He is her nephew right enough," Mansfield corrected his wife, before proceeding to his own man's form of elaboration; "no question about that, I believe. Algernon Henry Blackwood, CBE (14 March 1869 – 10 December 1951) was an English broadcasting narrator, journalist, novelist and short story writer, and among the most prolific ghost story writers in the history of the genre. It was sand that brought it. A couple of white vultures flapped lazily away over shining miles. They little guessed how their commonness heightened contrast, set mercilessly thus beside the strange, eternal beauty of the sand. The voice, the eyes, the near presence—what did they bring that set his nerves thus asking unusual questions? He answered, hardly knowing what he said. But, again, why should he? This ancient script was graven in his soul. Chiefly, yes, of a flock of birds in flight, whose separate units formed a single entity. He felt the powerful undertow. He sprang instantly out of bed, not yet awake enough to feel actual alarm, yet with the nightmare touch still close enough to cause a sort of feverish, loose bewilderment. "There were types of life the Atlantean system knew it might revive—life unmanifested to-day in any bodily form," was the sentence he caught with his return to the actual present. They shook him where he stood, staring down into this river of strange invisible movement that was hundreds of feet in depth and a quarter of a mile across. Into this tent-like hall of the hotel came the sifting of tiny sand. Perspective danced its tricks of false, incredible deception. They ran away into shifting heaps; they disappeared; they emerged suddenly again. Whence came this prodigious glad excitement in his heart, this sense of mighty Powers coaxed down to influence the very details of daily life? ", "We wondered—" It was Lady Statham's voice, and she leaned forward eagerly as she said it, then abruptly left the sentence incomplete. He banked the rugs behind him, wrapped himself in his overcoat, and lay down to wait. Its invasion was concentrated through the eyes. This level framing made the woman's stare remarkable beyond description. He held his mind steady enough to realise that it was akin to what men call a "descent" of some "spiritual movement" that wakens a body of believers into faith—a race, an entire nation; only that he experienced it in this brief, concentrated form before it has scattered down into ten thousand hearts. For, through this conception of great movement, stirred also a roving, delicate touch that his imagination felt as bird-like. Imagination could deal with these. He felt the pull of a thousand miles before him; and twice a thousand years drove at his back. "Objective" invitation, his genial hosts had called it, knowing his hatred of convention. She had difficulty in getting guides and dragomen. He decided to offer himself to all they wanted—his pencil too. I tell you—smile as you may—my blood was all curdled for an hour afterwards.". And from his bedroom windows he watched the sun dip into gold and crimson behind the swelling Libyan sands. You find here what you expected?" The unwinking stare of eyes—lidless eyes that yet ever succeed in hiding—looked out under well-marked, level eyebrows, suggesting a vision that included the motives and purposes of his very heart. His mind, automatically, kept repeating this comforting formula. The paralysis of common fear rooted him to the rocks. The sand at last had crept into his inmost heart. To see what your friends thought of this book, I can't recommend this ,it's quite a long short story and so drawn out , there are whole chapters that are almost pointless . Henriot stirred uneasily in his chair. Through the morning mists upon the Nile an old pyramid bowed hugely at him across London roofs: "Come," he heard its awful whisper beneath the ceiling, "I have things to show you, and to tell." Anyhow, I went up—I'd lost my donkey boy as well, remember—and slated him like a dog. One was evil, small and human; the other unearthly and sublime. He had seen the Desert as the grey, enormous Tomb where hovered still the Ka of ancient Egypt. He peered through the window into the blurred darkness, listening. Out of the Desert, out of the leagues of sand, out of the immeasurable wilderness which was her mummied Form and Body, she rose and came. At least, she describes it oddly, rather; she said it made the door bulge inwards from the next room, but not the door alone; the walls bulged or swayed as if a huge thing pressed against them from the other side. Interpreting it each time differently, he yet dismissed both interpretations with a smile. A sudden subsidence had freed his feet. A single outline moving altogether in one direction. What surprised him was that he felt no desire to laugh, and little even to doubt. The table, he noticed, was laid for two. Henriot jumped to an intuitive conclusion: "He's not here for pleasure or merely sight-seeing. Although no echoes, properly speaking, were possible, these precipices caught stray notes that trooped in from the further sandy reaches. But this woman, had she been Jemima Jones, would have made the name distinguished and select. Vagueness and certainty ran hand in hand. These two held traffic with the powers that ancient Egypt knew. Henriot looked down upon his thick head of hair. The evidence for such a sunken continent—Henriot had skimmed it too in years gone by—she made bewilderingly complete. She came. He puffed his pipe hard. What was it, then, that suddenly strengthened this solitary link so that the chain tautened and he felt the pull of it? There followed emptiness—a hush of unutterable silence, stillness, peace. Henriot's curiosity, before he knew it, became suspicion. He would have understood and loved it!" Their rooms were on the same side. He bowed, as she joined them, and Vance led the way to the armchairs in a corner of the lounge. In the Desert he felt himself absolutely royal. Yet only a portion came. It made him think of the devices of young people who desire to know one another, yet cannot get a proper introduction. In the brief interval it takes to snap the fingers the climax was thus so hurriedly upon him. And what had he to do with them? Some curtain, then, that for centuries had veiled the world, drew softly up, leaving a shaded vista down which the eyes of his soul peered towards long-forgotten pictures. He saw the sun gleam upon the glasses, and heard the clink of the ice against the sides. The Desert was its Body. But here the entire Desert swept in to form a shrine, and the Majesty that once was Egypt stepped grandly back across ages of denial and neglect. More and more, with the name, came back—his first repugnance, fear, suspicion. Then he remembered a dozen things he had left out. "What we know instinctively," she continued, "is simply what we are trying to remember. Such fantasies have no value though. Instead he listened. You may remember your conversation of the other night with her. She offered no apologies. The thought lay in him while she uttered it. No individual outline could contain it. He remembered instead an opportune invitation to the Desert. Ceremony, I suppose you'd call it. The disturbance in himself was caused by something not imaginary, but real. They exchanged, then, the commonplaces of conversation, but these led to nothing further. "Too vague, of no value for future use," was the reply. There was nothing in it. He watched with such deep attention, and he concealed it so clumsily with an affectation of careless indifference. By sheer force he pinned his thought against this fact: but further he could not get. It was disconcerting. An Arab boy and donkey took out sleeping-bag, food and water to the Wadi Hof, a desolate gorge about an hour eastwards. It was not even a question. The woman had belief; however wild and strange, it was sacred to her. And next he realised that the glitter of Paris lay behind him, and a steamer was taking him with much unnecessary motion across a sparkling sea towards Alexandria. He leaped to the guess that his expenses were being paid. It rolled and boomed and whispered like the wind. Here he watched dawns and sunsets, slept through the mid-day heat, and enjoyed the unearthly colouring that swept Day and Night across the huge horizons. Behind the solid mass of the Desert's immobility flashed something swift and light and airy. He rose at length with the excitement of some deep enchantment in his eyes. Through all things the impulse poured and spread, like fire at white heat. Read the next short story; Skeleton Lake: An Episode in Camp, "I will arise and go now, for always night and day. He carried away from it some vague suggestion that this woman had hinted at previous lives she half remembered, and that every year she came to Egypt, haunting the sands and temples in the effort to recover lost clues. He possessed this kind of divination from first impressions, and not uncommonly it proved correct. But—that a movement of six inches in any direction meant for any one of them instant death. Where should he go? A—compass, did you say?" They had foreseen the cataclysm. It turned luminous too, with a patchwork of glimmering effect that was indescribably weird; lanterns glowed within its substance, and by their light he stumbled on, glad of the Arab boy he would presently meet at the appointed place. In his late thirties, he moved back to England and started to write stories of the supernatural. Vance, strong personality that hid behind assumed nonentity for some purpose of his own, intruded with sudden violence, demanding an explanation of his presence. The stars themselves, it seemed, contributed some part of the terrific, flowing impulse that conquered matter and shaped itself this physical expression. "We have tried all things, and found all wanting"—the mind, as measuring instrument, merely confessed inadequate. The rituals, now taken literally, and so pityingly explained away, had once been genuine pathways of approach. Outside these trivial walls the Desert lay listening. Following instinct, therefore, he took no steps towards acquaintance, and for several days, owing to the fact that he dined frequently with his hosts, he saw nothing more of Richard Vance, the business man from Birmingham. Yet, most strangely, nothing definitely moved. We shall be in the valley—the Wadi Hof is the place. And he felt as if he knew vaguely what was coming. But the sudden change of focus instantly destroyed the picture; and so vehement was the fall from glory into meanness, that it dislocated the machinery of clairvoyant vision. He cried out to it. There is a lot of queer business knocking about in this old country, and people like that know ways of reviving it somehow. And—he was caught. Then, before he was able to fashion any preconceived idea of what visible form this potent life might assume, he was aware of further change. The force of this woman's personality, and her calm and quiet way of believing all she talked about, took her listener to some extent—further than ever before, certainly—into the great dream after her. He, Henriot, was not the only one in danger. Time then, in an instant, flowed back behind his footsteps, obliterating every trace. It was as formal as an invitation to a dinner, and as guileless. He locked his door and sat down in his chair to think. And, through it all, he was clearly aware of the pair of little human figures, man and woman, standing erect and commanding at the centre—knew, too, that she directed and controlled, while he in some secondary fashion supported her—and ever watched. His affairs with women, if so they may be called, had been transient—all but those of early youth, which having never known the devastating test of fulfilment, still remained ideal and superb. They weighed and watched him, wondering if he would do. There was mystery here. 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