Algernon Blackwood Read Free Page B

was distinctly glad
just then that the Swede was—what he was, and that he never made remarks
that suggested more than they said.
    "The river's still rising, though," he added, as if following out some
thoughts of his own, and dropping his load with a gasp. "This island will
be under water in two days if it goes on."
    "I wish the wind would go down," I said. "I don't care a fig for the
river."
    The flood, indeed, had no terrors for us; we could get off at ten minutes'
notice, and the more water the better we liked it. It meant an increasing
current and the obliteration of the treacherous shingle-beds that so often
threatened to tear the bottom out of our canoe.
    Contrary to our expectations, the wind did not go down with the sun. It
seemed to increase with the darkness, howling overhead and shaking the
willows round us like straws. Curious sounds accompanied it sometimes, like
the explosion of heavy guns, and it fell upon the water and the island in
great flat blows of immense power. It made me think of the sounds a planet
must make, could we only hear it, driving along through space.
    But the sky kept wholly clear of clouds, and soon after supper the full
moon rose up in the east and covered the river and the plain of shouting
willows with a light like the day.
    We lay on the sandy patch beside the fire, smoking, listening to the noises
of the night round us, and talking happily of the journey we had already
made, and of our plans ahead. The map lay spread in the door of the tent,
but the high wind made it hard to study, and presently we lowered the
curtain and extinguished the lantern. The firelight was enough to smoke and
see each other's faces by, and the sparks flew about overhead like
fireworks. A few yards beyond, the river gurgled and hissed, and from time
to time a heavy splash announced the falling away of further portions of
the bank.
    Our talk, I noticed, had to do with the faraway scenes and incidents of our
first camps in the Black Forest, or of other subjects altogether remote
from the present setting, for neither of us spoke of the actual moment more
than was necessary—almost as though we had agreed tacitly to avoid
discussion of the camp and its incidents. Neither the otter nor the
boatman, for instance, received the honor of a single mention, though
ordinarily these would have furnished discussion for the greater part of
the evening. They were, of course, distinct events in such a place.
    The scarcity of wood made it a business to keep the fire going, for the
wind, that drove the smoke in our faces wherever we sat, helped at the same
time to make a forced draught. We took it in turn to make some foraging
expeditions into the darkness, and the quantity the Swede brought back
always made me feel that he took an absurdly long time finding it; for the
fact was I did not care much about being left alone, and yet it always
seemed to be my turn to grub about among the bushes or scramble along the
slippery banks in the moonlight. The long day's battle with wind and
water—such wind and such water!—had tired us both, and an early bed was
the obvious program. Yet neither of us made the move for the tent. We lay
there, tending the fire, talking in desultory fashion, peering about us
into the dense willow bushes, and listening to the thunder of wind and
river. The loneliness of the place had entered our very bones, and silence
seemed natural, for after a bit the sound of our voices became a trifle
unreal and forced; whispering would have been the fitting mode of
communication, I felt, and the human voice, always rather absurd amid the
roar of the elements, now carried with it something almost illegitimate. It
was like talking out loud in church, or in some place where it was not
lawful, perhaps not quite safe, to be overheard.
    The eeriness of this lonely island, set among a million willows, swept by a
hurricane, and surrounded by hurrying deep waters, touched us both, I
fancy. Untrodden by man, almost unknown to