Norman Invasions Read Free Page A

our best to soothe these wretched, brittle fears, and bring the light of at least a little rationality into the evening’s discourse, but I fear we were largely unsuccessful. “There are the prints!” would say a fellow. “Put there,” we said. “A hoax!” “By who, then?” asked another. “We don’t know,” I said. “There are the prints,” would reiterate another, shuddering, and so it went.
    Although the calpa takes many forms, or, perhaps, more accurately, is given many forms by those who see it, the most common seems to be that of a gigantic, horselike being, with massive hoofs, a long, flowing mane, and huge, wild, burning eyes. Sometimes it is thought to be seen under the water, abeam, or gliding in the cold darkness beneath the keel, or rising toward the bulwarks, then descending again. Sometimes it is claimed to have broken the surface, only to submerge again. This has led some to speculate that it is some sort of sea creature, reptilian, long thought extinct. Other speculations have supposed a small whale, or other aquatic mammal. Some see it, too, sometimes, it seems, as having arms and a human head. Surely the imposition of some sort of discipline would be appropriate for sailors found drunk on their watch. I have wondered if that form was not, perhaps subconsciously, suggested by the image of a centaur. But that seems an unlikely image for mariners. To be sure, the image of the centaur may have been founded, long ago, not on Scythian horsemen, but on that of the calpa. Many were the galleys which brought tin from England to the Mediterranean. Some think that to see the calpa is itself a sentence of death, a forewarning of doom, but this is inaccurate. There is no reason why seeing the calpa, if one could actually do so, would, in itself, be a sign of impending death. Of what interest or concern are we to the calpa? Is this not vanity on our part? Are we so important that denizens of metaphysical realms would find it incumbent upon themselves to oblige us with such unsolicited, unwelcome notices? Let us dismiss the fanciful, self-regarding vanity of that thought. On the other hand, there would perhaps be dangers in bearing this dreadful witness, perhaps rather as in meeting a dangerous animal unexpectedly, eye to eye, within a critical charging distance. Seeing a lion is not in itself a sign of impending death, but it is quite true that these events are not always unassociated. It is true, however, that the calpa is territorial, and that it will protect itself. One does not enter certain cold, tidal caves, one does not swim in certain waters. As the legends have it, the calpa will kill, usually by drowning. Presumably it does not like to seen. Like the cat, it likes to conceal its presence. That is not uncommon with many forms of life. On the other hand, there are some legends, too, though admittedly rare, that the calpa has carried some to safety.
    Who knows the nature of those it might save?
    Why would it do so?
    But I am speaking now as though there might be such a beast.
    As the storm beat on the roof, and the wind whirled about Hill House, and lightning flashed beyond the window, off seaward, my mind, from the ale, wandered as it would.
    Suppose, I thought, there might be such a thing as the calpa. If it is so secretive, so withdrawn, so jealous of its privacy, why would it mark a beach with its hoofs? So here, surely, was some sort of inconsistency.
    Then I smiled, so silly was the thought, as if there might be such a thing.
    I wondered how the prints came there. They would now, in the storm, be muchly washed away. Too, the tide would take most of them. They would be gone by morning.
    Suppose there were such a thing, I thought. You can see how drunk I was, how tired, so disordered, lying there, pulling up the blankets, listening to the storm. The cat stirred when I pulled at the blankets, but did not, as far as I could tell, awaken.
    Lightning flashed