The Flood Read Free Page B

over the village and the loch beyond; and the village was hidden from sight.
    He crashed.
    He felt a blow on the head, but it didn’t knock him out. He lay for a few seconds, and could see a pool of water at his feet; water soaked the ends of his trousers, too. He pulled himself together, slowly, staggering when he got to his feet, wishing there were something to hold on to. He could not understand why he should crash, but that was unimportant – the sight below thrust everything else out of his mind.
    Water was spurting out of the ground to a height of fifty feet or more. As far as he could judge, it was the spot where the village had been; certainly there was no sign of buildings, of cottages, of the church with its slate spire. There was just that turbulent mass of water, sending spray hundreds of feet up, to catch the rays of the sun and sparkle; as if a million diamonds were being tossed into the air.
    “Can’t – believe – it,” Woburn muttered.
    He took a step forward, and something crunched under his foot; so sharply that he snatched his foot back hastily. A snail or a crab—
    He didn’t see what he had trodden on, but a sheet of water spurted up at him, high above his head, drenching him completely. Some of it struck his knee with such startling, stinging force that he nearly lost his balance. The water splash died down, but where he had put his foot there was another large pool. He looked at this, stupidly. Two pools of water, on high land where there had been no rain for days. The heather and coarse grass on either side of the path was dusty brown from lack of water, and the path itself was dusty; but there were the pools.
    He saw something crawl.
    It was about the size of a tennis ball, with a shell rather like a crab, but it moved much more quickly than a crab. He stared at the muddy, grey shell, still half stupid. The roar of the water down in the valley was loud, and seemed to hold a note of menace. The sun shone on the two pools of water here; and on the crawling thing. It wasn’t a crab; in fact it looked more like a tiny tortoise, with that shell-like top, and tiny feet on which it moved with startling speed across the path.
    Then, over the hill, came a sheep-dog – one belonging to the Robertsons.
    It came trotting, tongue out as if it had been racing, and now and again it looked round, as if towards the cloud. Black and white, its long, shaggy coat looked groomed and glossy. It caught sight of Woburn, and stopped. Woburn was feeling better; not right, but not so helpless and dizzy as he had been. The noise didn’t stop for a minute.
    The dog was standing and looking at him; suspiciously.
    “Hallo, old chap,” Woburn said, “where are your sheep?”
    Friendliness responded to friendliness, and the dog seemed really relieved. But not for long, for it caught sight of the scuttling thing on the ground. Its hackles rose, and it stood for a moment, then let out a yelp and leapt, as it might after a crab. It touched the thing with its teeth.
    Woburn saw what followed.
    The dog was flung back from the spot by a spurt of water which actually lifted it off its feet. It yelped and writhed in mid-air. Water poured from its mouth. It fell on its side, writhed for a few seconds, then jumped up, sprang past Woburn, and went racing across the wild moors.
    Where it had bitten the crab-like thing, there was a rippling pool of water, already soaking into the dry earth.
    Woburn did not speak or move; just looked about the grass, and saw that it was crawling with the creatures which spouted water.

 
3
    Woburn turned round, stiffly, towards the motor-cycle. He scanned the ground behind him. Here and there he saw one of the little creatures, but there were not so many as he had seen on the other side. He picked up the machine, and wheeled it slowly and carefully back the way he had come. Now and again he twisted the wheel to avoid a ‘thing’. He could almost feel the crunching sound as he went over one, and