The Country of the Blind

And, as if he had not already been in sufficient peril that day, Mr. Fison went with the boat to point out the exact spot of his adventure.

As the tide was down, it required a considerable detour to reach the spot, and when at last they came off the ladder-way, the mangled body had disappeared.  The water was now running in, submerging first one slab of slimy rock and then another, and the four men in the boat—­the workmen, that is, the boatman, and Mr. Fison—­now turned their attention from the bearings off shore to the water beneath the keel.

At first they could see little below them, save a dark jungle of laminaria, with an occasional darting fish.  Their minds were set on adventure, and they expressed their disappointment freely.  But presently they saw one of the monsters swimming through the water seaward, with a curious rolling motion that suggested to Mr. Fison the spinning roll of a captive balloon.  Almost immediately after, the waving streamers of laminaria were extraordinarily perturbed, parted for a moment, and three of these beasts became darkly visible, struggling for what was probably some fragment of the drowned man.  In a moment the copious olive-green ribbons had poured again over this writhing group.

At that all four men, greatly excited, began beating the water with oars and shouting, and immediately they saw a tumultuous movement among the weeds.  They desisted to see more clearly, and as soon as the water was smooth, they saw, as it seemed to them, the whole sea bottom among the weeds set with eyes.

“Ugly swine!” cried one of the men.  “Why, there’s dozens!”

And forthwith the things began to rise through the water about them.  Mr. Fison has since described to the writer this startling eruption out of the waving laminaria meadows.  To him it seemed to occupy a considerable time, but it is probable that really it was an affair of a few seconds only.  For a time nothing but eyes, and then he speaks of tentacles streaming out and parting the weed fronds this way and that.  Then these things, growing larger, until at last the bottom was hidden by their intercoiling forms, and the tips of tentacles rose darkly here and there into the air above the swell of the waters.

One came up boldly to the side of the boat, and clinging to this with three of its sucker-set tentacles, threw four others over the gunwale, as if with an intention either of oversetting the boat or of clambering into it.  Mr. Fison at once caught up the boat-hook, and, jabbing furiously at the soft tentacles, forced it to desist.  He was struck in the back and almost pitched overboard by the boatman, who was using his oar to resist a similar attack on the other side of the boat.  But the tentacles on either side at once relaxed their hold, slid out of sight, and splashed into the water.

“We’d better get out of this,” said Mr. Fison, who was trembling violently.  He went to the tiller, while the boatman and one of the workmen seated themselves and began rowing.  The other workman stood up in the fore part of the boat, with the boat-hook, ready to strike any more tentacles that might appear.  Nothing else seems to have been said.  Mr. Fison had expressed the common feeling beyond amendment.  In a hushed, scared mood, with faces white and drawn, they set about escaping from the position into which they had so recklessly blundered.

But the oars had scarcely dropped into the water before dark, tapering, serpentine ropes had bound them, and were about the rudder; and creeping up the sides of the boat with a looping motion came the suckers again.  The men gripped their oars and pulled, but it was like trying to move a boat in a floating raft of weeds.  “Help here!” cried the boatman, and Mr. Fison and the second workman rushed to help lug at the oar.

Then the man with the boat-hook—­his name was Ewan, or Ewen—­sprang up with a curse and began striking downward over the side, as far as he could reach, at the bank of tentacles that now clustered along the boat’s bottom.  And, at the same time, the two rowers stood up to get a better purchase for the recovery of their oars.  The boatman handed his to Mr. Fison, who lugged desperately, and, meanwhile, the boatman opened a big clasp-knife, and leaning over the side of the boat, began hacking at the spiring arms upon the oar shaft.

Mr. Fison, staggering with the quivering rocking of the boat, his teeth set, his breath coming short, and the veins starting on his hands as he pulled at his oar, suddenly cast his eyes seaward.  And there, not fifty yards off, across the long rollers of the incoming tide, was a large boat standing in towards them, with three women and a little child in it.  A boatman was rowing, and a little man in a pink-ribboned straw hat and whites stood in the stern hailing them.  For a moment, of course, Mr. Fison thought of help, and then he thought of the child.  He abandoned his oar forthwith, threw up his arms in a frantic gesture, and screamed to the party in the boat to keep away “for God’s sake!” It says much for the modesty and courage of Mr. Fison that he does not seem to be aware that there was any quality of heroism in his action at this juncture.  The oar he had abandoned was at once drawn under, and presently reappeared floating about twenty yards away.

At the same moment Mr. Fison felt the boat under him lurch violently, and a hoarse scream, a prolonged cry of terror from Hill, the boatman, caused him to forget the party of excursionists altogether.  He turned, and saw Hill crouching by the forward row-lock, his face convulsed with terror, and his right arm over the side and drawn tightly down.  He gave now a succession of short, sharp cries, “Oh! oh! oh” Mr. Fison believes that he must have been hacking at the tentacles below the water-line, and have been grasped by them, but, of course, it is quite impossible to say now certainly what had happened.  The boat was heeling over, so that the gunwale was within ten inches of the water, and both Ewan and the other labourer were striking down into the water, with oar and boat-hook, on either side of Hill’s arm.  Mr. Fison instinctively placed himself to counterpoise them.

Then Hill, who was a burly, powerful man, made a strenuous effort, and rose almost to a standing position.  He lifted his arm, indeed, clean out of the water.  Hanging to it was a complicated tangle of brown ropes, and the eyes of one of the brutes that had hold of him, glaring straight and resolute, showed momentarily above the surface.  The boat heeled more and more, and the green-brown water came pouring in a cascade over the side.  Then Hill slipped and fell with his ribs across the side, and his arm and the mass of tentacles about it splashed back into the water.  He rolled over; his boot kicked Mr. Fison’s knee as that gentleman rushed forward to seize him, and in another moment fresh tentacles had whipped about his waist and neck, and after a brief, convulsive struggle, in which the boat was nearly capsized, Hill was lugged overboard.  The boat righted with a violent jerk that all but sent Mr. Fison over the other side, and hid the struggle in the water from his eyes.

He stood staggering to recover his balance for a moment, and as he did so he became aware that the struggle and the inflowing tide had carried them close upon the weedy rocks again.  Not four yards off a table of rock still rose in rhythmic movements above the in-wash of the tide.  In a moment Mr. Fison seized the oar from Ewan, gave one vigorous stroke, then dropping it, ran to the bows and leapt.  He felt his feet slide over the rock, and, by a frantic effort, leapt again towards a further mass.  He stumbled over this, came to his knees, and rose again.

“Look out!” cried someone, and a large drab body struck him.  He was knocked flat into a tidal pool by one of the workmen, and as he went down he heard smothered, choking cries, that he believed at the time came from Hill.  Then he found himself marvelling at the shrillness and variety of Hill’s voice.  Someone jumped over him, and a curving rush of foamy water poured over him, and passed.  He scrambled to his feet dripping, and without looking seaward, ran as fast as his terror would let him shoreward.  Before him, over the flat space of scattered rocks, stumbled the two work-men—­one a dozen yards in front of the other.

He looked over his shoulder at last, and seeing that he was not pursued, faced about.  He was astonished.  From the moment of the rising of the cephalopods out of the water he had been acting too swiftly to fully comprehend his actions.  Now it seemed to him as if he had suddenly jumped out of an evil dream.

For there were the sky, cloudless and blazing with the afternoon sun, the sea weltering under its pitiless brightness, the soft creamy foam of the breaking water, and the low, long, dark ridges of rock.  The righted boat floated, rising and falling gently on the swell about a dozen yards from shore.  Hill and the monsters, all the stress and tumult of that fierce fight for life, had vanished as though they had never been.

Mr. Fison’s heart was beating violently; he was throbbing to the finger-tips, and his breath came deep.

There was something missing.  For some seconds he could not think clearly enough what this might be.  Sun, sky, sea, rocks—­what was it?  Then he remembered the boat-load of excursionists.  It had vanished.  He wondered whether he had imagined it.  He turned, and saw the two workmen standing side by side under the projecting masses of the tall pink cliffs.  He hesitated whether he should make one last attempt to save the man Hill.  His physical excitement seemed to desert him suddenly, and leave him aimless and helpless.  He turned shoreward, stumbling and wading towards his two companions.

He looked back again, and there were now two boats floating, and the one farthest out at sea pitched clumsily, bottom upward.