Norman Invasions (3 page)

In the meantime the rain had abated.

I lay there for a time, and then, as I could not get back to sleep, rose, drew on boots, and some clothes, and, taking my torch, went downstairs. I left the house through the kitchen, quietly, in order not to awaken Mrs. Fraser, or any of her roomers. In the yard, under the window, I shone the light about.

The grass had been muchly depressed by the night's rain. The stones were wet, and reflected the light of the torch. There were puddles here and there, and, in places, narrow, arrested trickles of rain, like stilled, small rivers, arrested in their passage, shored by mud and pebbles. Though I had come down with trepidation, I soon felt a fool in the darkness, blazing the light about on the sodden grass, the stones, the bordering gravel. I am sure that, by then, I had slept off the fumes of alcohol, but I was undeniably agitated, even trembling. I was muchly unsettled in my thinking. Work on the article, too, had not been going well. I might well return to London, I thought, perhaps as soon as the morrow. Given the obscurities, the troubling oddities, of recent days, the hoax of the prints, the rumors, the uneasiness of villagers, I now found myself less loath than I would have been earlier to exchange the tranquility of the village, supposedly ideal for gathering together one's thoughts, for the distractive bustle of Mayfair.

I shall return to London, I thought.

I have wondered, sometimes, if that would have been possible.

I was about to return to the room when the beam of light fell upon a small patch of bare, damp ground, some feet within the wall, at the end of the yard. I focused the light on the ground. I looked up. I could see the window. The cat must have awakened, and noted my absence, for I could see her. She sat on the sill, within the panes, looking down at me. How silly she must think humans, I thought, to be prowling about so late, in a muddy yard, when they might be snug abed in a warm, dry room. I put the beam down again. The mark was not absolutely clear, because of the rain, as it had softened the earth, but what I saw, at least if casually observed, might have easily been taken as the print of a small, delicate, well-formed foot; there was the print of the heel, and of the sole, and of the toes; it seemed, clearly, the print of girl's foot, of a small, delicate, feminine, naked foot.

Some village girl must have left it, I thought. Perhaps one of those who helps Mrs. Fraser with her cleaning. But this seemed absurd, given the time of year.

I would not return to London on the morrow.

I returned to the room and sat up for a time, bent over, my head in my hands. Then, as it was still quite early, I went back to bed. Happily I slept. When I awakened my first thought was that my trip to the yard, of last night, might have been in a dream, as well, but the mud of my boots, and the dampness, and disarray, of my clothing, thrown to a chair, convinced me that I had, indeed, left the room that night. After breakfast I reconnoitered the yard again, returning to the place under the window. I saw nothing, then, that was clearly a print. It had rained again, in the early morning, while I had slept. If the print had been there, it must have been washed away.

The most rational interpretation of the night's business was that I had walked in my sleep, as some do, and dreamed, in so walking, of strange things. This was the most rational interpretation, so it was the one I accepted.

I returned then to some research pertinent to the article, utilizing some of the relevant books and journals I had brought with me, in a small, wooden crate, to the village.

What occurred three nights later I could not dismiss so easily.

February 5th.
Back late. Another visit to the pub. More conversation with Gavin. Prints not on beach now. Duncan apprehensive, strangely quiet. Cronies subdued. New ale. Things return to normal. Or nearly so. Foolish to have been disturbed. Fear is like contagion, transmitted from one person to another. Some sort of animal communication probably, on some atavistic level. Must resist. Am now above such things. Article going well.

I was not really back so late that night, as I remember it now. The behavior of the cat was surprising. She fled from me. I read a little, until after midnight, and then retired. I did leave the door ajar so that she might return, if so inclined.

The villagers are good fellows, but some of them are becoming a bit irritating. Wherever I go in the village, one or another seems to be about, and not just about, but about watching, pretending not to be watching. If I did not know better, I would suppose they were spying. I find this oppressive, and intrusive. Perhaps I am merely becoming excessively sensitive, or even paranoid. Perhaps I should speak to some of them about it. But that might cause unpleasantness. It is not my fault if I do not share their archaic attitudes, nor choose to sympathetically credit their superstitions. That they have no right to expect. And surely Gavin, one of their own, does not, either. I saw old Duncan today at the end of the village, near the road leading to the highway, talking to a constable. When he saw me, he walked away. I would really resent it if he, or others, were spreading rumors, or making irresponsible allegations, particularly to the law. Perhaps about the prints. But they are gone now. Hopefully that business is over and done with. I trust that the constable, who bikes down now and then to the village, has at least a modicum of common sense. I have met him once or twice, and he seems to be a decent, sensible fellow. If old Duncan's conversation had anything to do with me, I trust the constable bore his remarks in good humor. But enough of this. I have work to do.

That night the dream was different.

She seemed to see me for the first time, that prim, exquisite, coveted thing, and seemed know herself, perhaps for the first time in her life, this astonishing her, and frightening her, coveted. Coveted,
as a mere object
. Something that could be possessed, that could be seized as a prize, like a jewel, something that could be owned, literally owned, with no rights whatsoever, owned uncompromisingly, totally, callously, without quarter.

She regarded me.

Did she then understand that she was seen as a mere object? Did she then understand why she was so seen, and the rightness of it, why she was seen so, that she was seen so because that was what she then was, in that moment, a mere object? An
object
. How frightening for her, to understand herself as that. Oh, yes, of course, no simple or common object. But a precious, beautiful, living object, wondrous, deep, sentient, and alive—a masterpiece of foresight, preparation and training—but an object nonetheless. Beneath the whiteness, the crispness, the starch, the severity, the formalities and protocols, the conventions, the inculcated restrictions, the rigidities, the enmeshing, conditioned coldnesses and inhibitions, she was a slim, lithe, sleek, well-formed little beast, attractively bred, an appealing animal, an attractive little animal, an extremely desirable little
animal
.

Ready in the courtyard of nature for appropriation.

Ready for snaring, for capture and use.

Did she then understand, in the dream, of course, if only for a terrifying moment, the meaning of her slightness, her fragility, her vulnerability, the destiny and meaning of her excruciatingly, tantalizingly alluring slim curves, of her remarkable, unmistakable, considerable beauty?

In the dream, you see, I had suddenly grasped something which she had not, that she was the product of a long line of calculated, supervised breedings, a line, perhaps one of several similarly selected stocks, which had been supervised and tended for thousands of years.

She had been bred for me.

Her eyes were wide, straining to see and understand, to comprehend. Her lower lip trembling, her small hand at her palpitating breast, so delicate and appropriate a gesture, she backed away from me, and, in an instant, frightened, turned and, fleeing, vanished, and did she think there was an escape for her, and there was suddenly then a vast snorting noise, a roar, or neighing, like thunder, and a mighty form rose up before me, dark and gigantic, rearing on its hind legs, its hoofs flailing, slashing at the air, and I crouched down before it, and covered my head, and screamed.

I am rather sure I remember the sounds of shattering wood and glass, and voices, solicitous, first in the dark, calling up to me. Then, in a bit, I heard steps on the stairs, hurrying. A moment later Mrs. Fraser, followed by two of her roomers, entered the room. She was carrying a candle. I had seen its flickering light approaching, through the opening I had left, as I usually did, for the cat. She looked about, at me, and then the room, and cried out in dismay. In a moment or two the other roomers appeared.

“Are you all right, sir?” said Mrs. Fraser.

“Yes,” I said. “I must have been sleeping. I must have cried out. I'm sorry.”

“What happened here?” asked a man.

I looked about, wildly. The room was in disarray. It might have been the stall of a powerful, maddened animal.

“I don't know,” I said. I didn't.

The window was shattered, its wooden partitions splintered away, scattered with a shower of glass into the yard below. The sill was broken. The side of the window on the right, as one looked out, had been forced from the wall, enlarging the opening. Indeed, though the window was a large one for the structure, part of the wall was gone. Some planking, and several slats of ruptured lath, plaster clinging to it, projected outward from the room. It was as though something quite large, some huge animal, like a bear, a bull or stallion, had somehow inadvertently found its way into the room, and had then, in terror or fury, perhaps sensing itself confined or trapped, bolted, rushing blindly toward the window, shattering it, and leaping to the outside.

I staggered to my feet. “I must have been walking in my sleep,” I said. “I must have done this, somehow. I don't know how, but I must have done this. I'll pay for the damage, surely. I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry!”

“This is not your doing, sir,” said one of the roomers.

“Never,” said another, grimly.

“Is anything missing?” asked another, looking about.

“There must have been a thief, a prowler,” said one of the men.

“Sir is not of the village,” said a fellow. “Someone thought he had money.”

“Do you have money?” asked another.

“Not really,” I said. “Nothing much.”

“A thief would not know that,” pointed out another.

“The gentleman awakened, and the fellow went for the window,” said a man.

“Such things do not happen in my house,” said Mrs. Fraser.

“This must be reported to the constable,” said a man.

“If you like,” I said. “But I think I am all right. I do not think anything is missing. I may have done this myself, somehow.”

“Never,” said a fellow.

“I am sure this was not done by local folk,” said a man.

“No, we have no thieves here,” added another.

“It would be an outsider,” said another.

“Aye,” said another.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes.” Yes, I thought, it would be an outsider, an outsider.

“I'll have some repairs begun tomorrow,” said Mrs. Fraser.

“Keep the outside door locked,” said one of the roomers, uneasily.

“I have never seen the need, but I shall do so,” she said. “It is a lamentable thing, that one should have to lock the doors of one's own house.”

“Aye,” agreed a fellow.

Mrs. Fraser and the others then left the room.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Oddly, I now felt serene. In a few minutes I rose and lit the kerosene lamp and looked about. Indeed, nothing was missing. With a piece of toweling I wiped away a large, hooflike mark from the shattered sill. When I returned to the bed, I discovered, to my surprise, that the cat was there, curled at its foot. Earlier she had fled at my very appearance, an unusual behavior on her part, which had troubled me, which had made me muchly uneasy. I petted her for a bit, and then retired. It was probably something like three in the morning. I saw the moon through the shattered window, and the sea beyond. I could not see the beach because of the cliffs, to which, in places, the waters were closely adjacent. I awakened once, wondering if, below, on the beach, I heard the sound of hoof beats, racing through the sand. Then, the cat at my feet, I slept soundly.

February 15th.
I have had the sense, for some days, that I am waiting for something. I am not altogether clear what it is, but I sometimes think I know its general nature. How much is real, how much is madness, if any of it, I do not know. Went to the pub. Haven't been there for some time. Odd conversation with old Duncan. Gavin not about. Finished article. Think it all right. Full moon tonight. Mention this because old Duncan called it to my attention. Not clear why. Think he may be mad. Perhaps we all are.

When the dream recurs now I am no longer disturbed by it, the dream of the girl, so lofty, haughty, cold, prudish and smug, and the horse, or that which, in the dream, assumes that form.

The girl is mine. She does not know it, of course, but she is owned, and it is I, her master, who own her. She has been bred for me, and for the bearing of my son, who will one day return to this place.

There are other aspects of the dream, but I cannot explain them to you. At the least it would be difficult. I think the words are lacking. Actually, it is the experiences which are lacking. Suppose one could add the sense of sight to one congenitally blind. What a new world would open for him. Now conceive, if only as an abstraction, for that is only how you can conceive it, and only how I could have conceived it earlier, before the dreams, what it might be if you were given, or discovered you possessed, new senses, if you, so to speak, for the first time opened your eyes and could see, or lifted your head, and could hear.

Doubtless old Duncan is daft. The things he says, the way he says them. We had a pint together. Interestingly, it seems he remembers my father, when he was here, long ago. We spoke of him for a time. It seems they had been friends, of a sort. “Gavin is foolish, he does not believe,” he said, rather pointlessly, I thought. I did not speak to him about his interview with the constable, which, from a distance, I had inadvertently observed. I suppose he had seen me, from the manner in which he had concluded his conversation, and went about his business. He made no mention of this to me, either. To be sure, this might have had nothing to do with me.