Curious Warnings - The Great Ghost Stories Of M.R. James (54 page)

“Yes, I can describe it if you wish it, sir. It was very much the same as this wall here in color [the wall had an earth-colored distemper] and it had a bit of a band tied round underneath. And the eyes, well they was dry-like, and much as if there was two big spiders’ bodies in the holes.

“Hair? No, I don’t know as there was much hair to be seen. The flannel-stuff was over the top of the ’ead. I’m very sure it warn’t what it should have been. No, I only see it in a flash, but I took it in like a photograft—wish I hadn’t.

“Yes, sir, it fell right over on to Mr. Potwitch’s shoulder, and this face hid in his neck—yes, sir, about where the injury was—more like a ferret going for a rabbit than anythink else. And he rolled over, and of course I tried to get in at the door. But as you know, sir, it were locked on the inside, and all I could do, I rung up everyone, and the surgeon come, and the police and you gentlemen, and you know as much as what I do.

“If you won’t be requirin’ me anymore today I’d be glad to be getting off home. It’s shook me up more than I thought for.”

“Well,” said one of the inspectors, when they were left alone.

And “Well?” said the other inspector. And, after a pause, “What’s the surgeon’s report again? You’ve got it there. Yes. Effect on the blood like the worst kind of snake-bite. Death almost instantaneous.

“I’m glad of that, for his sake. He was a nasty sight. No case for detaining this man Watkins, anyway. We know all about him. And what about this safe, now? We’d better go over it again. And, by the way, we haven’t opened that package he was busy with when he died.”

“Well, handle it careful,” said the other. “There might be this snake in it, for what you know. Get a light into the corners of the place, too. Well, there’s room for a shortish person to stand up in, but what about ventilation?”

“Perhaps,” said the other slowly, as he explored the safe with a flashlight, “perhaps they didn’t require much of that. My word! It strikes warm coming out of that place! Like a vault, it is.

“But here, what’s this bank-like of dust all spread out into the room? That must have come there since the door was opened. It would sweep it all away if you moved it—see? Now what do you make of that?”

“Make of it? About as much as I make of anything else in this case. One of London’s mysteries this is going to be, by what I can see. And I don’t believe a photographer’s box full of large-size old-fashioned prayer-books is going to take us much further. For that’s just what your package is.”

It was a natural but hasty utterance. The preceding narrative shows that there was, in fact, plenty of material for constructing a case. And when once Messrs. Davidson and Witham had brought their end to Scotland Yard, the join-up was soon made, and the circle completed.

To the relief of Mrs. Porter, the owners of Brockstone decided not to replace the books in the Chapel. They repose, I believe, in a safe-deposit in town.

The police have their own methods of keeping certain matters out of the newspapers. Otherwise it can hardly be supposed that Watkins’ evidence about Mr. Poschwitz’s death could have failed to furnish a good many headlines of a startling character to the press.

BEING MORE OR LESS OF A FAIRY TALE
CONTAINED IN A LETTER TO A YOUNG PERSON

My dear Jane,

You remember that you were puzzled when I told you I had heard something from the owls—or if not puzzled (for I know you have some experience of these things), you were at any rate anxious to know exactly how it happened. Perhaps the time has now come for you to be told.

It was really luck, and not any skill of mine, that put me in the way of it; luck, and also being ready to believe more than I could see. I have promised not to put down on paper the name of the wood where it happened: that can keep till we meet; but all the rest I can tell exactly as it came about.

It is a wood with a stream at the edge of it; the water is brown and clear. On the other side of it are flat meadows, and beyond these a hillside quite covered with an oak wood. The stream has alder-trees along it, and is pretty well shaded over; the sun hits it in places and makes flecks of light through the leaves.

The day I am thinking of was a very hot one in early September. I had come across the meadows with some idea of sitting by the stream and reading. The only change in my plans that I made was that instead of sitting down I lay down, and instead of reading I went to sleep.

You know how sometimes—but very, very seldom—you see something in a dream which you are quite sure is real. So it was with me this time. I did not dream any story or see any people; I only dreamt of a plant. In the dream no one told me anything about it. I just saw it growing under a tree: a small bit of the tree root came into the picture, an old gnarled root covered with moss, and with three sorts of eyes in it, round holes trimmed with moss—you know the kind.

The plant was not one I should have thought much about, though certainly it was not one that I knew: it had no flowers or berries, and grew quite squat in the ground; more like a yellow aconite without the flower than anything else. It seemed to consist of a ring of six leaves spread out pretty flat with nine points on each leaf. As I say, I saw this quite clearly, and remembered it because six times nine makes fifty-four, which happens to be a number which I had a particular reason for remembering at that moment.

Well, there was no more in the dream than that: but, such as it was, it fixed itself in my mind like a photograph, and I was sure that if ever I saw that tree root and that plant, I should know them again. And, though I neither saw nor heard anything more of them than I have told you, it was borne in upon my mind that the plant
was
worth finding.

When I woke up I still lay, feeling very lazy, on the grass with my head within a foot or two of the edge of the stream and listened to its noise, until in five or six minutes—whether I began to doze off again or not does not much matter—the water-sound became like words, and said, “
Trickle-up, trickle-up
,” an immense number of times.

It pleased me, for though in poetry we hear a deal about babbling brooks, and though I am particularly fond of the noise they make, I never was able before to pretend that I could hear any words.

And when I did finally get up and shake myself awake I thought I would anyhow pay so much attention to what the water said as to stroll up the stream instead of down.

So I did: it took me through the flat meadows, but still along the edge of the wood, and still every now and then I heard the same peculiar noise which sounded like
Trickle-up
.

Not so very long after, I came to a place where another stream ran out of
the wood into the one I had been following, and just below the place where the two joined there was—not a bridge, but a pole across, and another pole to serve as a rail, by which you could cross, without trouble.

I did cross, not thinking much about it, but with some idea of looking at this new little stream, which went at a very quick pace and seemed to promise small rapids and waterfalls a little higher up.

Now when I got to the edge of it, there was no mistake: it was saying “
Trickle-up
,” or even “
Track-up
,” much plainer than the old one. I stepped across it and went a few yards up the old stream. Before the new one joined it, it was saying nothing of the kind. I went back to the new one: it was talking as plain as print.

Of course there were no two words about what must be done now. Here was something quite new, and even if I missed my tea, it had to be looked into. So I went up the new stream into the wood.

Though I was well on the look-out for unusual things—in particular the plant, which I could not help thinking about—I cannot say there was anything peculiar about the stream or the plants or the insects or the trees (except the words which the water kept saying) so long as I was in the flat part of the wood.

But soon I came to a steepish bank—the land began to slope up suddenly and the rapids and waterfalls of the brook were very gay and interesting. Then, besides
Track-up
, which was now its word always instead of
Trickle
, I heard every now and then
All right
, which was encouraging and exciting. Still, there was nothing out of the way to be seen, look as I might.

The climb up the slope or bank was fairly long. At the top was a kind of terrace, pretty level and with large old trees growing upon it, mainly oaks. Behind there was a further slope up and still more woodland: but that does not matter now.

For the present I was at the end of my wanderings. There was no more stream, and I had found what of all natural things I think pleases me best, a real spring of water quite untouched.

Five or six oaks grew in something like a semicircle, and in the middle of the flat ground in front of them was an almost perfectly round pool, not more than four or five feet across. The bottom of it in the middle was pale sand which was continually rising up in little egg-shaped mounds and falling
down again. It was the clearest and strongest spring of the kind I had ever seen, and I could have watched it for hours.

I did sit down by it and watch it for some time without thinking of anything but the luck I had had to find it. But then I began to wonder if it would say anything. Naturally I could not expect it to say “
Track-up
” anymore, for here I was at the end of it. So I listened with some curiosity.

It hardly made so much noise as the stream: the pool was deeper. But I thought it must say something, and I put my head down as close as I could to the surface of the water. If I am not mistaken (and as things turned out I am sure I was right) the words were:
Gather gather, pick pick
, or
quick quick
.

Now I had not been thinking about the plant for a little time; but, as you may suppose, this brought it back to my mind and I got up and began to look about at the roots of the old oaks which grew just around the spring. No, none of the roots on this side which faced toward the water were like that which I had seen—still, the feeling was strong upon me that this, if any, was the kind of place, and even the very place, where the plant must be.

So I walked to the back of the trees, being careful to go from right to left, according to the course of the sun.

Well, I was not mistaken. At the back of the middlemost oak-tree there were the roots I had dreamt of with the moss and the holes like eyes, and between them was the plant. I think the only thing which was new to me in the look of it was that it was so extraordinarily
green
. It seemed to have in it all the greenness that was possible or that would be wanted for a whole field of grass.

I had some scruples about touching it. In fact, I actually went back to the spring and listened, to make sure that it was still saying the same thing. Yes, it was: “
Gather gather, pick
.” But there was something else every now and then which I could
not
for the life of me make out at first.

I lay down, put my hand around my ear and held my breath. It might have been
bark tree
or
dark tree
or
cask free
. I got impatient at last and said:

“Well, I’m very sorry, but do what I will I
cannot
make out what you are trying to say.”

Instantly a little spurt of water hit me on the ear, and I heard, as clear as possible, what it was: “
Ask tree
.”

I got up at once. “I
beg
your pardon,” I said, “of course. Thank you very much.”

And the water went on saying “
Gather gather, all right, dip dip
.”

After thinking how best to greet it, I went back to the oak, stood in front of it and said (of course baring my head):

“Oak, I humbly desire your good leave to gather the green plant which grows between your roots. If an acorn falls into this my right hand” (which I held out) “I will count it that you answer yes—and give you thanks.”

The acorn fell straight into the palm of my hand. I said, “I thank you, Oak: good growth to you. I will lay this your acorn in the place whence I gather the plant.”