The Bram Stoker Megapack (87 page)

The Shadow Builder, as he sees all this happen in the shadows on the clouds, and land, and sea, rejoices in his dead heart that the lonely mother perhaps will not wait in vain.

So time wears on, and many, many weary days pass. The Boy becomes a young Man, living in the lonely island; his beard has grown, and he is clothed in a dress of leaves. All day long, save when he is not working to get food to eat, he watches from the mountain top for a ship to come. As he stands looking out over the sea, the sun casts his shadow down the hillside, so that at evening, as it sinks low in the waters, the shadow of the lonely Sailor grows longer and longer, till at the last it makes a dark streak down the hill side, even to the water’s edge.

The lonely Man’s heart grows heavier and heavier as he waits and watches, whilst the weary time passes and the countless days and nights come and go.

Time comes when he begins to get feebler and feebler. At last he grows sick to death, and lingers long a-dying.

Then these shadows pass away.

Out from the Threshold grows the shadow of an old woman, thin and worn, sitting in a lonely cottage on a jutting cliff. In the window a lamp burns in the night time to welcome the Lost One should he ever return, and to guide him to his Mother’s home. By the lamp the Mother watches, till, wearied out, she sinks to sleep.

As she sleeps the Shadow Builder summons her sleeping soul with the wave of his spectral hand.

She stands beside him in the lonely abode, whilst round them through the misty walls passes onward the Procession of the Dead Past.

As she looks, the Shadow Builder lifts his spectral hand to point to the vision of her Son.

But the Mother’s eyes are quicker than even the spectral hand that evokes all the shadows of the rushing storm, and ere the hand is raised she sees her Son among the Shadows of the Past. The Mother’s heart is filled with unspeakable joy, as she sees him alive and hale, although a prisoner amongst the tropic seas.

But alas! she knows not that in the dim Procession pass only the things that have been; and that although in the past the lonely Sailor lived, in the present—even at the moment—he may be dying or dead.

The Mother stretches out her arms to her Boy; but even as she does, her sleeping soul loses sight of the dim Procession and vanishes from the Shadow Builder’s lonely abode. For when she knows that her Boy is alive, there follows a great pain that he is lonely and waits and watches for help; and the quick heart of the Mother is overcome with grief, and she wakes with a bitter cry.

Then as she rises and looks past the dying lamp out into the dawn, the Mother feels that she has seen a vision of her son in sleep, and that he lives and waits for help; and her heart glows with a great resolve.

Quickly then from the Threshold float many shadows.—

A lonely Mother speeding with flying feet to a distant city.

Grave men refusing, but not unkindly, a kneeling woman making an appeal with uplifted hands.

Hard men spurning a praying Mother from their doors.

A wild rabble of bad and thoughtless boys and girls hounding through the streets a hurrying woman.

A shadow of pain on a Mother’s heart.

The upcoming of a black cloud of despair, but which hangs far off—for it cannot advance into the bright sunlight of the Mother’s resolve.

Weary days with their own myriad shadows.

Lonely nights—black want—cold—hunger and pain; and through all these darkening shadows the swift moving shadow of the Mother’s flying feet.

A long long line of such pictures come ever anigh in the Procession, till the dead heart of the Shadow Builder grows icy, and his burning eyes look out savagely on all who give pain and trial to the Mother’s faithful heart.

And so all these shadows float out into a black mist, and are lost in the gloom of the Gate of Dread.

Another shadow grows out of the mist.—

An Old Man sits in his armchair. The firelight flickering throws his image, quaintly dancing, on the wall of the room. He is old, for the great shoulders are bowed, and the grand strong face is lined with years. There is another shadow in the room; it is the Mother’s—she is standing by the table, and is telling her story; her thin hands point away where in the distance she knows her Son is a prisoner in the lonely seas.

The Old Man rises; the enthusiasm of the Mother’s heart has touched him, and back to his memory rush the old love and energy and valour of his youth. The great hand rises, closes, and strikes the table with a mighty blow, as though declaring a binding promise. The Mother sinks to her knees,—she seizes the great hand and kisses it, and stands erect.

Other men come in—they receive orders—they hurry out.

Then come many shadows whose movement and swiftness and firm purpose mean life and hope.

At sunset, when the masts make long shadows on the harbour water, a big ship moves out on her journey to the tropic seas. Men’s shadows quickly flit up and down the rigging and along the decks.

As the shadows wheel round the capstan bar the anchor rises; and into the sunset passes the great vessel.

In the bow, like a figure of Hope, stands the Mother, gazing with eager eyes on the far-off horizon.

Then this shadow fades.

A great ship sweeps along with white sails swelling to the breeze; at the bow stands the Mother, gazing ever out into the distance before her.

Storms come and the ship flies before the blast; but she swerves not, for the Mother, with outstretched hand, points the way, and the helmsman swaying beside his wheel obeys the hand.

So this shadow also passes.

The shadows of days and nights come on in quick succession; and the Mother seeks ever for her Son.

So the records of the prosperous journey melt into a faint, dim, misty shadow through which one figure alone stands clear—the watching Mother at the vessel’s prow.

Now from the Threshold grow the shadows of the mountain island and of the ship drawing nigh. In the prow the Mother kneels, looking out and pointing. A boat is lowered. Men spring on board with eager feet; but before them all is the Mother. The boat nears the island; the water shallows, and on the hot white beach the men spring to land.

But in the boat’s prow still the Mother sits. In her long anxious hours of agony she has seen in her dreams her Son standing afar off and watching; she has seen him wave his arms with a great joy as the ship rises over the horizon’s edge; she has seen him standing on the beach waiting; she has seen him rushing through the surf so that the first thing that the lonely Sailor Boy should touch would be his Mother’s loving hands.

But alas! for her dreams. No figure with joyous waving arms stands on the summit of the mountain—no eager figure stands at the water’s edge or dashes to meet her through the surf. Her heart grows cold and chill with fear.

Has she indeed come too late?

The men leave the boat, comforting her as they go with shakings of the hand and kindly touches upon the shoulder. She motions them to haste and remains kneeling.

The time goes on. The men ascend the mountain; they search, but they find not the lost Sailor Boy, and with slow, halting feet they return to the boat.

The Mother hears them coming afar and rises to meet them. They hang their heads. The Mother’s arms go up, tossed aloft in the anguish of despair, and she sinks swooning in the boat.

The Shadow Builder in an instant summons her spirit from her senseless clay, and points to a figure passing, without movement, in the Procession of the Dead Past.

Then quicker than light the Mother’s soul flies back full of new-found joy.

She rises from the boat—she springs to land. The men follow wondering.

She rushes along the shore with flying feet; the sailors come close behind.

She stops opposite the entrance to a cave obscured with trailing brambles. Here, without turning, she motions to the men to wait. They pause and she passes within.

For a few moments grim darkness pours from the threshold; and then one sad, sad vision grows and passes.—

A dim, dark cave—a worn man lying prone, and a Mother in anguish bending over the cold clay. On the icy breast she lays her hand; but alas! she cannot feel the beat of the heart she loves.

With a wild, heart-stricken gesture, she flings herself upon the body of her Son and holds it close, close—as though the clasp of a Mother were stronger than the grasp of Death.

The dead heart of the Shadow Builder is alive with pain as he turns away from the sad picture, and with anxious eyes looks where from behind the Gate of Dread, the Mother and Child must come to join the ever-swelling ranks of the Procession of the Dead Past.

Slowly, slowly comes the shadow of the clay cold Mariner passing on.

But swifter than light come the Mother’s flying feet. The arms so strong with love are stretched out—the thin hands grasp the passing shadow of her Son and tear him back beyond the Gate of Dread—to life—and liberty—and love.

The lonely Shadow Builder knows now that the Mother’s arms are stronger than the grasp of Death.

HOW 7 WENT MAD

On the bank of the river that flows through the Land there stands a beautiful palace, where one of the great men dwells.

The bank rises steep from the rushing water; and the great trees growing on the slope rise so high that their branches wave level with the palace turrets. It is a beautiful spot, where the grass is crisp and short and close like velvet, and as green as emerald. There the daisies shine like stars that have fallen, and lie scattered over the sward.

Many children have lived and grown to be men and women in the old palace, and they have had many pets. Amongst their pets have been many birds—for birds of all kinds love the place. In one corner is a spot which is called the Birds’ Burying Ground. Here all the pets are laid when they die; and the grass grows greenly here, and many flowers spring up among the monuments.

One of the boys that had here dwelt had once, as a pet, a raven. He found the bird, whose leg had been wounded, and took it home and nursed it till it grew well again; but the poor thing was lame.

Tineboy was the youth’s name; and the bird was called Mr. Daw. As you may imagine, the raven loved the boy and never left him. There was a cage for it in his bedroom, and there the bird went every night to roost when the sun went down. Birds go to bed quite regularly of their own accord; and if you wished to punish a bird you would make him get up. Birds are not like boys and girls. Just fancy punishing boys or girls by not letting them go to bed at sunset, or by preventing them getting up very early in the morning.

Well, when morning came this bird would get up and stretch himself, and wink his eyes, and give a good shake all over, and then feel quite awake and ready to begin the day.

A bird has a much easier time of it in getting up than a boy or a girl. Soap cannot get into its eye; or the comb will not stick in knots of hair, and its shoe-laces never get into black knots. This is because it does not use soap, or combs, or shoe-laces; if it did, perhaps it also would suffer.

When Mr. Daw had quite finished his own dressing, he would hop on the bed and try and wake his master and make him get up; but of the two to wake him was the easier task. When the boy went to school the bird would fly along the road beside him, and would sit near on a tree till school was over, and then would follow him home again in the same way.

Tineboy was very fond of Mr. Daw and he used sometimes to try to make him come into the schoolroom during school-hours. But the bird was very wise, and would not.

One day Tineboy was at his sums, and instead of attending to what he was doing, he kept trying to make Mr. Daw come in. The sum was “multiply 117,649 by 7.” Tineboy and Mr. Daw kept looking at one another. Tineboy made signals to the bird to come in. Mr. Daw, however, would not stir; he sat outside in the shade, for the day was very hot, and put his head on one side and looked in knowingly.

“Come in, Mr. Daw,” said Tineboy, “and help me to do this sum.’’ Mr. Daw only croaked.

“Seven times nine are seventy-seven, seven times nine are seventy-nine—no ninety-seven. Oh, I don’t know—I wish number 7 had never been invented,” said Tineboy.

“Croak;” said Mr. Daw.

The day was very hot and Tineboy was very sleepy. He thought that perhaps he would be able to do the sum better if he rested a little while, just to think; and so he put his head down on the table. He was not quite comfortable, for his forehead was on the 7, at least he thought it was; so he shifted it till it hung right down over the edge of the desk. Then, after a while, somehow, very queer things began to happen.

The Teacher was just going to tell them a story.

The scholars had all settled themselves down to listen; the Raven sat on the sill of the open window, put his head on one side, closed one eye—the eye nearest the school-room—so that they might think him asleep, and listened away harder than any of them.

The pupils were all happy—all except three. One because his leg went to sleep; another because she had her pocket full of curds and wanted to eat them, and couldn’t without being found out, and the curds were melting away; and the third, who was awfully sleepy, and awfully anxious to hear the story, and couldn’t do either because of the other.

The schoolmaster then began his story.

HOW POOR 7 WENT MAD

“The Alphabet Doctor—”

Here he was interrupted by Tineboy, who said—

“What is an Alphabet Doctor?”

“An Alphabet Doctor,” said the schoolmaster, “is the doctor who attends to the sicknesses and diseases of the letters of the Alphabet.”

“How have Alphabets diseases and sicknesses?” asked Tineboy.

“Oh, they have plenty. Do you never make a crooked o or a capital A with a lame leg, or a T that is not straight in its back?”

There was a chorus from all the class, “He does. He does often.” Ruffin, the biggest boy, said after all the others, “Very often. In fact always.”

“Very well, then there must be some one to put them straight again, must there not?”

None of the children could say that there was not. Tineboy alone was heard to mutter to himself, “I don’t believe it.”

The schoolmaster began again—

“The Alphabet Doctor was sitting down to his tea. He was very tired, for he had been out attending cases all day.”

Tineboy again interrupted, “What cases?”

“I can tell you. He had to put in an i which had been omitted, and to alter the leg of an R which had been twisted into a B.

“Well, just as he was beginning his tea a hurried knock came to the door. He went to the door, opened it, and a groom rushed into the room, breathless with running, and said—

“’Oh, Doctor, do come quick; there is a frightful calamity down at our place.’”

“’What is our place?’ said the doctor.”

“’Oh, you know. The Number Stables.’”

“What are the Number Stables?” said Tineboy, again interrupting.

“The Number Stables,” said the Teacher, “are the stables where the numbers are kept.”

“Why are they kept in stables?” said Tineboy.

“Because they go so fast.”

“How do they go fast?”

“You take a sum and work it and you will see at once. Or look at your multiplication table; it starts with twice one are two, and before you get down the page you are at twelve times twelve. Is that not fast going?”

“Well, they have to keep the numbers in sables, or else they would run away altogether and never be heard of again. At the end of the day they all come home and change their shoes, and get tied up and have their supper.”

“The Groom from the Number Stables was very impatient.”

“’What is wrong?’ said the Doctor.”

“’Oh, poor 7, sir.’”

“’What of him?’”

“’He is mortal bad. We don’t think he’ll ever get through it.’”

“’Through what?’ said the Doctor.”

“’Come and see,’ said the Groom.”

“The Doctor hurried away, taking the lantern with him, for the night was dark, and soon got to the Stables.”

“As he got close there was a very curious sound heard—a sound of gasping and choking, and yelling and coughing, and laughing, and a wild, unearthly screech all in one.”

“’Oh, do come quick!’ said the Groom.”

“When the Doctor entered the stables there was poor No. 7 with all the neighbours round him, and he was in a very bad way. He was foaming at the mouth and apparently quite mad. The Nurse from the Grammar Village was holding him by the hand, trying to bleed him. All the neighbours were wringing either their hands or their necks, or were helping to hold him. The Footsmith,—the man,” explained the teacher, seeing from the look on Tineboy’s face that he was going to ask a question, “the man who puts the feet on the letters and numbers to make them able to stand upright without wearing out,—was holding down the poor demented nuummbeer.”

“The Nurse, trying to quiet him, said:”

“’There now, there now, deary—don’t go and make a noise. Here comes the good Alphabet Doctor, who will make you unmad.’”

“’I won’t be made unmad,’ said 7, loudly.”

“’But, my good sir,’ said the Doctor, ‘this cannot go on. You surely are not mad enough to insist on being mad?’”

“’Yes, I am,’ said 7, loudly.”

“’Then,’ said the Doctor blandly, ‘if you are mad enough to insist on being mad, we must try to cure your madness or being mad, and then you will be unmad enough to wish to be unmad, and we will cure that too.’”

“I don’t understand that,’’ said Tineboy.

“Hush!” said the class.

“The Doctor took out his stethoscope, and his telescope, and his microscope, and his horoscope, and began to use them on poor mad 7.”

“First he put the stethoscope to the sole of his foot, and began to talk into it.”

“’That is not the way to use that,’ said the Nurse; ‘you ought to put it to his chest and listen to it.’”

“’Not at all, my dear madam,’ said the bland Doctor, ‘that is the way with sane people; but, of course, when one is insane, the fact of the disease necessitates an opposite method of treatment.’ Then he took the telescope and looked at him to see how near he was, and the microscope to look how small; and then he drew his horoscope.”

“Why did he draw it?” said Tineboy.

“Because, my dear child,” said the Teacher, “do you not see that by right a horoscope is cast; but as the poor man was mad the horoscope had to be drawn.”

“What is a horrorscope?” said Tineboy.

“It is not horrorscope, my child; it is horoscope—a very different thing.”

“Well, what is horoscope?”

“Look in your dictionary, my dear child,” said the Teacher.

“Well, when the doctor had used all the instruments, he said, ‘I use all these in order to find the scope of the disease. I shall now proceed to find the cause. In the first instance, I shall interrogate the patient.’”

“’Now, my good sir, why do you insist on being mad?’”

“’Because I choose.’”

“’Oh, my dear sir, that is not a polite answer. Why do you choose?’”

“’I can’t say why,’ said 7 ‘unless I make a speech.’”

“’Well, make a speech.’”

“’I can’t speak till I am set free; how can I make a speech with all these people holding me?’”

“’We are afraid to let you go,’ said the Nurse, ‘you will run away.’”

“’I will not.’”

“’You promise that?’ said the doctor.”

“’I promise,’ said 7.”

“’Let him go,’ said the Doctor, and accordingly they put a piece of carpet under him, and the Footsmith sat on his head, the way they do when horses fall down in the street. Then they all got clear away, and the Footsmith got away too; and after a long struggle 7 got to his feet.”

“’Now make the speech,’ said the Doctor.”

“’I can’t begin,’ said 7, ‘till I get a glass of water on a table. Who ever heard of any one making a speech without a glass of water!’”

“So they brought a glass of water.”

“’Ladies and Gentlemen—’ began 7, and then stopped.”

“’What are you waiting for?’ said the Doctor.”

“’For the applause, of course,’ said 7. ‘Who ever heard of a speech without applause?’”

“They all applauded.”

“’I am mad,’ said 7, ‘because I choose to be mad; and I never shall, will, might, could, should, would, or ought to be anything but mad. The treatment that I get is enough to make me mad.’”

“’Dear me, dear me!’ said the Doctor. ‘What treatment?’”

“’Morning, noon, and night am I treated worse than any slave. There is not in the whole range of learning any one thing that has so much to bear as I have. I work hard all the time. I never grumble. I am often a multiple; often a multiplicand. I am willing to bear my share of being a result, but I cannot stand the treatment I get. I am wrong added, wrong divided, wrong subtracted, and wrong multiplied. Other numbers are not treated as I am; and, besides, they are not orphans like me.’”

“’Orphans?’ asked the Doctor; ‘what do you mean?’”

“’I mean that the other numbers have lots of relations. But I have neither kith nor kin except old Number l, and he does not count for much; and, besides, I am only his great-great-great-great-grandson.’”

“’How do you mean?’ asked the Doctor.”

“’Oh, he is an old chap that is there all the time. He has all his children round him, and I only come six generations down.’”

“’Humph!’ said the doctor.”

“’Number 2,’ went on 7, ‘never gets into any trouble, and 4, 6, and 8 are his cousins. Number 3 is close to 6 and 9. No. 5 is half a decimal and he never gets into trouble. But as for me, I am miserable, ill-treated, and alone.’ Here poor 7 began to cry, and bending down his head sobbed bitterly.’’

When the Teacher got thus far there was an Interruption, for here little Tineboy began to cry too.

“Why are you crying?” said Ruffin, the bully boy.

“I am not crying,” said Tineboy, and he cried away faster than ever.

The Teacher went on with the story.

“The Alphabet Doctor tried to cheer poor 7.”

“’Hear, hear!’ said he.”

“7 stopped crying and looked at him. ‘No,’ said he, ‘you should say “speak, speak,” it is I that should say “hear, hear.”’”

“’Certainly,’ said the Doctor, ‘you would say that if you were sane; but then, you see, you are not sane, and being mad you say what you should not say.’”

“’That is false,’ said 7.”

“’I understand,’ said the Doctor, ‘but do not stop to argue the point. If you were sane you would say “that is true,” but you do say “that is false,” meaning that you agree with me.’”

“7 looked pleased at being so understood.

“’No,’ said he—meaning ‘yes.’”

“’Then,’ continued the Doctor, ‘if you say “speak, speak,” when a sane man would say “hear, hear,” of course, I should say “hear, hear,” when I mean “speak, speak,” because I am talking to a madman.’”

“’No, no,’ said 7—meaning, ‘yes, yes.’”

“’Go on with your speech,’ said the Doctor.”

“’No 7 took out his handkerchief and wept.”

“’Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he went on, ‘once more I must plead the cause of the poor ill-used number—that is me—this orphan number—this number without kin—’”

Here Tineboy interrupted the Teacher, “How had he no skin?”

“Kin, my child. Kin, not skin,” said the Teacher.

“What is the difference between kin and skin?” asked Tineboy.

“There will be but a small difference,” said the Teacher, “between this cane and your skin if you interrupt.” So Tineboy was quiet.

“Well,” said the teacher, “poor 7 went on—’I implore your pity for this forlorn number. Oh, you boys and girls, think of a poor desolate number, who has no home, no friends, no father, mother, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, nephew, niece, son, daughter, or cousin, and is desolate and alone.’”

Tineboy here set up a terrible howl.

“What are you crying for?” said the Teacher.

“I want poor old 7 to be more happy. I will give him some of my lunch and a share of my bed.”

The Teacher turned to the Monitor.

“Tineboy is a good child,” he said, “let him for the next week learn 7 times 0 up, and perhaps that will comfort him.”

The Raven, sitting in the window, winked his eye to himself and hopped about with a suppressed merry croak, shook his wings, and seemed hugging himself and laughing. Then he hopped softly away, and stole up and hid on the top of the book-case.

The Schoolmaster went on with his story.

“Well, children, after a while poor 7 got better and promised that he would get unmad. Before the Doctor went home again all the Alphabet and Number Children came and shook poor Number 7’s hand, and promised that they would be more kind to him in future.”

“Now, children, what do you think of the story?”

They all said that they liked it, that it was beautiful, and that they too would try to be more kind to poor 7 for the future. At last Ruffin the bully boy said:

“I don’t believe it. And if it is true I wish he had died; we would be better without him.”

“Would we?” asked the teacher, “how?”

“Because we would not be troubled with him,” said Ruffin.

As he said it there was a sort of queer croak heard from the Raven, but nobody minded, except Tineboy, who said:—

“Mr. Daw, you and I love poor 7, at all events.”

The Raven hated Ruffin because he always threw stones at him, and he had tried to pull the feathers out of his tail, and when Ruffin spoke, his croak seemed to mean, ‘’Just you wait.” When no one was looking Mr. Daw stole up and hid in the rafters.

Then presently school broke up, and Tineboy went home; but he was not able to find Mr. Daw. He thought he was lost, and was very miserable, and went to bed crying.

In the meantime, when the school was locked up empty, Mr. Daw came down from the rafters very, very quietly—hobbled over to the door, and putting his head down, listened; then he flew and scrambled up on the handle of the door, and looked out through the keyhole. There was nothing to see and nothing to hear.

Then he got up on the Master’s desk, flapped his wings, and began to crow like a cock, only very softly, for fear he should be heard.

Presently he went over all the room, flying up to the big sheets of multiplication table, and turning over the pages of the books with his claws, and picking up SOMETHING with his sharp beak.

One would hardly believe it, but he was stealing all the Number Sevens in the place; he picked the Seven off the clock, rubbed it off the slates, and brushed it with his wings off the blackboard.

Mr. Daw knew that if once you can get the whole of any number out of a schoolroom no one else can use it without asking your leave.

Whilst he was picking out all the Sevens he was swelling out very much; and when he had got them all he was exactly Seven times his natural size.

He was not able to do this all at once. It took him the whole night, and when he got back to his corner in the rafters it was nearly time for school to open.

He was now so big that he was only just able to squeeze into the corner and no more.

The school time came, but there was no Master, and there were no Scholars. A whole hour passed; and then the Master came, and the Ushers, and all the Boys and Girls.

When they were all in the Master said—

“You are all very late.”

“Please, sir, we could not help it,” they all answered together.

“Why could you not help it?”

They all answered at once—

“I wasn’t called in time.”

“What time are you called at every morning?”

They all seemed about to speak, but all were silent.