Read Ebook: Fires - Book 1: The Stone and Other Tales by Gibson Wilfrid Wilson

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Next night, as I pushed in, there was no tinkle: And, glancing up, I saw the bell was gone; Although, in either window, the gas shone; And I was greeted by a cheery twinkle Of burnished tins and bottles from the shelves: And now, I saw the father busy there Behind the counter, cutting with a string A bar of soap up for a customer, With weary eyes, and jerky, harassed air, As if his mind were hardly on the task: And when 'twas done, and parcelled up for her, And she had gone; he turned to me, and said: He thought that folks might cut their soap themselves. 'Twas nothing much ... but any little thing, At such a time ... And, having little doubt The boy was worse, I did not like to ask; So picked my paper up, and hurried out.

And, all next day, amid the glare and clang And clatter of the workshop, his words rang; And kept on ringing, in my head a-ring; But any little thing ... at such a time... And kept on chiming to the anvils' chime: But any little thing ... at such a time... And they were hissed and sputtered in the sizzle Of water on hot iron: little thing... At such a time: and, when I left, at last, The smoke and steam; and walked through the cold drizzle, The lumbering of the 'buses as they passed Seemed full of it; and to the passing feet, The words kept patter, patter, with dull beat.

I almost feared to turn into their street, Lest I should find the blinds down in the shop: And, more than once, I'd half-a-mind to stop, And buy my paper from the yelling boys, Who darted all about with such a noise That I half-wondered, in a foolish way, How they could shriek so, knowing that the sound Must worry children, lying ill in bed... Then, thinking even they must earn their bread, As I earned mine, and scarce as noisily! I wandered on; and very soon I found I'd followed where my thoughts had been all day. And stood before the shop, relieved to see The gases burning, and no window-blind Of blank foreboding. With an easier mind, I entered slowly; and was glad to find The father by the counter, 'waiting me, With paper ready and a cheery face. Yes! yes! the boy was better ... took the turn, Last night, just after I had left the place. He feared that he'd been short and cross last night. But, when a little child was suffering, It worried you ... and any little thing, At such a moment, made you cut up rough: Though, now that he was going on all right... Well, he'd have patience, now, to be polite! And, soon as ever he was well enough, The boy should go to Cornwall for a change-- Should go to his own home; for he, himself, Was Cornish, born and bred, his wife as well: And still his parents lived in the old place-- A little place, as snug as snug could be... Where apple-blossom dipped into the sea... Perhaps, to strangers' ears, that sounded strange-- But not to any Cornishman who knew How sea and land ran up into each other; And how, all round each wide, blue estuary, The flowers were blooming to the waters' edge: You'd come on blue-bells like a sea of blue... But they would not be out for some while yet... 'Twould be primroses, blowing everywhere, Primroses, and primroses, and primroses... You'd never half-know what primroses were, Unless you'd seen them growing in the West; But, having seen, would never more forget. Why, every bank, and every lane and hedge Was just one blaze of yellow; and the smell, When the sun shone upon them, after wet... And his eyes sparkled, as he turned to sell A penny loaf and half-an-ounce of tea To a poor child, who waited patiently, With hacking cough that tore her hollow chest: And, as she went out, clutching tight the change, He muttered to himself: It's strange, it's strange That little ones should suffer so.... The light Had left his eyes: but, when he turned to me, I saw a flame leap in them, hot and bright. I'd like to take them all, he said, to-night!

And, in the workshop, all through the next day, The anvils had another tune to play... Primroses, and primroses, and primroses: The bellows puffing out: It's strange, it's strange That little ones should suffer so... And now, my hammer, at a blow: I'd like to take them all, to-night! And, in the clouds of steam, and white-hot glow, I seemed to see primroses everywhere, Primroses, and primroses, and primroses.

And, each night after that, I heard the boy Was mending quickly; and would soon be well: Till one night I was startled by the bell: Tin-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, loud and clear; And tried to hush it, lest the lad should hear. But, when the father saw me clutch the thing, He said, the boy had missed it yesterday; And wondered why he could not hear it ring; And wanted it; and had to have his way. And then, with brown eyes burning with deep joy, He told me, that his son was going West-- Was going home ... the doctor thought, next week, He'd be quite well enough: the way was long; But trains were quick; and he would soon be there And on the journey he'd have every care, His mother being with him ... it was best, That she should go: for he would find it strange, The little chap, at first ... she needed change... And, when they'd had a whiff of Western air! 'Twould cost a deal; and there was naught to spare But, what was money, if you hadn't health: And, what more could you buy, if you'd the wealth... Yes! 'twould be lonely for himself, and rough; Though, on the whole, he'd manage well enough: He'd have a lot to do: and there was naught Like work to keep folk cheerful: when the hand Was busy, you had little time for thought; And thinking was the mischief ... and 'twas grand To know that they'd be happy. Then the bell Went tinkle-tinkle; and he turned to sell.

One night he greeted me with face that shone, Although the eyes were wistful; they were gone-- Had gone this morning, he was glad to say: And, though 'twas sore work, setting them away, Still, 'twas the best for them ... and they would be Already in the cottage by the sea... He spoke no more of them; but turned his head; And said he wondered if the price of bread... And, as I went again into the night, I saw his eyes were glistening in the light.

And, two nights after that, he'd got a letter: And all was well: the boy was keeping better; And was as happy as a child could be, All day with the primroses and the sea, And pigs! Of all the wonders of the West, His mother wrote, he liked the pigs the best. And now the father laughed until the tears Were in his eyes, and chuckled: Aye! he knew! Had he not been a boy there once, himself? He'd liked pigs, too, when he was his son's years. And then, he reached a half-loaf from the shelf; And twisted up a farthing's worth of tea, And farthing's worth of sugar, for the child, The same poor child who waited patiently, Still shaken by a hacking, racking cough.

And, all next day, the anvils rang with jigs: The bellows roared and rumbled with loud laughter, Until it seemed the workshop had gone wild, And it would echo, echo, ever after The tune the hammers tinkled on and off, A silly tune of primroses and pigs... Of all the wonders of the West He liked the pigs, he liked the pigs the best!

Next night, as I went in, I caught A strange, fresh smell. The postman had just brought A precious box from Cornwall, and the shop Was lit with primroses, that lay atop A Cornish pasty, and a pot of cream: And, as, with gentle hands, the father lifted The flowers his little son had plucked for him, He stood a moment in a far-off dream, As though in glad remembrances he drifted On Western seas: and, as his eyes grew dim, He stooped, and buried them in deep, sweet bloom Till, hearing, once again, the poor child's cough, He served her hurriedly, and sent her off, Quite happily, with thin hands filled with flowers. And, as I followed to the street, the gloom Was starred with primroses; and many hours The strange, shy flickering surprise Of that child's keen, enchanted eyes Lit up my heart, and brightened my dull room.

Then, many nights the foundry kept me late With overtime; and I was much too tired To go round by the shop; but made for bed As straight as I could go: until one night We'd left off earlier, though 'twas after eight, I thought I'd like some news about the boy. I found the shop untended; and the bell Tin-tinkle-tinkle-tinkled all in vain. And then I saw, through the half-curtained pane, The back-room was a very blaze of joy: And knew the mother and son had come safe back. And, as I slipped away, now all was well, I heard the boy shriek out, in shrill delight: "And, father, all the little pigs were black!"

FLANNAN ISLE

"Though three men dwell on Flannan Isle To keep the lamp alight, As we steered under the lee, we caught No glimmer through the night."

A passing ship at dawn had brought The news; and quickly we set sail, To find out what strange thing might ail The keepers of the deep-sea light.

The Winter day broke blue and bright, With glancing sun and glancing spray, As o'er the swell our boat made way, As gallant as a gull in flight.

But, as we neared the lonely Isle; And looked up at the naked height; And saw the lighthouse towering white, With blinded lantern, that all night Had never shot a spark Of comfort through the dark, So ghostly in the cold sunlight It seemed, that we were struck the while With wonder all too dread for words.

And, as into the tiny creek We stole beneath the hanging crag, We saw three queer, black, ugly birds-- Too big, by far, in my belief, For guillemot or shag-- Like seamen sitting bolt-upright Upon a half-tide reef: But, as we neared, they plunged from sight, Without a sound, or spurt of white.

And still too mazed to speak, We landed; and made fast the boat; And climbed the track in single file, Each wishing he was safe afloat, On any sea, however far, So it be far from Flannan Isle: And still we seemed to climb, and climb, As though we'd lost all count of time, And so must climb for evermore. Yet, all too soon, we reached the door-- The black, sun-blistered lighthouse-door, That gaped for us ajar.

As, on the threshold, for a spell, We paused, we seemed to breathe the smell Of limewash and of tar, Familiar as our daily breath, As though 'twere some strange scent of death And so, yet wondering, side by side, We stood a moment, still tongue-tied: And each with black foreboding eyed The door, ere we should fling it wide, To leave the sunlight for the gloom: Till, plucking courage up, at last, Hard on each other's heels we passed, Into the living-room.

Yet, as we crowded through the door, We only saw a table, spread For dinner, meat and cheese and bread; But, all untouched; and no one there: As though, when they sat down to eat, Ere they could even taste, Alarm had come; and they in haste Had risen and left the bread and meat: For at the table-head a chair Lay tumbled on the floor.

We listened; but we only heard The feeble cheeping of a bird That starved upon its perch: And, listening still, without a word, We set about our hopeless search.

We hunted high, we hunted low; And soon ransacked the empty house; Then o'er the Island, to and fro, We ranged, to listen and to look In every cranny, cleft or nook That might have hid a bird or mouse: But, though we searched from shore to shore, We found no sign in any place: And soon again stood face to face Before the gaping door: And stole into the room once more As frightened children steal.

Aye: though we hunted high and low, And hunted everywhere, Of the three men's fate we found no trace Of any kind in any place, But a door ajar, and an untouched meal, And an overtoppled chair.

Like curs, a glance has brought to heel, We listened, flinching there: And looked, and looked, on the untouched meal, And the overtoppled chair.

We seemed to stand for an endless while, Though still no word was said, Three men alive on Flannan Isle, Who thought, on three men dead.

THE BROTHERS

All morning they had quarrelled, as they worked, A little off their fellows, in the pit: Dick growled at Robert; Robert said Dick shirked: And when the roof, dropt more than they had reckoned, Began to crack and split, Though both rushed like a shot to set The pit-props in their places, Each said the other was to blame, When, all secure, with flushed and grimy faces, They faced each other for a second. All morning they had quarrelled: yet, Neither had breathed her name.

Again they turned to work: And in the dusty murk Of that black gallery Which ran out three miles underneath the sea, There was no sound at all, Save whispering creak of roof and wall. And crack of coal, and tap of pick, And now and then a rattling fall: While Robert worked on steadily, but Dick In fits and starts, with teeth clenched tight, And dark eyes flashing in his lamp's dull light.

And when he paused, nigh spent, to wipe the sweat From off his dripping brow: and Robert turned To fling some idle jibe at him, the spark Of anger, smouldering in him, flared and burned-- Though all his body quivered, wringing-wet-- Till that black hole To him blazed red, As if the very coal Had kindled underfoot and overhead: Then, gripping tight his pick, He rushed upon his brother: But Robert, turning quick, Leapt up, and now they faced each other.

And on his knees he fell Beside his brother, buried in black dust: And, full of tense misgiving, He lifted him, and thrust A knee beneath his head; and cleared The dust from mouth and nose: but could not tell Awhile if he were dead or living. Too fearful to know what he feared, He fumbled at the open shirt, And felt till he could feel the heart, Still beating with a feeble beat: And then he saw the closed lids part, And saw the nostrils quiver; And knew his brother lived, though sorely hurt.

And, in the fresher airway, light came back To Robert's eyes, although he never spoke: And not a sound the deathly quiet broke, As they sat staring at that wall of black-- As, in the glimmer of the dusky lamp, They sat and wondered, wondered if the damp-- The stealthy after-damp that creeping, creeping, Takes strong lads by the throat, and drops them sleeping, To wake no more for any woman's weeping-- Would steal upon them, ere the rescue came.... And if the rescuers would find them sitting, Would find them sitting cold.... Then, as they sat and wondered, like a flame One thought burned up both hearts: Still, neither breathed her name.

And now their thoughts dropped back into the pit, And through the league-long gallery went flitting With speed no fall could hold: They wondered how their mates had fared: If they'd been struck stone-dead, Or if they shared Like fate with them, or reached the shaft, Unhurt, and only scared, Before disaster overtook them: And then, although their courage ne'er forsook them, They wondered once again if they must sit Awaiting death ... but knowing well That even for a while to dwell On such like thoughts will drive a strong man daft: They shook themselves until their thoughts ran free Along the drift, and clambered in the cage; And in a trice were shooting up the shaft: But when their thoughts had come to the pithead, And found the fearful people gathered there, Beneath the noonday sun, Bright-eyed with terror, blinded by despair, Dick rose, and with his chalk wrote on the wall, This message for their folk: "We can't get any further, 12, noonday"-- And signed both names; and, when he'd done, Though neither of them spoke, They both seemed easier in a way, Now that they'd left a word, Though nothing but a scrawl.

And silent still they sat, And never stirred: And Dick's thoughts dwelt on this and that: How, far above their heads, upon the sea The sun was shining merrily, And in its golden glancing The windy waves were dancing: And how he'd slipt that morning on his way: And how on Friday, when he drew his pay, He'd buy a blanket for his whippet, Nell; He felt dead certain she would win the race, On Saturday ... though you could never tell, There were such odds against her ... but his face Lit up as though, even now, he saw her run, A little slip of lightning, in the sun: While Robert's thoughts were ever on the match His team was booked to play on Saturday; He placed the field, and settled who should play The centre-forward; for he had a doubt Will Burn was scarcely up to form, although...

Just then, the lamp went slowly out.

Still, neither stirred, Nor spoke a word; Though either's breath came quickly, with a catch.

And now again one thought Set both their hearts afire In one fierce flame Of quick desire: Though neither breathed her name.

Then Dick stretched out his hand; and caught His brother's arm; and whispered in his ear: "Bob, lad, there's naught to fear ... And, when we're out, lad, you and she shall wed."

Bob gripped Dick's hand; and then no more was said, As, slowly, all about them rose The deadly after-damp; but close They sat together, hand in hand. Then their minds wandered; and Dick seemed to stand And shout till he was hoarse To speed his winning whippet down the course ... And Robert, with the ball Secure within his oxter charged ahead Straight for the goal, and none could hold, Though many tried a fall.

Then dreaming they were lucky boys in bed, Once more, and lying snugly by each other: Dick, with his arms clasped tight about his brother, Whispered with failing breath Into the ear of death: "Come, Robert, cuddle closer, lad, it's cold."

THE BLIND ROWER

And since he rowed his father home, His hand has never touched an oar. All day, he wanders on the shore, And hearkens to the swishing foam. Though blind from birth, he still could row As well as any lad with sight; And knew strange things that none may know Save those who live without the light.

When they put out that Summer eve To sink the lobster-pots at sea, The sun was crimson in the sky; And not a breath was in the sky, The brooding, thunder-laden sky, That, heavily and wearily, Weighed down upon the waveless sea That scarcely seemed to heave.

The pots were safely sunk; and then The father gave the word for home: He took the tiller in his hand, And, in his heart already home, He brought her nose round towards the land, To steer her straight for home.

He never spoke, Nor stirred again: A sudden stroke, And he lay dead, With staring eyes, and lips of lead.

But, as they neared the shore, He rested on his oar: And, wondering that his father kept So very quiet in the stern; He laughed, and asked him if he slept; And vowed he heard him snore just now. Though, when his father spoke no word, A sudden fear upon him came: And, crying on his father's name, With flinching heart, he heard The water lapping on the shore; And all his blood ran cold, to feel The shingle grate beneath the keel: And stretching over towards the stern, His knuckle touched the dead man's brow.

But, help was near at hand; And safe he came to land: Though none has ever known How he rowed in, alone, And never touched a reef. Some say they saw the dead man steer-- The dead man steer the blind man home-- Though, when they found him dead, His hand was cold as lead.

So, ever restless, to and fro, In every sort of weather, The blind lad wanders on the shore, And hearkens to the foam. His hand has never touched an oar, Since they came home together-- The blind, who rowed his father home-- The dead, who steered his blind son home.

THE FLUTE

"Good-night!" he sang out cheerily: "Good-night!" and yet again: "Good-night!"

And I was gay that night to be Once more in my clean countryside, Among the windy hills and wide. Six days of city slush and mud, Of hooting horn, and spattering wheel, Made me rejoice again to feel The tingling frost that fires the blood, And sets life burning keen and bright; And down the ringing road to stride The eager swinging stride that braces The straining thews from hip to heel: To breathe again the wind that sweeps Across the grassy, Northern steeps, From crystal deeps and starry spaces.

And I was glad again to hear The old man's greeting of good cheer: For every night for many a year At that same corner we had met, Summer and Winter, dry and wet: And though I never once had heard The old man speak another word, His cheery greeting at the bend Seemed like the welcome of a friend.

But, as we neared to-night, somehow, I felt that he would stop and speak: Though he went by: and when I turned, I saw him standing in the road, And looking back, with hand to brow, As if to shade old eyes, grown weak Awaiting the long sleep they'd earned: Though, as again towards him I strode, A friendly light within them burned. And then, as I drew nigh, he spoke With shaking head, and voice that broke: "I've missed you these last nights," he said "And I have not so many now That I can miss friends easily... Aye: friends grow scarce, as you grow old: And roads are rough: and winds are cold: And when you feel you're losing hold, Life does not go too merrily." And then he stood with nodding head, And spoke no more. And so I told How I had been, six days and nights, Exiled from pleasant sounds and sights. And now, as though my voice had stirred His heart to speech, he told right out, With quickening eye and quavering word, The things I care to hear about, The little things that make up life: How he'd been lonesome, since his wife Had died, some thirty year ago: And how he trudged three mile or so To reach the farmstead where he worked, And three mile back to his own door... For he dwelt outby on the moor: And every day the distance irked More sorely still his poor, old bones; And all the road seemed strewn with stones To trip you up, when you were old-- When you were old, and friends were few: How, since the farmstead had been sold, The master and the men were new, All save himself; and they were young; And Mistress had a raspy tongue: So, often, he would hardly speak A friendly word from week to week With any soul. Old friends had died, Or else had quit the countryside: And, since his wife was taken, he Had lived alone, this thirty year: And there were few who cared to hear An old man's jabber ... and too long He'd kept me, standing in the cold, With his long tongue, and such a song About himself! And I would be...

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