The Chrysalids

5

Nobody at Waknuk seemed to trouble about me if I was out of sight. It was only when I hung about that they thought of jobs that needed doing.

The season was a good one, sunny, yet well watered so that even farmers had little to complain of other than the pressure to catch up with the work that the invasion had interrupted. Except among the sheep the average of Offences in the spring births had been quite unusually low. The impending crops were so orthodox that the inspector had posted only a single field, belonging to Angus Morton, for burning. Even among the vegetables there was little deviation; the solonaceae as usual provided most of what there was. All in all, the season looked like setting up a Purity record, and condemnations were so few that even my father was pleased enough to announce guardedly in one of his addresses that Waknuk would seem to be giving the forces of Evil quite a setback this year — and it was a matter for thanksgiving that retribution for the importation of the great-horses had been visited upon their owner himself, and not upon the whole community.

With everyone so busy I was able to get away early, and during those long summer days Sophie and I roamed more widely than before, though we did our adventuring with caution, and kept it to little-used ways in order to avoid encounters. Sophie’s upbringing had given her a timidity towards strangers that was nearly an instinct. Almost before one was visible she vanished noiselessly. The only adult she had made friends with was Corky, who looked after the steam-engine. Everyone else was dangerous.

We discovered a place up the stream where there were banks of shingle. I liked to take off my shoes, roll up my trousers, and paddle there, examining the pools and crannies. Sophie used to sit on one of the large, flat stones that shelved into the water, and watch me wistfully. Later we went there armed with two small nets that Mrs.. Wender had made, and a jar for the catch. I waded about fishing for the little shrimp-like creatures that lived there while Sophie tried to scoop them up by reaching from the bank. She did not do very well at it. After a time she gave up, and sat watching me enviously. Then, greatly daring, she pulled off a shoe, and looked at her naked foot reflectively. After a minute she pulled off the other. She rolled her cotton trousers above her knees, and stepped into the stream. She stood there for a thoughtful moment, looking down through the water at her foot on the washed pebbles. I called to her:

‘Come over this way. There’s lots of them here.’

She waded towards me, laughing and excited.

When we had had enough of it we sat on the flat rock, letting our feet dry in the sun.

‘They’re not really horrible, are they?’ she said, regarding hers judicially.

‘They’re not horrible at all. They make mine look all knobbly,’ I told her, honestly. She was pleased about that.

A few days later we went there again. We stood the jar on the flat stone beside our shoes while we fished, and industriously scampered back to it now and then with our catch, oblivious of all else until a voice said:

‘Hullo, there, David!’

I looked up, aware of Sophie standing rigid behind me.

The boy who had called stood on the bank, just above the rock where our things lay. I knew him. Alan, the son of John Ervin, the blacksmith; about two years older than I was. I kept my head.

‘Oh, hullo, Alan,’ I said, unencouragingly.

I waded to the rock and picked up Sophie’s shoes.

‘Catch!’ I called as I threw them to her.

One she caught, the other fell into the water, but she retrieved it.

‘What are you doing?’ Alan asked.

I told him we were catching the shrimp-things. As I said it I stepped casually out of the water on to the rock. I had never cared much for what I knew of Alan at the best of times, and he was by no means welcome now.

‘They’re no good. Fish are what you want to go after,’ he said contemptuously.

He turned his attention to Sophie, who was wading to the bank, shoes in hand, some yards farther up.

‘Who’s she?’ he inquired,

I delayed answering while I put on my shoes. Sophie had disappeared into the bushes now.

‘Who is she?’ he repeated. ‘She’s not one of the—’ He broke off suddenly. I looked up and saw that he was staring down at something beside me. I turned quickly. On the flat rock was a footprint, still undried. Sophie had rested one foot there as she bent over to tip her catch into the jar. The mark was still damp enough to show the print of all six toes clearly. I kicked over the jar. A cascade of water and struggling shrimps poured down the rock, obliterating the footprint, but I knew, with a sickly feeling, that the harm had been done.

‘Ho!’ said Alan, and there was a gleam in his eye that I did not like. ‘Who is she?’ he demanded again.

‘She’s a friend of mine,’ I told him.

‘What’s her name?’

I did not answer that.

‘Huh, I’ll soon find out, anyway,’ he said with a grin.

‘It’s no business of yours,’ I told him.

He took no notice of that; he had turned and was standing looking along the bank towards the point where Sophie had disappeared into the bushes.

I ran up the stone and flung myself on him. He was bigger than I was, but it took him by surprise, and we went down together in a whirl of arms and legs. All I knew of fighting was what I had learnt from a few sharp scuffles. I simply hit out, and did my furious best. My intention was to gain a few minutes for Sophie to put her shoes on and hide; if she had a little start, he would never be able to find her, as I knew from experience. Then he recovered from his first surprise and got in a couple of blows on my face which made me forget about Sophie and sent me at it, tooth and nail, on my own account.

We rolled back and forth on a patch of turf. I kept on hitting and struggling furiously, but his weight started to tell. He began to feel more sure of himself, and I, more futile. However, I had gained something: I’d stopped him going after Sophie straight away. Gradually he got the upper hand, presently he was sitting astride of me, pummelling me as I squirmed. I kicked out and struggled, but there wasn’t much I could do but raise my arms to protect my head. Then, suddenly, there was a yelp of anguish, and the blows ceased. He flopped down on top of me. I heaved him off, and sat up to see Sophie standing there with a large rough stone in her hand.

‘I hit him,’ she said proudly, and with a touch of wonderment. ‘Do you think he’s dead?’

Hit him she certainly had. He lay white-faced and still, with the blood trickling down his cheek, but he was breathing all right, so he certainly wasn’t dead.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Sophie in sudden reaction, and dropped the stone.

We looked at Alan, and then at one another. Both of us, I think, had the impulse to do something for him, but we were afraid.

‘No one must ever know. No one!’ Mrs. Wender had said, so intensely. And now this boy did know. It frightened us.

I got up. I reached for Sophie’s hand and pulled her away.

‘Come along,’ I told her urgently.

John Wender listened carefully and patiently while we told him about it.

‘You’re quite sure he saw? It wasn’t simply that he was curious because Sophie was a stranger?’ he asked at the end.

‘No,’ I said. ‘He saw the footmark; that’s why he wanted to catch her.’

He nodded slowly.

‘I see,’ he said, and I was surprised how calmly he said it.

He looked steadily at our faces. Sophie’s eyes were big with a mixture of alarm and excitement. Mine must have been pink-rimmed, with dirty smears trailing from them. He turned his head and met his wife’s gaze steadily.

‘I’m afraid it’s come, my dear. This is it,’ he said.

‘Oh, Johnny–’ Mrs. Wender’s face was pale and distressed.

‘Sorry, Martie, but it is, you know. We knew it had to come sooner or later. Thank God it’s happened while I’m here. How long will it take you to be ready?’

‘Not long, Johnny. I’ve kept things nearly ready, always.’

‘Good. Let’s get busy, then.’

He got up and went round the table to her. He put his arms round her, bent down and kissed her. Tears stood in her eyes.

‘Oh, Johnny dear. Why are you so sweet to me, when all I’ve brought you is—?’ He stopped that with another kiss.

They looked steadily into one another’s eyes for a moment, then, without a word, they both turned to look at Sophie.

Mrs.. Wender became her usual self again. She went briskly to a cupboard, took out some food, and put it on the table.

‘Wash first, you dirty things,’ she told us. ‘Then eat this up. Every bit of it.’

While I washed I put the question I had wanted to ask often before.

‘Mrs. Wender, if it’s just Sophie’s toes, couldn’t you have cut them off when she was a little baby? I don’t expect it would have hurt her much then, and nobody need have known.’

‘There’d have been marks, David, and when people saw them they’d know why. Now hurry up and eat that supper,’ she told me, and went busily off into the other room,

‘We’re going away,’ Sophie confided to me presently, through a mouthful of pie.

‘Going away?’ I repeated blankly.

She nodded.’ Mummy said we’d have to go if anybody ever found out. We nearly did when you saw them.’

‘But - you mean, right away? Never come back?’ I asked in dismay.

‘Yes, I think so.’

I had been hungry, but I suddenly lost my appetite. I sat fiddling with the food on my plate. The sounds of bustling and bumping elsewhere in the house took on an ominous quality. I looked across the table at Sophie. In my throat there was a lump that wouldn’t be swallowed.

‘Where?’ I asked, unhappily.

‘I don’t know — a long way, though,’ she told me.

We sat on. Sophie prattled between mouthfuls; I found it hard to swallow because of the lump. Everything was abruptly bleak to the horizon, and beyond. Nothing, I knew, was going to be quite the same ever again. The desolation of the prospect engulfed me. I had to struggle hard to keep back tears.

Mrs. Wender brought in a series of satchels and packs. I watched glumly as she dumped them close to the door, and went away again. Mr. Wender came in from outside and collected some of them. Mrs. Wender reappeared and took Sophie away into the other room. The next time Mr. Wender came for some more of the packs I followed him out.

The two horses, Spot and Sandy, were standing there patiently with some bundles already strapped on to them. I was surprised not to see the cart, and said so.

John Wender shook his head.

‘A cart keeps you to the tracks; with pack-horses you go where you like,’ he told me.

I watched him strapping more bundles on while I gathered courage.

‘Mr. Wender,’ I said, ‘please can’t I come too?’

He stopped what he was doing, and turned to look at me. We faced one another for some moments, then slowly, regretfully, he shook his head. He must have seen that tears were close behind my eyes, for he put his hand on my shoulder and let it rest there.

‘Come along inside, Davie,’ he said, leading the way back to the house.

Mrs. Wender was back in the living-room, standing in the middle of the floor, and looking round, as if for things forgotten.

‘He wants to come with us, Martie,’ said Mr. Wender.

She sat down on a stool, and held her arms out to me. I went to her, unable to speak. Looking over my head, she said:

‘Oh, Johnny. That awful father! I’m afraid for him.’

Close to her like that I could catch her thoughts. They came faster, but easier to understand, than words. I knew how she felt, how she genuinely wished I could go with them, how she leapt on, without examining the reasons, to knowing that I could not and must not go with them. I had the complete answer before John Wender had put the first sentence of his reply into ordinary words.

‘I know, Martie. But it’s Sophie I’m afraid for — and you. If we were to be caught we’d be charged with kidnapping as well as concealment….’

‘If they take Sophie nothing could make things worse for me, Johnny.’

‘But it’s not just that, dear. Once they are satisfied that we are out of the district we’ll be someone else’s responsibility, and they’ll not bother much more about us. But if Strorm were to lose his boy there’d be hue and cry for miles around, and I doubt whether we’d have a chance of getting clear. They’d have posses out everywhere looking for us. We can’t afford to increase the risk to Sophie, can we?’

Mrs. Wender was silent for some moments. I could feel her fitting the reasons into what she had known already. Presently her arm tightened round me.

‘You do understand that, don’t you, David? Your father would be so angry if you came with us that we’d have much less chance of getting Sophie away safely. I want you to come, but for Sophie’s sake we daren’t do it. Please be brave about it, David. You’re her only friend, and you can help her by being brave. You will, won’t you?’

The words were like a clumsy repetition. Her thoughts had been much clearer, and I had already had to accept the inevitable decision. I could not trust myself to speak. I nodded dumbly, and let her hold me to her in a way my own mother never did.

The packing-up was finished a little before dusk. When everything was ready Mr. Wender took me aside.

‘Davie,’ he said, man to man, ‘I know how fond you are of Sophie. You’ve looked after her like a hero, but now there’s one more thing you can do to help her. Will you?’

‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘What is it, Mr. Wender?’

‘It’s this. When we’ve gone don’t go home at once. Will you stay here till tomorrow morning? That’ll give us more time to get her safely away. Will you do that?’

‘Yes,’ I said, reliably.

We shook hands on it. It made me feel stronger and more responsible — rather like I had on that first day when she twisted her ankle.

Sophie held out her hand with something concealed in it as we came back.

‘This is for you, David,’ she said, putting it into my hand.

I looked at it. A curling lock of brown hair, tied with a piece of yellow ribbon. I was still staring at it when she flung her arms round my neck and kissed me, with more determination than judgment. Her father picked her up and swung her high on top of the leading horse’s load.

Mrs. Wender bent to kiss me, too.

‘Good-bye, David, dear.’ She touched my bruised cheek with a gentle forefinger. “We’ll never forget,’ she said, and her eyes were shiny.

They set off. John Wender led the horses, with his gun slung across his back, and his left arm linked in his wife’s. At the edge of the woods they paused and turned to wave. I waved back. They went on. The last I saw of them was Sophie’s arm waving as the dusk beneath the trees swallowed them up.

The sun was getting high and the men were long ago out in the fields when I reached home. There was no one in the yard, but the inspector’s pony stood at the hitching-post near the door, so I guessed my father would be in the house.

I hoped that I had stayed away long enough. It had been a bad night. I had started with a determinedly stout heart, but in spite of my resolutions it weakened somewhat when darkness fell. I had never before spent a night anywhere but in my own room at home. There, everything was familiar, but the Wenders‘ empty house seemed full of queer sounds. I managed to find some candles and light them, and when I had blown up the fire and put some more wood on, that, too, helped to make the place less lonely - but only a little less. Odd noises kept on occurring inside and outside the house.

For a long time I sat on a stool, pressing my back against the wall so that nothing should approach me unaware. More than once my courage all but gave out. I wanted painfully to run away. I like to think it was my promise and the thought of Sophie’s safety that kept me there; but I do remember also how black it looked outside, and how full of inexplicable sounds and movements the darkness seemed to be.

The night stretched out before me in a prospect of terrors, yet nothing actually happened. The sounds like creeping footsteps never brought anything into view, the tapping was no prelude to anything at all, nor were the occasional dragging noises; they were beyond explanation, but also, luckily, apparently beyond manifestation, too, and at length, in spite of them all I found my eyes blinking as I swayed on my stool. I summoned up courage and dared to move, very cautiously, across to the bed. I scrambled across it, and very thankfully got my back to a wall again. For a time I lay watching the candles and the uneasy shadows they cast in the corners of the room, and wondering what I should do when they were gone, when, all of a sudden, they were gone — and the sun was shining in….

I had found some bread for my breakfast in the Wenders‘ house, but I was hungry again by the time I reached home. That, however, could wait. My first intention was to get to my room unseen, with the very thin hope that my absence might not have been noticed, so that I would be able to pretend that I had merely overslept, but my luck was not running: Mary caught sight of me through the kitchen window as I was slipping across the yard. She called out:

‘You come here at once. Everybody’s been looking all over for you. Where’ve you been?’ And then, without waiting for an answer, she added: ‘Father’s on the rampage. Better go to him before he gets worse.’

My father and the inspector were in the seldom-used, rather formal room at the front. I seemed to arrive at a crucial time. The inspector looked much as usual, but my father was thunderous.

‘Come here!’ he snapped, as soon as I appeared in the doorway.

I went nearer, reluctantly.

‘Where’ve you been?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve been out all night. Where?’

I did not answer.

He fired half a dozen questions at me, looking fierier every second when I did not answer them.

‘Come on now. Sullenness isn’t going to help you. Who was this child — this Blasphemy — you were with yesterday?’ he shouted.

I still did not reply. He glared at me. I had never seen him angrier. I felt sick with fright.

The inspector intervened then. In a quiet, ordinary voice he said to me:

‘You know, David, concealment of a Blasphemy — not reporting a human deviation — is a very, very serious thing. People go to prison for it. It is everybody’s duty to report any kind of Offence to me — even if they aren’t sure — so that I can decide. It’s always important, and very important indeed if it is a Blasphemy. And in this case there doesn’t seem to be any doubt about it — unless young Ervin was mistaken. Now he says this child you were with has six toes. Is that true?’

‘No,’ I told him.

‘He’s lying,’ said my father.

‘I see,’ said the inspector calmly. ‘Well, then if it isn’t true, it can’t matter if we know who she is, can it?’ he went on in a reasonable tone.

I made no reply to that. It seemed the safest way. We looked at one another.

‘Surely, you see that’s so? If it is not true—’ he was going on persuasively, but my father cut him short.

‘I’ll deal with this. The boy’s lying.’ To me he added: ‘Go to your room.’

I hesitated. I knew well enough what that meant, but I knew, too, that with my father in his present mood it would happen whether I told or not. I set my jaw, and turned to go. My father followed, picking up a whip from the table as he came.

‘That,’ said the inspector curtly, ‘is my whip.’

My father seemed not to hear him. The inspector stood up. ‘I said that is my whip,’ he repeated, with a hard, ominous note in his voice.

My father checked his step. With an ill-tempered gesture he threw the whip back on the table. He glared at the inspector, and then turned to follow me.

I don’t know where my mother was, perhaps she was afraid of my father. It was Mary who came, and made little comforting noises as she dressed my back. She wept a little as she helped me into bed, and then fed me some broth with a spoon. I did my best to put up a brave show in front of her, but when she had gone my tears soaked into my pillow. By now it was not so much the bodily hurts that brought them: it was bitterness, self-contempt, and abasement. In wretchedness and misery I clutched the yellow ribbon and the brown curl tight in my hand.

‘I couldn’t help it, Sophie,’ I sobbed, ‘I couldn’t help it.’