The Night Wind (Blackwood)

There were certain things that Uncle Henry, as a writer of “historical novels,” had to explain, or else admit himself a disgraceful failure. For he sometimes read fancy bits aloud to the children, using the latter as a standard. These fancy bits were generally scenes of action: Escape; a Duke landing by night and dressed as a woman to avoid discovery; a dark man stealing “storical” documents from a tapestried chamber in a frightful castle where bats and cobwebs shared the draughty corridors. These and the like he read aloud, judging their success by the reception accorded to them. “Thank you very much Uncle,” meant failure; the imagination was left untouched. But questions were an indication of success; the scene was alive and real; the audience wanted more details. For I knew that it was the “child” in his readers that enjoyed such scenes, and if Jinny and Jimbo felt no interest, neither would Mr. and Mrs. William Smith of Peckham. To squeeze a question out of Maria, the youngest, however, raised hopes of at least a Second Edition! These night-scenes, of course, were always windy; sometimes they were stormy. Either the wind rose at an unexpected and unwelcome moment, or else it dropped just when the cover of its roar was needed by the villain; at other times it merely misbehaved itself generally, as night-winds do. But as a rule it wailed, moaned, whistled, whispered, cried, sang, sighed, sobbed or⁠—soughed. Keyholes and chimneys were its favourite places, and sometimes the rafters knew it, too. Thus, to the children, it became a known, expected thing with tastes and habits of its own. They looked for “ Mr. Night-Wind,” and recognised it when it came. “A night-wind story, please,” was a classical form of attack between tea and bedtime. It had a personality and led a mysterious existence. It had qualities, privileges, prerogatives. It acquired a definite locus standi in the mythology of the country house. Owing to its various means of vocal expression⁠—singing, moaning, and the rest⁠—a face belonged to it with lips and mouth; teeth, too, since it whistled. It ran about the world, and so had feet; it flew, so wings pertained to it; it blew, and that meant cheeks of sorts. It was a large, swift, shadowy being whose ways were not the ordinary ways of daylight. It struck blows. It had gigantic hands. Moreover, it came out only after dark⁠—an ominous and suspicious characteristic rather. “Why isn’t there a day-wind too?” enquired Jinny, thoughtfully. “There is, but it’s quite a different thing,” Uncle Henry explained, calmly. “You might as well ask why midday and midnight aren’t the same because they both come at twelve o’clock. They’re simply different things, you see.” “Of course,” Jimbo helped him unexpectedly; “and a man can’t be a woman, can it?” Mr. Night-Wind’s nature, accordingly, remained a mystery rather, and its sex, in spite of the deceptive “ Mr. ,” was also undetermined. Whether it saw with eyes, or just felt its way about like a blind thing, wandering, was another secret matter undetermined. Each child visualised it differently. Its hiding-place in the daytime was equally unknown. Owls, bats and burglars guessed its habits best, and that it came out of a hole in the sky was, perhaps, the only detail all unanimously agreed upon. It was a pathetic being, rather. This Night-Wind used to come crying round the bedroom windows sometimes, and the children liked it, although they did sot understand all its melancholy beauty. They heard the different voices in it, although they did not catch the meaning of the words it sang. They heard its footsteps, too. Its way of moving awed them. Moreover, it was forever trying to get in. “It’s wings,” said Jinny, “big, dark wings, very soft and feathery.” “It’s a woman with sad black eyes,” thought Jimbo. “That’s how I like it.” “It’s someone,” declared Maria, who was asleep before it came, so rarely heard it at all. And they turned to Uncle Henry, who knew all that sort of thing, or, at any rate, could describe it. He found the words. They lay hidden in his thick back hair apparently⁠—there was none on the top!⁠—for he always scratched his head a good deal when they asked him questions about such difficult matters “What is it really ⁠—the Mr.  Night-Wind?” they asked gravely; “and why does it sound so very different from the wind in the morning or the afternoon?” “There is a difference,” he replied carefully, realising it for the first time now that they asked. “It’s a quick, dark, rushing thing, and it moves like⁠—like anything.” “We know that ,” they told him contemptuously, yet with considerate patience. “And it has long hair,” he added hurriedly, looking into Jimbo’s staring eyes. “That’s what makes it swish. The swishing, rushing, hushing sound it makes⁠—that’s its hair against the walls and tiles, you see.” “It is a woman, then?” said Jimbo, proudly. All looked up, wondering. An extraordinary thing was in the air. A mystery that had puzzled them for ages was about to be explained. They drew closer round the sofa, and Maria blundered against the table, knocking some books off with a resounding noise. “Hush! Hush!” said Uncle Henry, holding up a finger and glancing over his shoulder into the darkened room. “It may be coming now⁠ ⁠… Listen!” “Yes; but it is a woman, isn’t it?” ’ insisted Jimbo in a hurried whisper. He had to justify himself before his sisters. Uncle Henry must see to that first. The big man opened his eyes very wide. He shuddered. “It’s a⁠—Thing,” was the answer, given in a whisper that increased the excitement of anticipation. “It certainly is a⁠—Thing! Now hush! Listen! It’s coming!” They listened then intently. And a sound was heard. Out of the starry summer night it came, quite softly, and from very far away⁠—upon discovery bent, upon adventure. Reconnoitering, as from deep ambush in the shrubberies where the blackbirds hid and whistled, it flew down against the house, stared in at the nursery windows, fluttered up and down the glass with a marvellous, sweet humming⁠—and was gone again. “Listen!” the man’s voice whispered; “it will come back presently. It saw us. It’s awfully shy⁠—” “Why is it awfully shy?” asked Jinny in an undertone. “Because people make it mean so much more than it means to mean,” he replied, darkly. “It never gets a chance to be just itself and play its own lonely game⁠—” “ We’ve called it things too,” objected Maria. “But we haven’t written books about it and put it into poetry,” Uncle Henry corrected her with an audacity that silenced them. “We play our game; it plays its.” “It plays its,” repeated Jimbo, amused by the sound of the words. “And that’s why it’s shy,” the man held them to the main point, “and dislikes showing itself⁠—” “But why is its game lonely?” someone asked, and there was a general feeling that Uncle Henry had been caught this time without an answer. For what explanation could there possibly be of that? Their faces were half triumphant, half disappointed already. He smiled quietly. He knew everything⁠—everything in the world. “It’s unhappy as well as shy,” he sighed, “because nothing will play with it. Everything is asleep at night. It comes out just when other things go in. Trees answer it, but they answer in their sleep. Birds, tucked away in nests and hiding-places, don’t even answer at all. The butterflies are gone, the insects lost. Leaves and twigs don’t care about being blown when there’s no one there to see them. They hide too. If there are clouds, they’re dark and sulky, keeping their jolly sides towards the stars and moon. Nothing will play with Mr. Night-Wind. So it either plays with the tiles on the roof and the telegraph wires⁠—dead things that make a lot of noise, but never leave their places for a proper game⁠—or else it just⁠—plays with itself. Since the beginning of the world the Night-Wind has been shy and lonely and unhappy.” It was unanswerable. They understood. Their sense of pity was gently touched, their love as well. “Do pigs really see the wind, as Daddy says?” enquired Maria abruptly, feeling the conversation beyond her. She merely obeyed the laws of her practical, matter-of-fact nature. But no one answered her; no one even heard the question. Another sound absorbed their interest and attention. There was a low, faint tapping on the windowpane. A hush, like church, fell over everybody. And Uncle Henry stood up to his full height suddenly, and opened his arms wide. He drew a long, deep breath. “Come in,” he said, splendidly. The tapping, however, grew fainter and fainter, till it finally ceased. Everybody waited expectantly, but it was not repeated. Nothing happened. Nobody came in. The tapper had retreated. “It was a twig,” whispered Jinny after a pause, “The Virgin Creeper⁠—” “But it was the wind that shook it,” exclaimed Uncle Henry, still standing and waiting as though he expected something. “The Night-Wind⁠—” A roaring sound over the roof drowned his words; it rose and fell like laughter, then like crying. It dropped closer, rushed headlong past the window, rattled and shook the sash, then dived away into the darkness. Its violence startled them. A deep lull followed instantly, and the little tapping of the twig was heard again. Odd! Just when the Night-Wind seemed furthest off it was all the time quite near. It had not really gone at all; it was hiding against the outside walls. It was watching them, trying to get in. The tapping continued for half a minute or more⁠—a series of hurried, gentle little knocks, as from a child’s smallest finger tip. “It wants to come in. It’s trying,” whispered someone. “It’s awfully shy.” “It’s lonely and frightfully unhappy.” “It likes us and wants to play.” There was another pause and silence. No one knew quite what to do. “There’s too much light. Let’s put the lamp out!” said a genius, using the voice of Jinny. As though by way of answer there followed instantly a sudden burst of wind. The torrent of it drove against the house; it boomed down the chimney, puffing an odour of soot into the room; it shook the door into the passage; it lifted an edge of carpet, flapping it. It shouted, whistled, sang, using a dozen different voices all at once. The roar fell into syllables. It was amazing. A great throat uttered words. They could scarcely believe their ears. The wind was shouting with a joyful, boisterous shout: “Open the window! I’ll put out the light!” All heard the wonderful thing. Yet it seemed quite natural in a way. Uncle Henry, still standing and waiting as though he knew not exactly what was going to happen, moved forward at once and boldly opened the window’s lower sash. In swept the mighty visitor, the stranger from the air. The lamp gave one quick flicker and went out. Deep stillness followed. There was a silence like the moon. The shy Night-Wind had come into the room. Ah, there was awe and wonder then! The silence was so unexpected. The whole wind, not merely part of it, was in. It had come so gently, softly, delicately too! In the darkness the outline of the window-frame was visible; Uncle Henry’s big figure blocked against the stars. Jinny’s head could be seen in silhouette against the other window, but Jimbo and Maria, being smaller, were merged in the pool of shadow below the level of the sill. A large, spread thing passed fluttering up and down the room a moment, then came to rest. It settled over everything at once. A rustle was audible as of trailing, floating hair. “It’s hiding in the corners and behind the furniture,” whispered Uncle Henry. “Keep quiet. If you frighten it whew!”⁠—he whistled softly⁠—“it’ll be off above the treetops in a second!” A low, soft whistle answered to his own; somewhere in the room it sounded; there was no mistaking it, though the exact direction was difficult to tell, for while Jimbo said it was through the keyhole, Jinny declared positively it came from the door of the big, broken cupboard opposite. Maria stated flatly, “Chimney.” “Hush! It’s talking.” It was Uncle Henry’s voice breathing very low. “It likes us. It feels we’re friendly.” A murmur as of leaves was audible, or as of a pine bough sighing in a tiny breeze. Yet there were words as well⁠—actual spoken words: “Don’t look for me, please,” they heard. “I do not want to be seen. But you may touch me. I like that.” The children spread their hands out in the darkness, groping, searching, feeling. “Ah, your touch!” the sighing voice continued. “It’s like my lawn. Your hair feels as my grass feels on the hilltops, and the skin of your cheeks is cool and smooth as the water-surface of my lily ponds at midnight. I know you”⁠—it raised its tone to “You are children! I kiss you all!” “I feel you,” Jinny said, in her clear, quiet voice. “But you are cold.” “Not really,” was the answer that seemed all over the room at once. “That’s only the touch of space. I’ve come from very high up tonight. There’s been a change. The lower wind was called away suddenly to the sea, and I dropped down with hardly a moment’s warning to take its place. The sun has been very tiresome all day⁠—overheating the currents.” “Uncle, you ask it everything,” whispered Jimbo, “simply everything!” “Say how we love it, please,” sighed Jinny. “I feel it closing both my eyes.” “It’s over all my face,” put in Maria, drawing her breath in loudly. “But my hair’s lifting!” Jinny exclaimed. “Oh, it’s lovely, lovely!” Uncle Henry straightened himself up in the darkness. They could hear him breathing with the effort. “Please tell us what you do,” he said. “We all can feel you touching us. Play with us as you play with trees and clouds and sleeping flowers underneath the hedgerows.” A singing, whistling sound passed softly round the room, there was a whirr and flutter as when a flight of bees or birds goes down the sky, and a voice, a plaintive yet happy voice, like the plover who call to each other on the moors was audible:  I run about the world at night, Yet cannot see; My hair has grown so thick these million years, It covers me. So, like a big, blind thing, I run about, And know all things by touching them. I touch them with my wings; I know each one of you By touching you: I touch your hearts! “I feel you!” cried Jinny. “I feel you touching me!” “And I, and I!” the others cried. “It’s simply wonderful.” An enormous sigh of happiness went through that darkened room. “Then play with me!” they heard. “Oh, children play with me!” The wild, high sweetness in the windy voice was irresistible. The children rose with one accord. It was too dark to see, but they flew about the room without a fault or slip. There was no stumbling; they seemed guided, lifted, swept. The sound of happy, laughing voices filled the air. They caught the Wind and let it go again; they chased it round the table and the sofa; they held it in their arms until it panted with delight half smothered into silence, then marvelously escaping from them on the elastic, flying feet that tread on forests, clouds and mountain tops. It rushed and darted, drove them, struck them lightly, pushed them suddenly from behind, then met their faces with a puff and shout of glee. It caught their feet; it blew their eyelids down. Just when they cried, “It’s caught! I’ve got it in my hands!” it shot laughing up against the ceiling, boomed down the chimney, or whistled shrilly as it escaped beneath the crack of the door into the passage. The keyhole was its easiest escape. It grew boisterous, singing with delight yet was never for a moment rough. It cushioned all its blows with feathers. “Where are you now? I felt your hair all over me. You’ve gone again!” It was Jinny’s voice as she tore across the floor. “You’re whacking me on the head!” cried Jimbo. “Quick quick! I’ve got you in my hands!” He flew headlong over the sofa where Maria sat clutching the bolster to prevent being blown onto the carpet. They felt its soft, gigantic hands all over them; its silky coils of hair entangled every movement; they heard its wings, its rushing, sighing voice, its velvet feet. The room was in a whirr and uproar. “Uncle Henry! Can’t you help? You’re the biggest!” “But it’s blown me inside out,” he answered, in a curiously voice. “My fingers are blown off. It’s taken all my breath away.” The pictures rattled on the wall; loose bits of paper fluttered everywhere; the curtains flapped out horizontally into the air. “Catch it! Hold it! Stop it!” cried the breathless voices. “Join hands,” he gasped. “We’ll try.” And, holding hands, they raced across the floor. They managed to encircle something with their spread arms and legs. Into the corner by the door they forced a great, loose, flowing thing against the wall. Wedged tight together like a fence, they stooped. They pounced upon it. “We’ve caught it!” shouted Jimbo. “We’ve got you!” There was a laughing whistle in the keyhole just behind them. It was gone! The window shook. They heard the wild, high laughter. It was out of the room. The next minute it passed shouting above the cedar tops and up into the open sky. And their own laughter went out to follow it across the night.

The room became suddenly very still again. Someone had closed the window. The twig no longer tapped. The game was over. Uncle Henry collected them, an exhausted crew, upon the sofa by his side.