object:1f.lovecraft - The Night Ocean
author class:H P Lovecraft
subject class:Fiction
genre class:Horror
class:chapter
By R. H. Barlow
with H. P. Lovecraft
I went to Ellston Beach not only for the pleasures of sun and ocean,
but to rest a weary mind. Since I knew no person in the little town,
which thrives on summer vacationists and presents only blank windows
during most of the year, there seemed no likelihood that I might be
disturbed. This pleased me, for I did not wish to see anything but the
expanse of pounding surf and the beach lying before my temporary home.
My long work of the summer was completed when I left the city, and the
large mural design produced by it had been entered in the contest. It
had taken me the bulk of the year to finish the painting, and when the
last brush was cleaned I was no longer reluctant to yield to the claims
of health and find rest and seclusion for a time. Indeed, when I had
been a week on the beach I recalled only now and then the work whose
success had so recently seemed all-important. There was no longer the
old concern with a hundred complexities of colour and ornament; no
longer the fear and mistrust of my ability to render a mental image
actual, and turn by my own skill alone the dim-conceived idea into the
careful draught of a design. And yet that which later befell me by the
lonely shore may have grown solely from the mental constitution behind
such concern and fear and mistrust. For I have always been a seeker, a
dreamer, and a ponderer on seeking and dreaming; and who can say that
such a nature does not open latent eyes sensitive to unsuspected worlds
and orders of being?
Now that I am trying to tell what I saw I am conscious of a thousand
maddening limitations. Things seen by the inward sight, like those
flashing visions which come as we drift into the blankness of sleep,
are more vivid and meaningful to us in that form than when we have
sought to weld them with reality. Set a pen to a dream, and the colour
drains from it. The ink with which we write seems diluted with
something holding too much of reality, and we find that after all we
cannot delineate the incredible memory. It is as if our inward selves,
released from the bonds of daytime and objectivity, revelled in
prisoned emotions which are hastily stifled when we would translate
them. In dreams and visions lie the greatest creations of man, for on
them rests no yoke of line or hue. Forgotten scenes, and lands more
obscure than the golden world of childhood, spring into the sleeping
mind to reign until awakening puts them to rout. Amid these may be
attained something of the glory and contentment for which we yearn;
some adumbration of sharp beauties suspected but not before revealed,
which are to us as the Grail to holy spirits of the mediaeval world. To
shape these things on the wheel of art, to seek to bring some faded
trophy from that intangible realm of shadow and gossamer, requires
equal skill and memory. For although dreams are in all of us, few hands
may grasp their moth-wings without tearing them.
Such skill this narrative does not have. If I might, I would reveal to
you the hinted events which I perceived dimly, like one who peers into
an unlit realm and glimpses forms whose motion is concealed. In my
mural design, which then lay with a multitude of others in the building
for which they were planned, I had striven equally to catch a trace of
this elusive shadow-world, and had perhaps succeeded better than I
shall now succeed. My stay in Ellston was to await the judging of that
design; and when days of unfamiliar leisure had given me perspective, I
discovered that—in spite of those weaknesses which a creator always
detects most clearly—I had indeed managed to retain in line and colour
some fragments snatched from the endless world of imagining. The
difficulties of the process, and the resulting strain on all my powers,
had undermined my health and brought me to the beach during this period
of waiting.
Since I wished to be wholly alone, I rented (to the delight of the
incredulous owner) a small house some distance from the village of
Ellston—which, because of the waning season, was alive with a moribund
bustle of tourists, uniformly uninteresting to me. The house, dark from
the sea-wind though it had not been painted, was not even a satellite
of the village; but swung below it on the coast like a pendulum beneath
a still clock, quite alone upon a hill of weed-grown sand. Like a
solitary warm animal it crouched facing the sea, and its inscrutable
dirty windows stared upon a lonely realm of earth and sky and enormous
sea. It will not do to use too much imagining in a narrative whose
facts, could they be augmented and fitted into a mosaic, would be
strange enough in themselves; but I thought the little house was lonely
when I saw it, and that like myself, it was conscious of its
meaningless nature before the great sea.
I took the place in late August, arriving a day before I was expected,
and encountering a van and two workingmen unloading the furniture
provided by the owner. I did not know then how long I would stay, and
when the truck that brought the goods had left I settled my small
luggage and locked the door (feeling very proprietary about having a
house after months of a rented room) to go down the weedy hill and on
the beach. Since it was quite square and had but one room, the house
required little exploration. Two windows in each side provided a great
quantity of light, and somehow a door had been squeezed in as an
afterthought on the oceanward wall. The place had been built about ten
years previously, but on account of its distance from Ellston village
was difficult to rent even during the active summer season. There being
no fireplace, it stood empty and alone from October until far into
spring. Though actually less than a mile below Ellston, it seemed more
remote; since a bend in the coast caused one to see only grassy dunes
in the direction of the village.
The first day, half-gone when I was installed, I spent in the enjoyment
of sun and restless water—things whose quiet majesty made the designing
of murals seem distant and tiresome. But this was the natural reaction
to a long concern with one set of habits and activities. I was through
with my work and my vacation was begun. This fact, while elusive for
the moment, showed in everything which surrounded me that afternoon of
my arrival; and in the utter change from old scenes. There was an
effect of bright sun upon a shifting sea of waves whose mysteriously
impelled curves were strewn with what appeared to be rhinestones.
Perhaps a watercolour might have caught the solid masses of intolerable
light which lay upon the beach where the sea mingled with the sand.
Although the ocean bore her own hue, it was dominated wholly and
incredibly by the enormous glare. There was no other person near me,
and I enjoyed the spectacle without the annoyance of any alien object
upon the stage. Each of my senses was touched in a different way, but
sometimes it seemed that the roar of the sea was akin to that great
brightness, or as if the waves were glaring instead of the sun, each of
these being so vigorous and insistent that impressions coming from them
were mingled. Curiously, I saw no one bathing near my little square
house during that or succeeding afternoons, although the curving shore
included a wide beach even more inviting than that at the village,
where the surf was dotted with random figures. I supposed that this was
because of the distance and because there had never been other houses
below the town. Why this unbuilt stretch existed, I could not imagine;
since many dwellings straggled along the northward coast, facing the
sea with aimless eyes.
I swam until the afternoon had gone, and later, having rested, walked
into the little town. Darkness hid the sea from me as I entered, and I
found in the dingy lights of the streets tokens of a life which was not
even conscious of the great, gloom-shrouded thing lying so close. There
were painted women in tinsel adornments, and bored men who were no
longer young—a throng of foolish marionettes perched on the lip of the
ocean-chasm; unseeing, unwilling to see what lay above them and about,
in the multitudinous grandeur of the stars and the leagues of the night
ocean. I walked along that darkened sea as I went back to the bare
little house, sending the beams of my flashlight out upon the naked and
impenetrable void. In the absence of the moon, this light made a solid
bar athwart the walls of the uneasy tide; and I felt an indescribable
emotion born of the noise of the waters and the perception of my
inconceivable smallness as I cast that tiny beam upon a realm immense
in itself, yet only the black border of the earthly deep. That nighted
deep, upon which ships were moving alone in the darkness where I could
not see them, gave off the murmur of a distant, angry rabble.
When I reached my high residence I knew that I had passed no one during
the mile’s walk from the village, and yet there somehow lingered an
impression that I had been all the while accompanied by the spirit of
the lonely sea. It was, I thought, personified in a shape which was not
revealed to me, but which moved quietly about beyond my range of
comprehension. It was like those actors who wait behind darkened
scenery in readiness for the lines which will shortly call them before
our eyes to move and speak in the sudden revelation of the footlights.
At last I shook off this fancy and sought my key to enter the place,
whose bare walls gave a sudden feeling of security.
My cottage was entirely free of the village, as if it had wandered down
the coast and was unable to return; and there I heard nothing of the
disturbing clamour when I returned each night after supper. I generally
stayed but a short while upon the streets of Ellston, though sometimes
I went into the place for the sake of the walk it provided. There were
all the multitude of curio-shops and falsely regal theater-fronts that
clutter vacation towns, but I never went into these; and the place
seemed useful only for its restaurants. It was astonishing the number
of useless things people found to do.
There was a succession of sun-filled days at first. I rose early, and
beheld the grey sky agleam with promise of sunrise; a prophecy
fulfilled as I stood witness. Those dawns were cold, and their colours
faint in comparison to that uniform radiance of day which gives to
every hour the quality of white noon. That great light, so apparent the
first day, made each succeeding day a yellow page in the book of time.
I noticed that many of the beach-people were displeased by the
inordinate sun, whereas I sought it. After grey months of toil the
lethargy induced by a physical existence in a region governed by the
simple things—the wind and light and water—had a prompt effect upon me;
and since I was anxious to continue this healing process, I spent all
my time outdoors in the sunlight. This induced a state at once
impassive and submissive, and gave me a feeling of security against the
ravenous night. As darkness is akin to death, so is light to vitality.
Through the heritage of a million years ago, when men were closer to
the mother sea, and when the creatures of which we are born lay languid
in the shallow, sun-pierced water, we still seek the primal things when
we are tired, steeping ourselves within their lulling security like
those early half-mammals which had not yet ventured upon the oozy land.
The monotony of the waves gave repose, and I had no other occupation
than witnessing a myriad ocean moods. There is a ceaseless change in
the waters—colours and shades pass over them like the insubstantial
expressions of a well-known face; and these are at once communicated to
us by half-recognized senses. When the sea is restless, remembering old
ships that have gone over her chasms, there comes up silently in our
hearts the longing for a vanished horizon. But when she forgets, we
forget also. Though we know her a lifetime, she must always hold an
alien air, as if something too vast to have shape were lurking in the
universe to which she is a door. The morning ocean, glimmering with a
reflected mist of blue-white cloud and expanding diamond foam, has the
eyes of one who ponders on strange things, and her intricately woven
webs, through which dart a myriad coloured fishes, hold the air of some
great idle thing which will arise presently from the hoary immemorial
chasms and stride upon the land.
I was content for many days, and glad that I had chosen the lonely
house which sat like a small beast upon those rounded cliffs of sand.
Among the pleasantly aimless amusements fostered by such a life, I took
to following the edge of the tide (where the waves left a damp
irregular outline rimmed with evanescent foam) for long distances; and
sometimes I found curious bits of shell in the chance litter of the
sea. There was an astonishing lot of debris on that inward-curving
coast which my bare little house overlooked, and I judged that currents
whose courses diverge from the village beach must reach that spot. At
any rate, my pockets—when I had any—generally held vast stores of
trash; most of which I threw away an hour or two after picking it up,
wondering why I had kept it. Once, however, I found a small bone whose
nature I could not identify, save that it was certainly nothing out of
a fish; and I kept this, along with a large metal bead whose minutely
carven design was rather unusual. This latter depicted a fishy thing
against a patterned background of seaweed instead of the usual floral
or geometrical designs, and was still clearly traceable though worn
with years of tossing in the surf. Since I had never seen anything like
it, I judged that it represented some fashion, now forgotten, of a
previous year at Ellston, where similar fads were common.
I had been there perhaps a week when the weather began a gradual
change. Each stage of this progressive darkening was followed by
another subtly intensified, so that in the end the entire atmosphere
surrounding me had shifted from day to evening. This was more obvious
to me in a series of mental impressions than in what I actually
witnessed, for the small house was lonely under the grey skies, and
there was sometimes a beating wind that came out of the ocean bearing
moisture. The sun was displaced by long intervals of cloudiness—layers
of grey mist beyond whose unknown depth the sun lay cut off. Though it
might glare with the old intensity above that enormous veil, it could
not penetrate. The beach was a prisoner in a hueless vault for hours at
a time, as if something of the night were welling into other hours.
Although the wind was invigorating and the ocean whipped into little
churning spirals of activity by the vagrant flapping, I found the water
growing chill, so that I could not stay in it as long as I had done
previously, and thus I fell into the habit of long walks, which—when I
was unable to swim—provided the exercise that I was so careful to
obtain. These walks covered a greater range of sea-edge than my
previous wanderings, and since the beach extended in a stretch of miles
beyond the tawdry village, I often found myself wholly isolated upon an
endless area of sand as evening drew close. When this occurred, I would
stride hastily along the whispering sea-border, following the outline
so that I should not wander inland and lose my way. And sometimes, when
these walks were late (as they grew increasingly to be) I would come
upon the crouching house that looked like a harbinger of the village.
Insecure upon the wind-gnawed cliffs, a dark blot upon the morbid hues
of the ocean sunset, it was more lonely than by the full light of
either orb; and seemed to my imagination like a mute, questioning face
turned toward me expectant of some action. That the place was isolated
I have said, and this at first pleased me; but in that brief evening
hour when the sun left a gore-splattered decline and darkness lumbered
on like an expanding shapeless blot, there was an alien presence about
the place: a spirit, a mood, an impression that came from the surging
wind, the gigantic sky, and that sea which drooled blackening waves
upon a beach grown abruptly strange. At these times I felt an
uneasiness which had no very definite cause, although my solitary
nature had made me long accustomed to the ancient silence and the
ancient voice of nature. These misgivings, to which I could have put no
sure name, did not affect me long, yet I think now that all the while a
gradual consciousness of the ocean’s immense loneliness crept upon me,
a loneliness that was made subtly horrible by intimations—which were
never more than such—of some animation or sentience preventing me from
being wholly alone.
The noisy, yellow streets of the town, with their curiously unreal
activity, were very far away, and when I went there for my evening meal
(mistrusting a diet entirely of my own ambiguous cooking) I took
increasing and quite unreasonable care that I should return to the
cottage before the late darkness, although I was often abroad until ten
or so.
You will say that such action is unreasonable; that if I had feared the
darkness in some childish way, I would have entirely avoided it. You
will ask me why I did not leave the place since its loneliness was
depressing me. To all this I have no reply, save that whatever unrest I
felt, whatever of remote disturbance there was to me in brief aspects
of the darkening sun or in the eager salt-brittle wind or in the robe
of the dark sea that lay crumpled like an enormous garment so close to
me, was something which had an origin half in my own heart, which
showed itself only at fleeting moments, and which had no very long
effect upon me. In the recurrent days of diamond light, with sportive
waves flinging blue peaks at the basking shore, the memory of dark
moods seemed rather incredible, yet only an hour or two afterward I
might again experience those moods, and descend to a dim region of
despair.
Perhaps these inward emotions were only a reflection of the sea’s own
mood; for although half of what we see is coloured by the
interpretation placed upon it by our minds, many of our feelings are
shaped quite distinctly by external, physical things. The sea can bind
us to her many moods, whispering to us by the subtle token of a shadow
or a gleam upon the waves, and hinting in these ways of her
mournfulness or rejoicing. Always, she is remembering old things, and
these memories, though we may not grasp them, are imparted to us, so
that we share her gaiety or remorse. Since I was doing no work, seeing
no person that I knew, I was perhaps susceptible to shades of her
cryptic meaning which would have been overlooked by another. The ocean
ruled my life during the whole of that late summer; demanding it as
recompense for the healing she had brought me.
There were drownings at the beach that year, and while I heard of these
only casually (such is our indifference to a death which does not
concern us, and to which we are not witness), I knew that their details
were unsavoury. The people who died—some of them swimmers of a skill
beyond the average—were sometimes not found until many days had
elapsed, and the hideous vengeance of the deep had scourged their
rotten bodies. It was as if the sea had dragged them into a chasm-lair
and had mulled them about in the darkness until, satisfied that they
were no longer of any use, she had floated them ashore in a ghastly
state. No one seemed to know what had caused these deaths. Their
frequency excited alarm among the timid, since the undertow at Ellston
was not strong, and since there were known to be no sharks at hand.
Whether the bodies showed marks of any attacks I did not learn, but the
dread of a death which moves among the waves and comes on lone people
from a lightless, motionless place is a dread which men know and do not
like. They must quickly find a reason for such a death, even if there
are no sharks. Since sharks formed only a suspected cause, and one
never to my knowledge confirmed, the swimmers who continued during the
rest of the season were on guard against treacherous tides rather than
against any possible sea-animal.
Autumn, indeed, was not a great distance off, and some people used this
as an excuse for leaving the sea, where men were snared by death, and
going to the security of inland fields, where one cannot even hear the
ocean. So August ended, and I had been at the beach many days.
There had been a threat of a storm since the fourth of the new month,
and on the sixth, when I set out for a walk in the damp wind, there was
a mass of formless cloud, colourless and oppressive, above the ruffled
leaden sea. The motion of the wind, directed toward no especial goal
but stirring uneasily, provided a sensation of coming animation—a hint
of life in the elements which might be the long-expected storm. I had
eaten my luncheon at Ellston, and though the heavens seemed the closing
lid of a great casket, I ventured far down the beach and away from both
the town and my no-longer-to-be-seen house. As the universal grey
became spotted with a carrion purple—curiously brilliant despite its
sombre hue—I found that I was several miles from any possible shelter.
This, however, did not seem very important; for despite the dark skies
with their added glow of unknown presage I was in a curious mood of
detachment paralleling that glow—a mood which flashed through a body
grown suddenly alert and sensitive to the outline of shapes and
meanings that were previously dim. Obscurely, a memory came to me;
suggested by the likeness of the scene to one I had imagined when a
story was read to me in childhood. That tale—of which I had not thought
for many years—concerned a woman who was loved by the dark-bearded king
of an underwater realm of blurred cliffs where fish-things lived, and
who was taken from the golden-haired youth of her troth by a dark being
crowned with a priest-like mitre and having the features of a withered
ape. What had remained in the corner of my fancy was the image of
cliffs beneath the water against the hueless, dusky no-sky of such a
realm; and this, though I had forgotten most of the story, was recalled
quite unexpectedly by the same pattern of cliff and sky which I then
beheld. The sight was similar to what I had imagined in a year now lost
save for random, incomplete impressions. Suggestions of this story may
have lingered behind certain irritating unfinished memories, and in
certain values hinted to my senses by scenes whose actual worth was
bafflingly small. Frequently, in flashes of momentary perception (the
conditions more than the object being significant), we feel that
certain isolated scenes and arrangements—a feathery landscape, a
woman’s dress along the curve of a road by afternoon, or the solidity
of a century-defying tree against the pale morning sky—hold something
precious, some golden virtue that we must grasp. And yet when such a
scene or arrangement is viewed later, or from another point, we find
that it has lost its value and meaning for us. Perhaps this is because
the thing we see does not hold that elusive quality, but only suggests
to the mind some very different thing which remains unremembered. The
baffled mind, not wholly sensing the cause of its flashing
appreciation, seizes on the object exciting it, and is surprised when
there is nothing of worth therein. Thus it was when I beheld the
purpling clouds. They held the stateliness and mystery of old monastery
towers at twilight, but their aspect was also that of the cliffs in the
old fairy-tale. Suddenly reminded of this lost image, I half expected
to see, in the fine-spun dirty foam and among the waves which were now
as if they had been poured of flawed black glass, the horrid figure of
that ape-faced creature, wearing a mitre old with verdigris, advancing
from its kingdom in some lost gulf to which those waves were sky.
I did not see any such creature from the realm of imagining, but as the
chill wind veered, slitting the heavens like a rustling knife, there
lay in the gloom of merging cloud and water only a grey object, like a
piece of driftwood, tossing obscurely on the foam. This was a
considerable distance out, and since it vanished shortly, may not have
been wood, but a porpoise coming to the troubled surface.
I soon found that I had stayed too long contemplating the rising storm
and linking my early fancies with its grandeur, for an icy rain began
spotting down, bringing a more uniform gloom upon a scene already too
dark for the hour. Hurrying along the grey sand, I felt the impact of
cold drops upon my back, and before many moments my clothing was soaked
throughout. At first I had run, put to flight by the colourless drops
whose pattern hung in long linking strands from an unseen sky, but
after I saw that refuge was too far to reach in anything like a dry
state, I slackened my pace, and returned home as if I had walked under
clear skies. There was not much reason to hurry, although I did not
idle as upon previous occasions. The constraining wet garments were
cold upon me; and with the gathering darkness, and the wind that rose
endlessly from the ocean, I could not repress a shiver. Yet there was,
beside the discomfort of the precipitous rain, an exhilaration latent
in the purplish ravelled masses of cloud and the stimulated reactions
of my body. In a mood half of exultant pleasure from resisting the rain
(which streamed from me now, and filled my shoes and pockets) and half
of strange appreciation of those morbid, dominant skies which hovered
with dark wings above the shifting eternal sea, I tramped along the
grey corridor of Ellston Beach. More rapidly than I had expected the
crouching house showed in the oblique, flapping rain, and all the weeds
of the sand cliff writhed in accompaniment to the frantic wind, as if
they would uproot themselves to join the far-travelling element. Sea
and sky had altered not at all, and the scene was that which had
accompanied me, save that there was now painted upon it the hunching
roof that seemed to bend from the assailing rain. I hurried up the
insecure steps, and let myself into a dry room, where, unconsciously
surprised that I was free of the nagging wind, I stood for a moment
with water rilling from every inch of me.
There are two windows in the front of that house, one on each side, and
these face nearly straight upon the ocean; which I now saw half
obscured by the combined veils of the rain and of the imminent night.
From these windows I looked as I dressed myself in a motley array of
dry garments seized from convenient hangers and from a chair too laden
to sit upon. I was prisoned on all sides by an unnaturally increased
dusk which had filtered down at some undefined hour under cover of the
storm. How long I had been on the reaches of wet grey sand, or what the
real time was, I could not tell, though a moment’s search produced my
watch—fortunately left behind and thus avoiding the uniform wetness of
my clothing. I half guessed the hour from the dimly seen hands, which
were only slightly less indecipherable than the surrounding figures. In
another moment my sight penetrated the gloom (greater in the house than
beyond the bleared window) and saw that it was 6:45.
There had been no one upon the beach as I came in, and naturally I
expected to see no further swimmers that night. Yet when I looked again
from the window there appeared surely to be figures blotting the grime
of the wet evening. I counted three moving about in some
incomprehensible manner, and close to the house another—which may not
have been a person, but a wave-ejected log, for the surf was now
pounding fiercely. I was startled to no little degree, and wondered for
what purpose those hardy persons stayed out in such a storm. And then I
thought that perhaps like myself they had been caught unintentionally
in the rain and had surrendered to the watery gusts. In another moment,
prompted by a certain civilised hospitality which overcame my love of
solitude, I stepped to the door and emerged momentarily (at the cost of
another wetting, for the rain promptly descended upon me in exultant
fury) on the small porch, gesticulating toward the people. But whether
they did not see me, or did not understand, they made no returning
signal. Dim in the evening, they stood as if half-surprised, or as if
they awaited some other action from me. There was in their attitude
something of that cryptic blankness, signifying anything or nothing,
which the house wore about itself as seen in the morbid sunset.
Abruptly there came to me a feeling that a sinister quality lurked
about those unmoving figures who chose to stay in the rainy night upon
a beach deserted by all people, and I closed the door with a surge of
annoyance which sought all too vainly to disguise a deeper emotion of
fear; a consuming fright that welled up from the shadows of my
consciousness. A moment later, when I had stepped to the window, there
seemed to be nothing outside but the portentous night. Vaguely puzzled,
and even more vaguely frightened—like one who has seen no alarming
thing, but is apprehensive of what may be found in the dark street he
is soon compelled to cross—I decided that I had very possibly seen no
one, and that the murky air had deceived me.
The aura of isolation about the place increased that night, though just
out of sight on the northward beach a hundred houses rose in the rainy
darkness, their light bleared and yellow above streets of polished
glass, like goblin-eyes reflected in an oily forest pool. Yet because I
could not see them, or even reach them in bad weather—since I had no
car nor any way to leave the crouching house except by walking in the
figure-haunted darkness—I realized quite suddenly that I was, to all
intents, alone with the dreary sea that rose and subsided unseen,
unkenned, in the mist. And the voice of the sea had become a hoarse
groan, like that of something wounded which shifts about before trying
to rise.
Fighting away the prevalent gloom with a soiled lamp—for the darkness
crept in at my windows and sat peering obscurely at me from the corners
like a patient animal—I prepared my food, since I had no intention of
going to the village. The hour seemed incredibly advanced, though it
was not yet nine o’clock when I went to bed. Darkness had come early
and furtively, and throughout the remainder of my stay lingered
evasively over each scene and action which I beheld. Something had
settled out of the night—something forever undefined, but stirring a
latent sense within me, so that I was like a beast expecting the
momentary rustle of an enemy.
There were hours of wind, and sheets of the downpour flapped endlessly
on the meagre walls barring it from me. Lulls came in which I heard the
mumbling sea, and I could guess that large formless waves jostled one
another in the pallid whine of the winds, and flung on the beach a
spray bitter with salt. Yet in the very monotony of the restless
elements I found a lethargic note, a sound that beguiled me, after a
time, into slumber grey and colourless as the night. The sea continued
its mad monologue, and the wind her nagging, but these were shut out by
the walls of unconsciousness, and for a time the night ocean was
banished from a sleeping mind.
Morning brought an enfeebled sun—a sun like that which men will see
when the earth is old, if there are any men left: a sun more weary than
the shrouded, moribund sky. Faint echo of its old image, Phoebus strove
to pierce the ragged, ambiguous clouds as I awoke, at moments sending a
wash of pale gold rippling across the northwestern interior of my
house, at others waning till it was only a luminous ball, like some
incredible plaything forgotten on the celestial lawn. After a while the
falling rain—which must have continued throughout the previous
night—succeeded in washing away those vestiges of purple cloud which
had been like the ocean-cliffs in an old fairy-tale. Cheated alike of
the setting and rising sun, that day merged with the day before, as if
the intervening storm had not ushered a long darkness into the world,
but had swollen and subsided into one long afternoon. Gaining heart,
the furtive sun exerted all his force in dispelling the old mist,
streaked now like a dirty window, and cast it from his realm. The
shallow blue day advanced as those grimy wisps retreated, and the
loneliness which had encircled me welled back into a watchful place of
retreat, whence it went no farther, but crouched and waited.
The ancient brightness was now once more upon the sun, and the old
glitter on the waves, whose playful blue shapes had flocked upon that
coast ere man was born, and would rejoice unseen when he was forgotten
in the sepulchre of time. Influenced by these thin assurances, like one
who believes the smile of friendship on an enemy’s features, I opened
my door, and as it swung outward, a black spot upon the inward burst of
light, I saw the beach washed clean of any track, as if no foot before
mine had disturbed the smooth sand. With the quick lift of spirit that
follows a period of uneasy depression, I felt—in a purely yielding
fashion and without volition—that my own memory was washed clean of all
the mistrust and suspicion and disease-like fear of a lifetime, just as
the filth of the water’s edge succumbs to a particularly high tide, and
is carried out of sight. There was a scent of soaked, brackish grass,
like the mouldy pages of a book, commingled with a sweet odour born of
the hot sunlight upon inland meadows, and these were borne into me like
an exhilarating drink, seeping and tingling through my veins as if they
would convey to me something of their own impalpable nature, and float
me dizzily in the aimless breeze. And conspiring with these things, the
sun continued to shower upon me, like the rain of yesterday, an
incessant array of bright spears; as if it also wished to hide that
suspected background presence which moved beyond my sight and was
betrayed only by a careless rustle on the borders of my consciousness,
or by the aspect of blank figures staring out of an ocean void. That
sun, a fierce ball solitary in the whirlpool of infinity, was like a
horde of golden moths against my upturned face. A bubbling white grail
of fire divine and incomprehensible, it withheld from me a thousand
promised mirages where it granted one. For the sun did actually seem to
indicate realms, secure and fanciful, where if I but knew the path I
might wander in this curious exultation. Such things come of our own
natures, for life has never yielded for one moment her secrets; and it
is only in our interpretation of their hinted images that we may find
ecstasy or dullness, according to a deliberately induced mood. Yet ever
and again we must succumb to her deceptions, believing for the moment
that we may this time find the withheld joy. And in this way the fresh
sweetness of the wind, on a morning following the haunted darkness
(whose evil intimations had given me a greater uneasiness than any
menace to my body), whispered to me of ancient mysteries only
half-linked with earth, and of pleasures that were the sharper because
I felt that I might experience only a part of them. The sun and wind
and that scent that rose upon them told me of festivals of gods whose
senses are a millionfold more poignant than man’s and whose joys are a
millionfold more subtle and prolonged. These things, they hinted, could
be mine if I gave myself wholly into their bright deceptive power. And
the sun, a crouching god with naked celestial flesh, an unknown,
too-mighty furnace upon which eye might not look, seemed almost sacred
in the glow of my newly sharpened emotions. The ethereal thunderous
light it gave was something before which all things must worship
astonished. The slinking leopard in his green-chasmed forest must have
paused briefly to consider its leaf-scattered rays, and all things
nurtured by it must have cherished its bright message on such a day.
For when it is absent in the far reaches of eternity, earth will be
lost and black against an illimitable void. That morning, in which I
shared the fire of life, and whose brief moment of pleasure is secure
against the ravenous years, was astir with the beckoning of strange
things whose elusive names can never be written.
As I made my way toward the village, wondering how it might look after
a long-needed scrubbing by the industrious rain, I saw, tangled in a
glimmer of sunlit moisture that was poured over it like a yellow
vintage, a small object like a hand, some twenty feet ahead of me, and
touched by the repetitious foam. The shock and disgust born in my
startled mind when I saw that it was indeed a piece of rotten flesh
overcame my new contentment and engendered a shocked suspicion that it
might actually be a hand. Certainly, no fish, or part of one, could
assume that look, and I thought I saw mushy fingers wed in decay. I
turned the thing over with my foot, not wishing to touch so foul an
object, and it adhered stickily to the leather shoe, as if clutching
with the grasp of corruption. The thing, whose shape was nearly lost,
held too much resemblance to what I feared it might be; and I pushed it
into the willing grasp of a seething wave, which took it from sight
with an alacrity not often shown by those ravelled edges of the sea.
Perhaps I should have reported my find, yet its nature was too
ambiguous to make action natural. Since it had been partly eaten by
some ocean-dwelling monstrousness, I did not think it identifiable
enough to form evidence of an unknown but possible tragedy. The
numerous drownings, of course, came into my mind—as well as other
things lacking in wholesomeness, some of which remained only as
possibilities. Whatever the storm-dislodged fragment may have been, and
whether it were fish or some animal akin to man, I have never spoken of
it until now. After all, there was no proof that it had not merely been
distorted by rottenness into that shape.
I approached the town, sickened by the presence of such an object
amidst the apparent beauty of the clean beach, though it was horribly
typical of the indifference of death in a nature which mingles
rottenness with beauty, and perhaps loves the former more. In Ellston I
heard of no recent drowning or other mishap of the sea, and found no
reference to such in the columns of the local paper—the only one I read
during my stay.
It is difficult to describe the mental state in which succeeding days
found me. Always susceptible to morbid emotions whose dark anguish
might be induced by things outside myself, or might spring from the
abysses of my own spirit, I was ridden by a feeling which was not of
fear or despair, or anything akin to these, but was rather a perception
of the brief hideousness and underlying filth of life—a feeling partly
a reflection of my internal nature and partly a result of broodings
induced by that gnawed rotten object which may have been a hand. In
those days my mind was a place of shadowed cliffs and dark moving
figures, like the ancient unsuspected realm which the fairy-tale
recalled to me. I felt, in brief agonies of disillusionment, the
gigantic blackness of this overwhelming universe, in which my days and
the days of my race were as nothing to the shattered stars; a universe
in which each action is vain and even the emotion of grief a wasted
thing. The hours I had previously spent in something of regained
health, contentment and physical well-being were given now (as if those
days of the previous week were something definitely ended) to an
indolence like that of a man who no longer cares to live. I was
engulfed by a piteous lethargic fear of some ineluctable doom which
would be, I felt, the completed hate of the peering stars and of the
black enormous waves that hoped to clasp my bones within them—the
vengeance of all the indifferent, horrendous majesty of the night
ocean.
Something of the darkness and restlessness of the sea had penetrated my
heart, so that I lived in an unreasoning, unperceiving torment, a
torment none the less acute because of the subtlety of its origin and
the strange, unmotivated quality of its vampiric existence. Before my
eyes lay the phantasmagoria of the purpling clouds, the strange silver
bauble, the recurrent stagnant foam, the loneliness of that bleak-eyed
house, and the mockery of the puppet town. I no longer went to the
village, for it seemed only a travesty of life. Like my own soul, it
stood upon a dark, enveloping sea—a sea grown slowly hateful to me. And
among these images, corrupt and festering, dwelt that of an object
whose human contours left ever smaller the doubt of what it once had
been.
These scribbled words can never tell of the hideous loneliness
(something I did not even wish assuaged, so deeply was it embedded in
my heart) which had insinuated itself within me, mumbling of terrible
and unknown things stealthily circling nearer. It was not a madness:
rather it was a too clear and naked perception of the darkness beyond
this frail existence, lit by a momentary sun no more secure than
ourselves: a realization of futility that few can experience and ever
again touch the life about them: a knowledge that turn as I might,
battle as I might with all the remaining power of my spirit, I could
neither win an inch of ground from the inimical universe, nor hold for
even a moment the life entrusted to me. Fearing death as I did life,
burdened with a nameless dread yet unwilling to leave the scenes
evoking it, I awaited whatever consummating horror was shifting itself
in the immense region beyond the walls of consciousness.
Thus autumn found me, and what I had gained from the sea was lost back
into it. Autumn on the beaches—a drear time betokened by no scarlet
leaf nor any other accustomed sign. A frightening sea which changes
not, though man changes. There was only a chilling of the waters, in
which I no longer cared to enter—a further darkening of the pall-like
sky, as if eternities of snow were waiting to descend upon the ghastly
waves. Once that descent began, it would never cease, but would
continue beneath the white and the yellow and the crimson sun and
beneath that ultimate small ruby which shall yield only to the
futilities of night. The once friendly waters babbled meaningfully at
me, and eyed me with a strange regard; yet whether the darkness of the
scene were a reflection of my own broodings, or whether the gloom
within me were caused by what lay without, I could not have told. Upon
the beach and me alike had fallen a shadow, like that of a bird which
flies silently overhead—a bird whose watching eyes we do not suspect
till the image on the ground repeats the image in the sky, and we look
suddenly upward to find that something has been circling above us
hitherto unseen.
The day was in late September, and the town had closed the resorts
where mad frivolity ruled empty, fear-haunted lives, and where raddled
puppets performed their summer antics. The puppets were cast aside,
smeared with the painted smiles and frowns they had last assumed, and
there were not a hundred people left in the town. Again the gaudy,
stucco-fronted buildings lining the shore were permitted to crumble
undisturbed in the wind. As the month advanced to the day of which I
speak, there grew in me the light of a grey, infernal dawn, wherein I
felt some dark thaumaturgy would be completed. Since I feared such a
thaumaturgy less than a continuance of my horrible suspicions—less than
the too-elusive hints of something monstrous lurking behind the great
stage—it was with more speculation than actual fear that I waited
unendingly for the day of horror which seemed to be nearing. The day, I
repeat, was late in September, though whether the 22nd or 23rd I am
uncertain. Such details have fled before the recollection of those
uncompleted happenings—episodes with which no orderly existence should
be plagued, because of the damnable suggestions (and only suggestions)
they contain. I knew the time with an intuitive distress of spirit—a
recognition too deep for me to explain. Throughout those daylight hours
I was expectant of the night; impatient, perhaps, so that the sunlight
passed like a half-glimpsed reflection in rippled water—a day of whose
events I recall nothing.
It was long since that portentous storm had cast a shadow over the
beach, and I had determined, after hesitations caused by nothing
tangible, to leave Ellston, since the year was chilling and there was
no return to my earlier contentment. When a telegram came for me (lying
two days in the Western Union office before I was located, so little
was my name known) saying that my design had been accepted—winning
above all others in the contest—I set a date for leaving. This news,
which earlier in the year would have affected me strongly, I now
received with a curious apathy. It seemed as unrelated to the unreality
about me, as little pertinent to me, as if it were directed to another
person whom I did not know, and whose message had come to me through
some accident. None the less, it was that which forced me to complete
my plans and leave the cottage by the shore.
There were only four nights of my stay remaining when there occurred
the last of those events whose meaning lies more in the darkly sinister
impression surrounding them than in anything obviously threatening.
Night had settled over Ellston and the coast, and a pile of soiled
dishes attested both to my recent meal and to my lack of industry.
Darkness came as I sat with a cigarette before the seaward window, and
it was a liquid which gradually filled the sky, washing in a floating
moon, monstrously elevated. The flat sea bordering upon the gleaming
sand, the utter absence of tree or figure or life of any sort, and the
regard of that high moon made the vastness of my surroundings abruptly
clear. There were only a few stars pricking through, as if to
accentuate by their smallness the majesty of the lunar orb and of the
restless, shifting tide.
I had stayed indoors, fearing somehow to go out before the sea on such
a night of shapeless portent, but I heard it mumbling secrets of an
incredible lore. Borne to me on a wind out of nowhere was the breath of
some strange and palpitant life—the embodiment of all I had felt and of
all I had suspected—stirring now in the chasms of the sky or beneath
the mute waves. In what place this mystery turned from an ancient,
horrible slumber I could not tell, but like one who stands by a figure
lost in sleep, knowing that it will awake in a moment, I crouched by
the windows, holding a nearly burnt-out cigarette, and faced the rising
moon.
Gradually there passed into that never-stirring landscape a brilliance
intensified by the overhead glimmerings, and I seemed more and more
under some compulsion to watch whatever might follow. The shadows were
draining from the beach, and I felt that they took with were all which
might have been a harbour for my thoughts when the hinted thing should
come. Where any of them did remain they were ebon and blank: still
lumps of darkness sprawling beneath the cruel brilliant rays. The
endless tableau of the lunar orb—dead now, whatever her past was, and
cold as the unhuman sepulchres she bears amid the ruin of dusty
centuries older than man—and the sea—astir, perhaps, with some unkenned
life, some forbidden sentience—confronted me with a horrible vividness.
I arose and shut the window; partly because of an inward prompting, but
mostly, I think, as an excuse for transferring momentarily the stream
of thought. No sound came to me now as I stood before the closed panes.
Minutes or eternities were alike. I was waiting, like my own fearing
heart and the motionless scene beyond, for the token of some ineffable
life. I had set the lamp upon a box in the western corner of the room,
but the moon was brighter, and her bluish rays invaded places where the
lamplight was faint. The ancient glow of the round silent orb lay upon
the beach as it had lain for aeons, and I waited in a torment of
expectancy made doubly acute by the delay in fulfillment, and the
uncertainty of what strange completion was to come.
Outside the crouching hut a white illumination suggested vague spectral
forms whose unreal, phantasmal motions seemed to taunt my blindness,
just as unheard voices mocked my eager listening. For countless moments
I was still, as if Time and the tolling of her great bell were hushed
into nothingness. And yet there was nothing which I might fear: the
moon-chiselled shadows were unnatural in no contour, and veiled nothing
from my eyes. The night was silent—I knew that despite my closed
window—and all the stars were fixed mournfully in a listening heaven of
dark grandeur. No motion from me then, or word now, could reveal my
plight, or tell of the fear-racked brain imprisoned in flesh which
dared not break the silence, for all the torture it brought. As if
expectant of death, and assured that nothing could serve to banish the
soul-peril I confronted, I crouched with a forgotten cigarette in my
hand. A silent world gleamed beyond the cheap, dirty windows, and in
one corner of the room a pair of dirty oars, placed there before my
arrival, shared the vigil of my spirit. The lamp burned endlessly,
yielding a sick light hued like a corpse’s flesh. Glancing at it now
and again, for the desperate distraction it gave, I saw that many
bubbles unaccountably rose and vanished in the kerosene-filled base.
Curiously enough, there was no heat from the wick. And suddenly I
became aware that the night as a whole was neither warm nor cold, but
strangely neutral—as if all physical forces were suspended, and all the
laws of a calm existence disrupted.
Then, with an unheard splash which sent from the silver water to the
shore a line of ripples echoed in fear by my heart, a swimming thing
emerged beyond the breakers. The figure may have been that of a dog, a
human being, or something more strange. It could not have known that I
watched—perhaps it did not care—but like a distorted fish it swam
across the mirrored stars and dived beneath the surface. After a moment
it came up again, and this time, since it was closer, I saw that it was
carrying something across its shoulder. I knew, then, that it could be
no animal, and that it was a man or something like a man, which came
toward the land from a dark ocean. But it swam with a horrible ease.
As I watched, dread-filled and passive, with the fixed stare of one who
awaits death in another yet knows he cannot avert it, the swimmer
approached the shore—though too far down the southward beach for me to
discern its outlines or features. Obscurely loping, with sparks of
moonlit foam scattered by its quick gait, it emerged and was lost among
the inland dunes.
Now I was possessed by a sudden recurrence of fear, which had died away
in the previous moments. There was a tingling coldness all over
me—though the room, whose window I dared not open now, was stuffy. I
thought it would be very horrible if something were to enter a window
which was not closed.
Now that I could no longer see the figure, I felt that it lingered
somewhere in the close shadows, or peered hideously at me from whatever
window I did not watch. And so I turned my gaze, eagerly and
frantically, to each successive pane; dreading that I might indeed
behold an intrusive regarding face, yet unable to keep myself from the
terrifying inspection. But though I watched for hours, there was no
longer anything upon the beach.
So the night passed, and with it began the ebbing of that strangeness—a
strangeness which had surged up like an evil brew within a pot, had
mounted to the very rim in a breathless moment, had paused uncertainly
there, and had subsided, taking with it whatever unknown message it had
borne. Like the stars that promise the revelation of terrible and
glorious memories, goad us into worship by this deception, and then
impart nothing. I had come frighteningly near to the capture of an old
secret which ventured close to man’s haunts and lurked cautiously just
beyond the edge of the known. Yet in the end I had nothing, I was given
only a glimpse of the furtive thing; a glimpse made obscure by the
veils of ignorance. I cannot even conceive what might have shown itself
had I been too close to that swimmer who went shoreward instead of into
the ocean. I do not know what might have come if the brew had passed
the rim of the pot and poured outward in a swift cascade of revelation.
The night ocean withheld whatever it had nurtured. I shall know nothing
more.
Even yet I do not know why the ocean holds such a fascination for me.
But then, perhaps none of us can solve those things—they exist in
defiance of all explanation. There are men, and wise men, who do not
like the sea and its lapping surf on yellow shores; and they think us
strange who love the mystery of the ancient and unending deep. Yet for
me there is a haunting and inscrutable glamour in all the ocean’s
moods. It is in the melancholy silver foam beneath the moon’s waxen
corpse; it hovers over the silent and eternal waves that beat on naked
shores; it is there when all is lifeless save for unknown shapes that
glide through sombre depths. And when I behold the awesome billows
surging in endless strength, there comes upon me an ecstasy akin to
fear; so that I must abase myself before this mightiness, that I may
not hate the clotted waters and their overwhelming beauty.
Vast and lonely is the ocean, and even as all things came from it, so
shall they return thereto. In the shrouded depths of time none shall
reign upon the earth, nor shall any motion be, save in the eternal
waters. And these shall beat on dark shores in thunderous foam, though
none shall remain in that dying world to watch the cold light of the
enfeebled moon playing on the swirling tides and coarse-grained sand.
On the deep’s margin shall rest only a stagnant foam, gathering about
the shells and bones of perished shapes that dwelt within the waters.
Silent, flabby things will toss and roll along empty shores, their
sluggish life extinct. Then all shall be dark, for at last even the
white moon on the distant waves shall wink out. Nothing shall be left,
neither above nor below the sombre waters. And until that last
millennium, as after it, the sea will thunder and toss throughout the
dismal night.
Return to “The Night Ocean”
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