Norman Invasions Read Online Free PDF Page B

alive, that you were not killed, drowned?”
    â€œI mean it no harm,” said Duncan. “I think it knows that, as you know I mean you no harm. I do not threaten it. I let it be.”
    â€œBut surely you believe it to be some unnatural, demonic, dangerous thing?”
    â€œToo,” said Duncan, “I knew your father.”
    I remembered the beast of the dream, rearing, snorting, with its wide, distended nostrils and burning eyes, its mane wild, whipped and torn as in the blasts of a hurricane, seeming to be in more than the room, the high, broad hoofs flailing above me, like hammers.
    â€œWhat difference would that make?” I asked.
    â€œI do not know what it is,” said Duncan. “I do know that it is, for I have seen it.”
    â€œAnd you have lived to tell about it.”
    â€œIf none lived to tell about it,” said Duncan, “its existence would not be known, would it?”
    â€œNo,” I laughed, “it would not be.” It seemed to me that he made his point, or something like it, in his daft way. Certainly I granted it to him.
    â€œPerhaps it does not know I have seen it,” said Duncan.
    It does now.
    â€œWhat did you say?” asked Duncan.
    How strange he was. I had not said anything.
    I myself had seen the thing, or a form of it, only in dreams. I had, of course, seen prints. So had most in the village, I wager, those who, in the daylight, had gone down to the beach.
    â€œThe whole thing is a hoax,” I said.
    â€œGavin is angry,” he said.
    â€œWhere is Gavin?” I asked.
    â€œNot here,” said he.
    â€œWhat is he angry about?” I asked.
    â€œThe whole business,” he said. “I warned him not to interfere.”
    He will not interfere.
    â€œWhat?” asked Duncan, looking up.
    But I shook my head, again I had said nothing.
    Sweet Duncan, sweet, superstitious old fool.
    I waited until Duncan had finished his pipe, and then I finished my ale, I had limited myself to one, and took my leave.
    I wished to avoid the storm.
    I missed seeing Gavin, for I was fond of him. He was one of the few villagers of my own age, or nearly so, perhaps a year or two younger. He had had some education. Sometimes we had spoken, about the sea, the village, fishing, and about London, that great, mysterious, far-off, sparkling, bejeweled, wicked city to the south.
    Some of the villagers were illiterate. I rather doubted that Duncan could read or write, but I never inquired into the matter.
    When I left the pub, to return to Hill House, I glanced up at the moon, through the racing clouds. I felt a drop of rain. There was a flash of lighting, far out to sea. It was a full moon as far as I could tell, but I had not kept track of such things, maybe a little less, a little more, maybe full. The astronomy of natural satellites had little to do, as far as I could tell, with the economics of guild socialism.
    It had started to rain when I came to Hill House, but I did not immediately enter. I thought I might have heard a small cry, far off, but it was the wind. I looked up at the window, and the adjoining wall, which had now been repaired, though not yet painted. I had rather expected to see the cat there, ensconced in one of her favorite coigns of vantage, but was disappointed. I trusted she would take shelter as the night threatened to be formidable. I was pleased I had left the pub as early as I had.
    I turned toward the door when the clouds broke and the moon loomed over me, white and monstrous. Then the clouds closed again, obscuring it.
    I would be very pleased to reach the shelter of my room. I entered and went up the stairs. The outside door had not yet been locked. I gathered it would be, later. At least one of Mrs. Fraser’s roomers had suggested that precaution. The cat, of course, could come and go through the cat flap in the kitchen door.
    I made a brief entry in my journal, and prepared to spend the rest of the evening reading. The