The Toilers of the Sea (18 page)

V

THE BIRD'S-NESTERS

It was about the time of Sieur Clubin's visit to Torteval on that Saturday morning that there occurred a singular event that was at first little spoken of in the district and only transpired long afterward. For, as we have just remarked, many things remain unknown because of the alarm they cause to those who have witnessed them.

That Saturday night—we give the exact date and believe it to be correct—three boys climbed up the cliffs at Pleinmont. They were on their way back to the village, coming from the sea. They had been bird's-nesting. Wherever there are cliffs and rock crevices above the sea there are children robbing birds' nests. We mentioned this earlier: it will be remembered that Gilliatt was concerned about it, for the sake both of the birds and of the children.

These bird's-nesters are the street urchins of the ocean, not easily frightened.

The night was very dark. Successive layers of dense cloud concealed the zenith. Three o'clock in the morning had just struck in the church tower at Torteval, which is round and pointed, like a magician's hat.

Why were the boys returning home so late? The reason was very simple. They had gone in search of seagulls' eggs on the Tas de Pois d'Aval. That year the weather had been very mild, and the birds had begun to mate very early. The boys, watching the male and female birds coming and going around the nests and carried away by the eagerness of their quest, had forgotten what time it was. They had been surrounded by the rising tide and had been unable to get back in time to the little creek where they had moored their boat, and had had to wait on one of the projecting rocks on the Tas de Pois until the tide receded. Hence the lateness of their return home. Children late in returning home are waited for by their anxious mothers, who, reassured by their return, vent their joy in anger: anger, swollen by tears, which is dissipated by boxing their ears. And so the boys, anxious themselves, were hurrying home. They were hurrying with the particular kind of haste that would be glad of any delay and contains some degree of reluctance to return. They were looking forward to a reception made up of both kisses and cuffs.

Only one of the boys had nothing to fear on that head: he was an orphan. This boy was French; he had neither father nor mother, and at present was glad that he had no mother. Since no one was concerned for his welfare, he would not be beaten. The two others were Guernsey boys, belonging to the parish of Torteval.

After scaling the rocky hill the three boys arrived on the level area on which the haunted house stands.

At first they felt afraid, which is to be expected of anyone, and particularly any child, passing that way at that time of night. They felt a strong urge to make off as fast as they could, but they also felt an urge to stop and look.

They stopped. They looked at the house. It was black and terrifying.

Standing in the center of the deserted hilltop, it was a dark block, a hideous symmetrical excrescence, a tall square mass with surfaces set at right angles, resembling an enormous altar of darkness.

The boys' first thought had been to flee; the second was to go closer. They had never seen the house at this time of night. There is such a thing as the desire to experience fear. They had a French boy with them, and this emboldened them to approach the house. It is well known that the French believe in nothing. Besides, when there are several of you in danger, this is reassuring; when there are three of you afraid, this gives you courage.

And then they were hunters; they were children, with not as much as thirty years among the three of them; they were questing, they were searching, they were seeking out hidden things.

Why should they not stop and look? If you peer into one hole, why not peer into another?

When you are hunting for something, you are undergoing a course of training; when you are seeking to discover something, you are caught up in a chain of action. If you have been in the habit of looking into birds' nests, it gives you an itch to look into the nests of specters. Rummaging about in Hell: why not?

Hunting one prey after another, you eventually come to the Devil. After sparrows, hobgoblins. You have to learn to cope with all the fears that your parents have instilled in you. Tracking down old wives' tales brings you onto a very slippery slope. The idea of knowing as much as the old wives is tempting.

All this hotchpotch of ideas, in the state of confusion and the instinctive feelings in the minds of these Guernsey boys, combined to make them bold. They walked toward the house.

The boy who was their leader in this display of courage was worthy of the role. He was a resolute lad, a caulker's apprentice, one of those children who are already men; sleeping on straw in a shed at his place of work, earning his own living, loud-voiced, a great climber of walls and trees, without any prejudices about any apples he came across; he had worked on the refitting of warships; a child of chance, a cheerful orphan; born in France, no one knew where, he had two reasons for being bold; ready to give a penny to a beggar; mischievous, but good at heart; fair hair, with a reddish tinge; he had spoken to people from Paris. Just now he was earning a shilling a day caulking the fishermen's boats that put in at Les Pêqueries for repair. When he felt like it, he would take a holiday and go bird's-nesting. Such was the little French boy.

There was something funereal about the solitude of the place. Its inviolability had a menacing feel. It was eerie. The bare, silent hilltop sloped down to the cliff a short distance away. The sea, down below, was quiet. There was no wind. Not a blade of grass stirred. The bird'snesters walked on slowly, with the French boy leading, looking at the house. Later one of them, telling their story, or what little he remembered of it, said: “The house didn't speak.”

As they approached the house they held their breath, as if they were approaching a wild beast.

They had come up the steep path behind the house that starts from a small rocky and inhospitable isthmus on the coast and had reached the top quite near the house. But they could see only the south front of the house, which is completely walled up. They had not dared to turn left, which would have brought them in sight of the other side with its two terrifying windows.

Then they grew bolder, the apprentice caulker having whispered, “Let's steer to port. That's the best side of the house; we must see the two black windows.”

They “steered to port” and reached the other side of the house.

There were lights in the windows.

The boys turned tail.

When they were at a safe distance the French boy turned around. “Look,” he said: “the lights have gone out.” And indeed the windows were now dark again. The outlines of the house stood out sharply against the livid sky.

The boys had not lost their fears, but their curiosity returned. They moved closer to the house.

Suddenly lights again appeared at both windows.

The two Torteval boys took to their heels. The little devil of a French boy stopped in his tracks but did not retreat. He remained motionless, facing the house and watching.

The lights went out, and then came on again. It was terrifying. The reflection made a vague train of fire on the grass, which was moistened by the night dew. For a moment the light outlined on the inside walls of the house tall black moving figures and the shadows of enormous heads.

Since the house had no ceilings or internal partitions, having nothing left but its four walls and the roof, if there was light at one window there was bound to be light at the other.

Seeing that the apprentice caulker was standing firm, the other two boys returned slowly, one after the other, trembling but curious. The apprentice caulker whispered: “There are ghosts in the house. I saw the nose of one of them.” The two Torteval boys huddled behind the French boy; and, standing on tiptoe, sheltered by him, using him as a shield, confronting the house with him, reassured that he stood between them and the ghostly vision, they looked over his shoulder at the house.

The house for its part seemed to be looking at them. There it stood in the vast silent darkness, with two glaring eyes—the windows. The light disappeared, reappeared, and then disappeared again, as lights of that kind do. This sinister intermittence is probably the result of the coming and going of Hell: gaping open and then closing again. The window in a sepulcher acts somewhat like a dark lantern.

Suddenly a dense black shadow in the form of a man appeared at one of the windows as if coming from outside, then disappeared into the interior. It looked as if someone had entered the house. Entering a house through the window is the normal practice of ghosts.

For a moment the light was brighter, and then it went out and did not reappear. The house became black again. Then sounds were heard—sounds resembling voices. It is always the way. When you see you cannot hear; when you cannot see you hear.

Night over the sea has a quietness all its own. The silence of darkness is deeper there than anywhere else. When there are neither wind nor waves on this vast moving expanse, where normally you could not hear the beat of an eagle's wings, you could hear the wings of a fly. This sepulchral quiet set off more sharply the sounds coming from the house.

“Let's have a look,” said the French boy. And he took a step toward the house. The other two were in such terror that they made up their minds to follow him. They had not courage enough to escape on their own.

They had just passed a large pile of sticks, which somehow seemed to reassure them in this solitude, when an owl flew out of a bush, amid a rustling of branches. Owls have a curious swerving flight that is vaguely disturbing. The bird flew close to the boys, staring at them out of its round eyes, which gleamed in the darkness. The two boys to the rear shuddered. The French boy addressed the owl: “Sparrow, you're too late. I'm not going to stop now. I want to see what's going on.” And he went on.

In spite of the crackling sound of his heavy hobnailed shoes on the furze, the sounds from the house could still be heard, rising and falling in the measured tones and the continuity of a conversation.

A moment later he added: “Anyway, it's only stupid people that believe in ghosts.”

This insolence in the face of danger rallied the laggards and urged them on.

The two Torteval boys walked on, falling into step behind the apprentice caulker.

The haunted house seemed to them to grow enormously large. This optical illusion caused by fear had a basis in reality: the house was indeed growing larger because they were drawing nearer to it.

Meanwhile the voices in the house grew steadily clearer. The boys listened. The ear also has a magnifying power. The sound was more than a murmur, more than a whisper, less than a babel of voices. Now and then a few words could be made out; but the words had a peculiar sound and the boys could not understand them. They stopped, listened, and then moved on.

“It's ghosts talking,” murmured the apprentice caulker; “but I don't believe in ghosts.”

The Torteval boys were tempted to retreat beyond the pile of sticks; but it was a long way back, and their friend was still walking toward the house. They were afraid to stay with him, but they did not dare to leave him.

Step by step, much troubled, they followed him.

The apprentice caulker turned to them, saying: “You know it isn't true. There are no such things as ghosts.”

The house was growing increasingly tall. The voices were becoming increasingly distinct.

They drew nearer.

As they approached they realized that there was some kind of shaded light in the house. It was a very faint gleam, as if from a dark lantern, like those commonly used in witches' sabbaths.

When they were quite close they stopped.

One of the two Torteval boys ventured: “They aren't ghosts; they are ladies in white.”

“What's that hanging from one of the windows?” asked the other.

“It looks like a rope.”

“It's a snake.”

“It's a hangman's rope,” said the French boy, with an air of authority. “They always use one. But I still don't believe in them.”

And in three bounds rather than three steps he was at the foot of the wall. There was something feverish in his boldness.

The other two, trembling, followed him. They huddled close to him, one on his right, the other on his left. They held their ears close to the wall. The conversation in the house was still continuing.

This was what the ghosts were saying:
¹³⁰

“Well, that's agreed, then?”

“Yes.”

“It's settled?”

“Yes.”

“A man will be waiting here, and he'll go to England with Blasquito?”

“He'll pay?”

“Yes, he'll pay.”

“Blasquito will take him in his boat.”

“Without asking what country he comes from?”

“That's none of our business.”

“Without asking his name?”

“We don't ask for names: we weigh the purse.”

“Right. The man will be waiting in this house.”

“He'll need some food.”

“He will get it.”

“Where?”

“In this bag I've brought with me.”

“Good.”

“Can I leave the bag here?”

“Smugglers aren't thieves.”

“And the rest of you, when are you sailing?”

“Tomorrow morning. If your man were ready he could come with us.”

“He isn't ready.”

“That's his lookout.”

“How long will he have to wait here?”

“Two, three, four days. Perhaps less, perhaps more.”

“Are you sure Blasquito will come?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“Here? To Pleinmont?”

“Yes: to Pleinmont.”

“How soon?”

“Next week.”

“Which day?”

“Friday, Saturday, or Sunday.”

“Without fail?”