Lord of the Flies
By William Golding
Day 3 Audio |
Huts on the Beach
Jack was bent
double. He was down like a sprinter, his nose only a few inches from the humid
earth. The tree trunks and the creepers that festooned them lost themselves in a
green dusk thirty feet above him, and all about was the undergrowth. There was
only the faintest indication of a trail here; a cracked twig and what might be
the impression of one side of a hoof. He lowered his chin and stared at the
traces as though he would force them to speak to him. Then dog-like,
uncomfortably on all fours yet unheeding his discomfort, he stole forward five
yards and stopped. Here was loop of creeper with a tendril pendant from a node.
The tendril was polished on the underside; pigs, passing through the loop,
brushed it with their bristly hide.
Jack crouched
with his face a few inches away from this clue, then stared forward into the
semi-darkness of the undergrowth. His sandy hair, considerably longer than it
had been when they dropped in, was lighter now; and his bare back was a mass of
dark freckles and peeling sunburn. A sharpened stick about five feet long
trailed from his right hand, and except for a pair of tattered shorts held up by
his knife-belt he was naked. He closed his eyes, raised his head and breathed in
gently with flared nostrils, assessing the current of warm air for information.
The forest and he were very still.
At length he
let out his breath in a long sigh and opened his eyes. They were bright blue,
eyes that in this frustration seemed bolting and nearly mad. He passed his
tongue across dry lips and scanned the uncommunicative forest Then again he
stole forward and cast this way and that over the ground.
The silence of
the forest was more oppressive than the heat, and at this hour of the day there
was not even the whine of insects. Only when Jack himself roused a gaudy bird
from a primitive nest of sticks was the silence shattered and echoes set ringing
by a harsh cry that seemed to come out of the abyss of ages. Jack himself shrank
at this cry with a hiss of indrawn breath, and for a minute became less a hunter
than a furtive thing, ape-like among the tangle of trees. Then the trail, the
frustration, claimed’ him again and he searched the ground avidly. By the trunk
of a vast tree that grew pale flowers on its grey bark he checked, closed his
eyes, and once more drew in the warm air; and this time his breath came short,
there was even a passing pallor in his face, and then the surge of blood again.
He passed like a shadow under the darkness of the tree and crouched, looking
down at the trodden ground at his feet.
The droppings
were warm. They lay piled among turned earth. They were olive green, smooth, and
they steamed a little. Jack lifted his head and stared at the inscrutable masses
of creeper that lay across the trail. Then he raised his spear and sneaked
forward. Beyond the creeper, the trail joined a pig-run that was wide enough and
trodden enough to be a path. The ground was hardened by an accustomed tread and
as Jack rose to his full height he heard something moving on it. He swung back
his right arm and hurled the spear with all his strength. From the pig-run came
the quick, hard patter of hoofs, a castanet sound, seductive, maddening-the
promise of meat. He rushed out of the undergrowth and snatched up his spear. The
pattering of pig’s trotters died away in the distance.
Jack stood
there, streaming with sweat, streaked with brown earth, stained by all the
vicissitudes of a day’s hunting. Swearing, he turned off the trail and pushed
his way through until the forest opened a little and instead of bald trunks
supporting a dark roof there were light grey trunks and crowns of feathery palm.
Beyond these was the glitter of the sea and he could hear voices. Ralph was
standing by a contraption of palm trunks and leaves, a rude shelter that faced
the lagoon and seemed very near to falling down. He did not notice when Jack
spoke.
“Got any
water?”
Ralph looked
up, frowning, from the complication of leaves. He did not notice Jack even when
he saw him.
“I said have
you got any water? I’m thirsty.”
Ralph withdrew
his attention from the shelter and realized Jack with a start.
“Oh, hullo.
Water? There by the tree. Ought to be some left.”
Jack took up a
coconut shell that brimmed with fresh water from among a group that was arranged
in the shade, and drank. The water splashed over his chin and neck and chest. He
breathed noisily when he had finished.
“Needed that.”
Simon spoke
from inside the shelter.
“Up a bit.”
Ralph turned
to the shelter and lifted a branch with a whole tiling of leaves.
The leaves
came apart and fluttered down. Simon’s contrite face appeared in the hole.
“Sorry.”
Ralph surveyed
the wreck with distaste.
“Never get it
done.”
He flung
himself down at Jack’s feet Simon remained, looking out of the hole in the
shelter. Once down, Ralph explained.
“Been working
for days now. And look!”
Two shelters
were in position, but shaky. This one was a ruin.
“And they keep
running off. You remember the meeting? How everyone was going to work hard until
the shelters were finished?”
“Except me and
my hunters-”
“Except the
hunters. Well, the littluns are-”
He
gesticulated, sought for a word.
“They’re
hopeless. The older ones aren’t much better. D’you see? All day I’ve been
working with Simon. No one else. They’re off bathing, or eating, or playing.”
Simon poked
his head out carefully.
“You’re chief.
You tell ‘em off.”
Ralph lay flat
and looked up at the palm trees and the sky.
“Meetings.
Don’t we love meetings? Every day. Twice a day. We talk.” He got on one elbow.
“I bet if I blew the conch this minute, they’d come running. Then we’d be, you
know, very solemn, and someone would say we ought to build a jet, or a
submarine, or a TV set. When the meeting was over they’d work for five minutes,
then wander off or go hunting.”
Jack flushed.
“We want
meat.”
“Well, we
haven’t got any yet. And we want shelters. Besides, the rest of your hunters
came back hours ago. They’ve been swimming.”
“I went on,”
said Jack. “I let them go. I had to go on. I-”
He tried to
convey the compulsion to track down and kill that was swallowing him up.
“I went on. I
thought, by myself-”
The madness
came into his eyes again.
“I thought I
might loll.”
“But you
didn’t.”
“I thought I
might.”
Some hidden
passion vibrated in Ralph’s voice.
“But you
haven’t yet.”
His invitation
might have passed as casual, were it not for the undertone.
“You wouldn’t
care to help with the shelters, I suppose?”
“We want
meat-”
“And we don’t
get it.”
Now the
antagonism was audible.
“But I shall!
Next time! I’ve got to get a barb on this spear! We wounded a pig and the spear
fell out. If we could only make barbs-”
“We need
shelters.”
Suddenly Jack
shouted in rage.
“Are you
accusing-?”
“All I’m
saying is we’ve worked dashed hard. That’s all.”
They were both
red in the face and found looking at each other difficult. Ralph rolled on his
stomach and began to play with the grass.
“If it rains
like when we dropped in well need shelters all right. And then another thing. We
need shelters because of the-”
He paused for
a moment and they both pushed their anger away. Then he went on with the safe,
changed subject.
“You’ve
noticed, haven’t you?”
Jack put down
his spear and squatted.
‘Noticed
what?”
“Well. They’re
frightened.”
He rolled over
and peered into Jack’s fierce, dirty face.
“I mean the
way things are. They dream. You can hear ‘em. Have you been awake at night?”
Jack shook his
head.
“They talk and
scream. The littluns. Even some of the others. As if-”
“As if it
wasn’t a good island.” .
Astonished at
the interruption, they looked up at Simon’s serious face.
“As if,” said
Simon, “the beastie, the beastie or the snake-thing, was real. Remember?”
The two older
boys flinched when they heard the shameful syllable. Snakes were not mentioned
now, were not mentionable.
“As if this
wasn’t a good island,” said Ralph slowly. “Yes, that’s right.”
Jack sat up
and stretched out his legs.
“Crackers.
Remember when we went exploring?”
They grinned
at each other, remembering the glamour of the first day. Ralph went on.
“So we need
shelters as a sort of-”
“Home.”
“That’s
right.”
Jack drew up
his legs, clasped his knees, and frowned in an effort to attain clarity.
“All the
same-in the forest. I mean when you’re hunting, not when you’re getting fruit,
of course, but when you’re on your own-”
He paused for
a moment, not sure if Ralph would take him seriously.
“Go on.”
“If you’re
hunting sometimes you catch yourself feeling as if-” He flushed suddenly.
“There’s nothing in it of course. Just a feeling. But you can feel as if you’re
not hunting, but-being hunted, as if something’s behind you all the time in the
jungle.”
They were
silent again: Simon intent, Ralph incredulous and faintly indignant. He sat up,
rubbing one shoulder with a dirty hand.
“Well, I don’t
know.”
Jack leapt to
his feet and spoke very quickly.
“That’s how
you can feel in the forest. Of course there’s nothing in it. Only-only-”
He took a few
rapid steps toward the beach, then came back.
“Only I know
how they feel. See? That’s all.”
“The best
thing we can do is get ourselves rescued.”
Jack had to
think for a moment before he could remember what rescue was.
“Rescue? Yes,
of course! All the same, I’d like to catch a pig first-” He snatched up his
spear and dashed it into the: ground. The opaque, mad look came into his eyes
again. Ralph looked at him critically through his tangle of fair hair.
“So long as
your hunters remember the fire-”
“You and your
fire-”
The two boys
trotted down the beach, and, turning at the water’s edge, looked back at the
pink mountain. The trickle of smoke sketched a chalky line up the solid blue of
the sky, wavered high up and faded. Ralph frowned.
“I wonder how
far off you could see that”
“Miles.”
“We don’t make
enough smoke.”
The bottom
part of the trickle, as though conscious of their gaze, thickened to a creamy
blur which crept up the feeble column.
“They’ve put
on green branches,” muttered Ralph. “I wonder!” He screwed up his eyes and swung
round to search the horizon.”
“Got it!”
Jack shouted
so loudly that Ralph jumped.
“What? Where?
Is it a ship?”
But Jack was
pointing to the high declivities that led down from the mountain to the flatter
part of the island.
“Of course!
They’ll Be up there-they must, when the sun’s too hot-”
Ralph gazed
bewildered at his rapt face.
“-they get up
high. High up and in the shade, resting during the heat, like cows at home-”
“I thought you
saw a ship!”
“We could
steal up on one-paint our faces so they wouldn’t see-perhaps surround them and
then-”
Indignation
took away Ralph’s control.
“I was talking
about smoke! Don’t you want to be rescued? All you can talk about is pig, pig,
pig!”
“But we want
meat!”
“And I work
all day with nothing but Simon and you come back and don’t even notice the
huts!”
“I was working
too-”
“But you like
it!” shouted Ralph. “You want to hunt! While I-”
They faced
each other on the bright beach, astonished at the rub of feeling. Ralph looked
away first, pretending interest in a group of littluns on the sand. From beyond
the platform came the shouting of the hunters in the swimming pool. On the end
of the platform Piggy was lying flat, looking down into the brilliant water.
“People don’t
help much.”
He wanted to
explain how people were never quite what you thought they were.
“Simon. He
helps.” He pointed at the shelters.
“All the rest
rushed off. He’s done as much as I have. Only-”
“Simon’s
always about.”
Ralph started
back to the shelters with Jack by his side.
“Do a bit for
you,” muttered Jack, “before I have a bathe.”
“Don’t
bother.”
But when they
reached the shelters Simon was not to be seen. Ralph put his head in the hole,
withdrew it, and turned to Jack.
“He’s buzzed
off.”
“Got fed up,”
said Jack, “and gone for a bathe.”
Ralph frowned.
“He’s queer.
He’s funny.”
Jack nodded,
as much for the sake of agreeing as anything, and by tacit consent they left the
shelter and went toward the bathing pool.
“And then,”
said Jack, “when I’ve had a bathe and something to eat, I’ll just trek over to
the other side of the mountain and see if I can see any traces. Coming?”
“But the sun’s
nearly set!”
“I might have
time-”
They walked
along, two continents of experience and feeling, unable to communicate.
“If I could
only get a pig!”
“I’ll come
back and go on with the shelter.”
They looked at
each other, baffled, in love and hate. All the warm salt water of the bathing
pool and the shouting and splashing and laughing were only just sufficient to
bring them together again.
Simon was not
in the bathing pool as they had expected.
When the other
two had trotted down the beach to look back at the mountain he had followed them
for a few yards and then stopped. He had stood frowning down at a pile of sand
on the beach where somebody had been trying to build a little house or hut Then
he turned his back on this and walked into the forest with an air of purpose. He
was a small, skinny boy, his chin pointed, and his eyes so bright they had
deceived Ralph into thinking him delightfully happy and wicked. The coarse mop
of black hair was long and swung down, almost concealing a low, broad forehead.
He wore the remains of shorts and his feet were bare like Jack’s. Always darkish
in color, Simon was burned by the sun to a deep tan that glistened with sweat.
He picked his
way up the scar, passed the great rock where Ralph had climbed on the first
morning, then turned off to his right among the trees. He walked with an
accustomed tread through the acres of fruit trees, where the least energetic
could find an easy if unsatisfying meal. Flower and fruit grew together on the
same tree and everywhere was the scent of ripeness and the booming of a million
bees at pasture. Here the littlums who had run after him caught up with him.
They talked, cried out unintelligibly, lugged him toward the trees. Then, amid
the roar of bees in the afternoon sunlight, Simon found for them the fruit they
could not reach, pulled off the choicest from up in the foliage, passed them
back down to the endless, outstretched hands. When he had satisfied them he
paused and looked round. The littluns watched him inscrutably over double
handfuls of ripe fruit.
Simon turned
away from them and went where the just perceptible path led him. Soon high
jungle closed in. Tall trunks bore unexpected pale flowers all the way up to the
dark canopy where life went on clamorously. The air here was dark too, and the
creepers dropped their ropes like the rigging of foundered ships. His feet left
prints in the soft soil and the creepers shivered throughout their lengths when
he bumped them.
He came at
last to a place where more sunshine fell. Since they had not so far to go for
light the creepers had woven a great mat that hung at the side of an open space
in the jungle; for here a patch of rock came close to the surface and would not
allow more than little plants and ferns to grow. The whole space was walled with
dark aromatic bushes, and was a bowl of heat and light. A great tree, fallen
across one comer, leaned against the trees that still stood arid a rapid climber
flaunted red and yellow sprays right to the top.
Simon paused.
He looked over his shoulder as Jack had done at the close ways behind him and
glanced swiftly round to confirm that he was utterly alone. For a moment his
movements were almost furtive. Then he bent down and wormed his way into the
center of the mat. The creepers and the bushes were so close that he left his
sweat on them and they pulled together behind him. When he was secure in the
middle he was in a little cabin screened off from the open space by a few
leaves. He squatted down, parted the leaves arid looked out into the clearing.
Nothing moved but a pair of gaudy butterflies that danced round each other in
the hot air. Holding his breath he cocked a critical ear at the sounds of the
island. Evening was advancing toward the island; the sounds of the bright
fantastic birds, the bee-sounds, even the crying of the gulls that were
returning to their roosts among the square rocks, were fainter. The deep sea
breaking miles away on the reef made an undertone less perceptible than the
susurration of the blood.
Simon dropped
the screen of leaves back into place. The slope of the bars of honey-colored
sunlight decreased; they slid up the bushes, passed over the green candle-like
buds, moved up toward tile canopy, and darkness thickened under the trees. With
the fading of the light the riotous colors died and the heat and urgency cooled
away. The candle-buds stirred. Their green sepals drew back a little and the
white tips of the flowers rose delicately to meet the open air.
Now the
sunlight had lifted clear of the open space and withdrawn from the sky. Darkness
poured out, submerging the ways between the trees tin they were dim and strange
as the bottom of the sea. The candle-buds opened their wide white flowers
glimmering under the light that pricked down from the first stars. Their scent
spilled out into the air and took possession of the island.
Painted Faces and Long Hair
The first
rhythm that they became used to was the slow swing from dawn to quick dusk. They
accepted the pleasures of morning, the bright sun, the whelming sea and sweet
air, as a time when play was good and life so full that hope was not necessary
and therefore forgotten. Toward noon, as the floods of light fell more nearly to
the perpendicular, the stark colors of the morning were smoothed in pearl and
opalescence; and the heat-as though the impending sun’s height gave it momentum-
became a blow that they ducked, running to the shade and lying there, perhaps
even sleeping.
Strange things
happened at midday. The glittering sea rose up, moved apart in planes of blatant
impossibility; the coral reef and the few stunted palms that clung to the more
elevated parts would float up into the sky, would quiver, be plucked apart, run
like raindrops on a wire or be repeated as in an odd succession of mirrors.
Sometimes land loomed where there was no land and flicked out like a bubble as
the children watched. Piggy discounted all this learnedly as a “mirage”; and
since no boy could reach even the reef over the stretch of water where the
snapping sharks waited, they grew accustomed to these mysteries and ignored
them, just as they ignored the miraculous, throbbing stars. At midday the
illusions merged into the sky and there the sun gazed down like an angry eye.
Then, at the end of the afternoon, the mirage subsided and the horizon became
level and blue and clipped as the sun declined. That was another time of
comparative coolness but menaced by the coming of the dark. When the sun sank,
darkness dropped on the island like an extinguisher and soon the shelters were
full of restlessness, under the remote stars.
Nevertheless,
the northern European tradition of work, play, and food right through the day,
made it impossible for them to adjust themselves wholly to this new rhythm. The
littlun Percival had early crawled into a shelter and stayed there for two days,
talking, singing, and crying, till they thought him batty and were faintly
amused. Ever since then he had been peaked, red-eyed, and miserable; a littlun
who played little and cried often.
The smaller
boys were known now by the generic title of “littluns.” The decrease in size,
from Ralph down, was gradual; and though there was a dubious region inhabited by
Simon and Robert and Maurice, nevertheless no one had any difficulty in
recognizing biguns at one end and littluns at the other. The undoubted littluns,
those aged about six, led a quite distinct, and at the same time intense, life
of their own. They ate most of the day, picking fruit where they could reach it
and not particular about ripeness and quality. They were used now to
stomach-aches and a sort of chronic diarrhoea. They suffered untold terrors in
the dark and huddled together for comfort. Apart from food and sleep, they found
time for play, aimless and trivial, in the white sand by the bright water. They
cried for their mothers much less often than might have been expected; they were
very brown, and filthily dirty. They obeyed the summons of the conch, partly
because Ralph blew it, and he was big enough to be a link with the adult world
of authority; and partly because they enjoyed the entertainment of the
assemblies. But otherwise they seldom bothered with the biguns and their
passionately emotional and corporate life was their own.
They had built
castles in the sand at the bar of the little river. These castles were about one
foot high and were decorated with shells, withered flowers, and interesting
stones. Round the castles was a complex of marks, tracks, walls, railway lines,
that were of significance only if inspected with the eye at beach-level. The
littluns played here, if not happily at least with absorbed attention; and often
as many as three of them would play the same game together.
Three were
playing here now. Henry was the biggest of them. He was also a distant relative
of that other boy whose mulberry-marked face had not been seen since the evening
of the great fire; but he was not old enough to understand this, and if he had
been told that the other boy had gone home in an aircraft, he would have
accepted the statement without fuss or disbelief.
Henry was a
bit of a leader this afternoon, because the other two were Percival and Johnny,
the smallest boys on the island. Percival was mouse-colored and had not been
very attractive even to his mother; Johnny was well built, with fair hair and a
natural belligerence. Just now he was being obedient because he was interested;
and the three children, kneeling in the sand, were at peace.
Roger and
Maurice came out of the forest. They were relieved from duty at the fire and had
come down for a swim. Roger led the way straight through the castles, kicking
them over, burying the flowers, scattering the chosen stones. Maurice followed,
laughing, and added to the destruction. The three littluns paused in their game
and looked up. As it happened, the particular marks in which they were
interested had not been touched, so they made no protest. Only Percival began to
whimper with an eyeful of sand and Maurice hurried away. In his other life
Maurice had received chastisement for filling a younger eye with sand. Now,
though there was no parent to let fall a heavy hand, Maurice still felt the
unease of wrongdoing. At the back of his mind formed the uncertain outlines of
an excuse. He muttered something about a swim and broke into a trot.
Roger
remained, watching the littluns. He was not noticeably darker than when he had
dropped in, but the shock of black hair, down his nape and low on his forehead,
seemed to suit his gloomy face and made what had seemed at first an unsociable
remoteness into something forbidding. Percival finished his whimper and went on
playing, for the tears had washed the sand away. Johnny watched him with
china-blue eyes; then began to fling up sand in a shower, and presently Percival
was crying again.
When Henry
tired of his play and wandered off along the beach, Roger followed him, keeping
beneath the palms and drifting casually in the same direction. Henry walked at a
distance from the palms and the shade because he was too young to keep himself
out of the sun. He went down the beach and. busied himself at the water’s edge.
The great Pacific tide was coming in and every few seconds the relatively still
water of the lagoon heaved forwards an inch, There were creatures that lived in
this last fling of the sea, tiny transparencies that came questing in with the
water over the hot, dry sand. With impalpable organs of sense they examined this
new field. Perhaps food had appeared where at the last incursion there had been
none; bird droppings, insects perhaps, any of the strewn detritus of landward
life. Lake a myriad of tiny teeth in a saw, the transparencies came scavenging
over the beach.
This was
fascinating to Henry. He poked about with a bit of stick, that itself was
wave-worn and whitened and a vagrant, and tried to control the motions of the
scavengers. He made little runnels that the tide filled and tried to crowd them
with creatures. He became absorbed beyond mere happiness as he felt himself
exercising control over living things. He talked to them, urging them, ordering
them. Driven back by the tide, his footprints became bays in which they were
trapped and gave him the illusion of mastery. He squatted on his hams at the
water’s edge, bowed, with a shock of hair falling over his forehead and past his
eyes, and the afternoon sun emptied down invisible arrows.
Roger waited
too. At first he had hidden behind a great palm; but Henry’s absorption with the
transparencies was so obvious that at last he stood out in full view. He looked
along the beach. Percival had gone off, crying, and Johnny was left in
triumphant possession of the castles. He sat there, crooning to himself and
throwing sand at an imaginary Percival. Beyond him, Roger could see the platform
and the glints of spray where Ralph and Simon and Piggy and Maurice were diving
in the pool. He listened carefully but could only just hear them.
A sudden
breeze shook the fringe of palm trees, so that the fronds tossed and fluttered.
Sixty feet above Roger, several nuts, fibrous lumps as big as rugby balls, were
loosed from their stems. They fell about him with a series of hard thumps and he
was not touched. Roger did not consider his escape, but looked from the nuts to
Henry and back again.
The subsoil
beneath the palm trees was a raised beach, and generations of palms had worked
loose in this the stones that had lain on the sands of another shore. Roger
stooped, picked up a stone, aimed, and threw it at Henry - threw it to miss. The
stone, that token of preposterous time, bounced five yards to Henry’s right and
fell in the water. Roger gathered a handful of stones and began to throw them.
Yet there was a space round Henry, perhaps six yards in diameter, into which, he
dare not throw. Here, invisible yet strong, was the taboo of the old life. Round
the squatting child was the protection of parents and school and policemen and
the law. Roger’s arm was conditioned by a civilization that knew nothing of him
and was in ruins.
Henry was
surprised by the plopping sounds in the water. He abandoned the noiseless
transparencies and pointed at the center of the spreading rings like a setter.
This side and that the stones fell, and Henry turned obediently but always too
late to see the stones in the air. At last he saw one and laughed, looking for
the friend who was teasing him. But Roger had whipped behind the palm again, was
leaning against it breathing quickly, his eyelids fluttering. Then Henry lost
interest in stones and wandered off..
“Roger.”
Jack was
standing under a tree about ten yards away. When Roger opened his eyes and saw
him, a darker shadow crept beneath the swarthiness of his skin; but Jack noticed
nothing. He was eager, impatient, beckoning, so that Roger went to him.
There was a
small pool at the end of the river, dammed back by sand and full of white
water-lilies and needle-like reeds. Here Sam and Eric were waiting, and Bill
Jack, concealed from the sun, knelt by the pool and opened the two large leaves
that he carried. One of them contained white clay, and the other red. By them
lay a stick of charcoal brought down from the fire.
Jack explained
to Roger as he worked.
“They don’t
smell me. They see me, I think. Something pink, under the trees.”
He smeared on
the clay.
“If only I’d
some green!”
He turned a
halt-concealed face up to Roger and answered the incomprehension of his gaze.
“For hunting.
Like in the war. You know-dazzle paint Like things trying to look like something
else-” He twisted in the urgency of telling. “-lake moths on a tree trunk.”
Roger
understood and nodded gravely. The twins moved toward Jack and began to protest
timidly about something. Jack waved them away.
“Shut up.”
He rubbed the
charcoal stick between the patches of red and white on his face.
“No. You two
come with me.”
He peered at
his reflection and disliked it. He bent down, took up a double handful of
lukewarm water and rubbed the mess from his face. Freckles and sandy eyebrows
appeared.
Roger smiled,
unwillingly.
“You don’t
half look a mess.”
Jack planned
his new face. He made one cheek and one eye-socket white, then he rubbed red
over the other half of his face and slashed a black bar of charcoal across from
right ear to left jaw. He looked in the pool for his reflection, but his
breathing troubled the mirror.
“Samneric. Get
me a coconut. An empty one.”
He knelt,
holding the shell of water. A rounded patch of sunlight fell on his face and a
brightness appeared in the depths of the water. He looked in astonishment, no
longer at himself but at an awesome stranger. He spilt the water and leapt to
his feet, laughing excitedly. Beside the pool his sinewy body held up a mask
that drew their eyes and appalled them. He began to dance and his laughter
became a bloodthirsty snarling. He capered toward Bill, and the mask was a thing
on its own, behind which Jack hid, liberated from shame and self-consciousness.
The face of red and white and black swung through the air and jigged toward
Bill. Bill started up laughing; then suddenly he fell silent and blundered away
through the bushes.
Jack rushed
toward the twins.
“The rest are
making a line. Come on!”
“But-”
“-we-”
“Come on! I’ll
creep up and stab-”
The mask
compelled them.
Ralph climbed
out of the bathing pool and trotted up the beach and sat in the shade beneath
the palms. His fair hair was plastered over his eyebrows and he pushed it back.
Simon was floating in the water and kicking with his feet, and Maurice was
practicing diving. Piggy was mooning about, aimlessly picking up things and
discarding them. The rock-pools which so fascinated him were covered by the
tide, so he was without an interest until the tide went back. Presently, seeing
Ralph under the palms, he came and sat by him.
Piggy wore the
remainders of a pair of shorts, his fat body was golden brown, and the glasses
still flashed when he looked at anything. He was the only boy on the island
whose hair never seemed to grow. The rest were shock-headed, but Piggy’s hair
still lay in wisps over his head as though baldness were his natural state and
this imperfect covering would soon go, like the velvet on a young stag’s
antlers.
“I’ve been
thinking,” he said, “about a clock. We could make a sundial We could put a stick
in the sand, and then-”
The effort to
express the mathematical processes involved was too great. He made a few passes
instead.
“And an
airplane, and a TV set,” said Ralph sourly, “and a steam engine.”
Piggy shook
his head.
“You have to
have a lot of metal things for that,” he said, “and we haven’t got no metal. But
we got a stick.”
Ralph turned
and smiled involuntarily. Piggy was a bore; his fat, his butt-mar and his
matter-of-fact ideas were dull, but there was always a little pleasure to be got
out of pulling his leg, even if one did it by accident.
Piggy saw the
smile and misinterpreted it as friendliness. There had grown up tacitly among
the biguns the opinion that Piggy was an outsider, not only by accent, which did
not matter, but by fat, and butt-mar, and specs, and a certain disinclination
for manual labor. Now, finding that something he had said made Ralph smile, he
rejoiced and pressed his advantage.
“We got a lot
of sticks. We could have a sundial each. Then we should know what the time was.”
“A fat lot of
good that would be.”
“You said you
wanted things done. So as we could be rescued.”
“Oh, shut up.”
He leapt to
his feet and trotted back to the pool, just as
Maurice did a
rather poor dive. Ralph was glad of a chance to change the subject. He shouted
as Maurice came to the surface.
“Belly flop!
Belly flop!”
Maurice
flashed a smile at Ralph who slid easily into the water. Of all the boys, he was
the most at home there; but today, irked by the mention of rescue, the useless,
footling mention of rescue, even the green depths of water and the shattered,
golden sun held no balm. Instead of remaining and playing, he swam with steady
strokes under Simon and crawled out of the other side of the pool to lie there,
sleek and streaming like a seal. Piggy, always clumsy, stood up and came to
stand by him, so mat Ralph rolled on his stomach and pretended not to see. The
mirages had died away and gloomily he ran his eye along the taut blue line of
the horizon.
The next
moment he was on his feet and shouting.
“Smoke!
Smoke!”
Simon tried to
sit up in the water and got a mouthful. Maurice, who had been standing ready to
dive, swayed back on his heels, made a bolt for the platform, then swerved back
to the grass under the palms. There he started to pull on his tattered shorts,
to be ready for anything.
Ralph stood,
one hand holding back his hair, the other clenched. Simon was climbing out of
the water. Piggy was rubbing his glasses on his shorts and squinting at the sea.
Maurice had got both legs through one leg of his shorts. Of all the boys, only
Ralph was still.
1 can’t see no
smoke,” said Piggy incredulously. “I can’t see no smoke, Ralph-where is it?”
Ralph said
nothing. Now both his hands were clenched over his forehead so that the fair
hair was kept out of his eyes. He was leaning forward and already the salt was
whitening his body.
“Ralph-where s
the ship?”
Simon stood
by, looking from Ralph to the horizon. Maurice’s trousers gave way with a sigh
and he abandoned them as a wreck, rushed toward the forest, and then came back
again.
The smoke was
a tight little knot on the horizon and was uncoiling slowly. Beneath the smoke
was a dot that might be a funnel. Ralph’s face was pale as he spoke to himself.
They’ll see
our smoke.”
Piggy was
looking in the right direction now.
“It don’t look
much.”
He turned
round and peered up at the mountain. Ralph continued to watch the ship,
ravenously. Color was coming back into his face. Simon stood by him, silent.
“I know I
can’t see very much,” said Piggy, “but have we got any smoke?”
Ralph moved
impatiently, still watching the ship.
“The smoke on
the mountain.”
Maurice came
running, and stared out to sea. Both Simon and Piggy were looking up at the
mountain. Piggy screwed up his face but Simon cried out as though he had hurt
himself.
“Ralph!
Ralph!”
The quality of
his speech twisted Ralph on the sand.
“You tell me,”
said Piggy anxiously. “Is there a signal?”
Ralph looked
back at the dispersing smoke on the horizon, then up at the mountain.
“Ralph-please!
Is there a signal?”
Simon put out
his hand, timidly, to touch Ralph; but Ralph started to run, splashing through
the shallow end of the bathing pool, across the hot, white sand and under the
palms. A moment later he was battling with the complex undergrowth that was
already engulfing the scar. Simon ran after him, then Maurice. Piggy shouted.
“Ralph!
Please-Ralph!”
Then he too
started to run, stumbling over Maurice’s discarded shorts before he was across
the terrace. Behind the four boys, the smoke moved gently along the horizon; and
on the beach, Henry and Johnny were throwing sand at Percival who was crying
quietly again; and all three were in complete ignorance of the excitement.
By the time
Ralph had reached the landward end of the scar he was using precious breath to
swear. He did desperate violence to his naked body among the rasping creepers so
that blood was sliding over him. Just where the steep ascent of the mountain
began, he stopped. Maurice was only a few yards behind him.
“Piggy’s
specs!” shouted Ralph. “If the fire’s all out, well need them-”
He stopped
shouting and swayed on his feet. Piggy was only just visible, bumbling up from
the beach. Ralphlooked at the horizon, then up to the mountain. Was it better to
fetch Piggy’s glasses, or would the ship have gone? Or if they climbed on,
supposing the fire was all out, and they had to watch Piggy crawling nearer and
the ship sinking under the horizon? Balanced on a high peak of need, agonized by
indecision, Ralph cried out:
“Oh God, oh
God!”
Simon,
struggling with bushes, caught his breath. His face was twisted. Ralph blundered
on, savaging himself, as the wisp of smoke moved on.
The fire was
dead. They saw that straight away; saw what they had really known down on the
beach when the smoke of home had beckoned. The fire was out, smokeless and dead;
the watchers were gone. A pile of unused fuel lay ready.
Ralph turned
to the sea. The horizon stretched, impersonal once more, barren of all but the
faintest trace of smoke. Ralph ran stumbling along the rocks, saved himself on
the edge of the pink cliff, and screamed at the ship.
“Come back!
Come back!”
He ran
backwards and forwards along the cliff, his face always to the sea, and his
voice rose insanely.
“Come back!
Come back!”
Simon and
Maurice arrived. Ralph looked at them with unwinking eyes. Simon turned away,
smearing the water from his cheeks. Ralph reached inside himself for the worst
word he knew.
“They let the
bloody fire go out.”
Day Four Text | Lord of the Flies |
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