CHAPTER TWELVE
Cry of the Hunters
Ralph lay in a covert, wondering about his wounds. The
bruised flesh was inches in diameter over his right ribs, with a swollen and
bloody scar where the spear had hit him. His hair was full of dirt and tapped
like the tendrils of a creeper. All over he was scratched and bruised from his
flight through the forest. By the time his breathing was normal again, he had
worked out that bathing these injuries would have to wait. How could you listen
for naked feet if you were splashing in water? How could you be safe by the
little stream or on the open beach?
Ralph listened. He was not really far from the Castle
Rock, and during the first panic he had thought he heard sounds of pursuit. But
the hunters had only sneaked into the fringes of the greenery, retrieving spears
perhaps, and then had rushed back to the sunny rock as if terrified of the
darkness under the leaves. He had even glimpsed one of them, striped brown,
black, and red, and had judged that it was Bill. But really, thought Ralph,
this was not Bill. This was a savage whose image refused to blend with that
ancient picture of a boy in shorts and shirt.
The afternoon died away; the circular spots of sunlight
moved steadily over green fronds and brown fiber but no sound came from behind
the rock. At last Ralph wormed out of the ferns and sneaked forward to the edge
of that impenetrable thicket that fronted the neck of land. He peered with
elaborate caution between branches at the edge and could see Robert sitting on
guard at the top of the cliff. He held a spear in his left hand and was tossing
up a pebble and catching it again with the right. Behind him a column of smoke
rose thickly, so that Ralph's nostrils flared and his mouth dribbled. He wiped
his nose and mouth with the back of his hand and for the first time since the
morning felt hungry. The tribe must be sitting round the gutted pig, watching
the fat ooze and burn among the ashes. They would be intent.
Another figure, an unrecognizable one, appeared by Robert
and gave him something, then turned and went back behind the rock. Robert laid
his spear on the rock beside him and began to gnaw between his raised hands. So
the feast was beginning and the watchman had been given his portion.
Ralph saw that for the time being he was safe. He limped
away through the fruit trees, drawn by the thought of the poor food yet bitter
when he remembered the feast. Feast today, and then tomorrow. . . .
He argued unconvincingly that they would let him alone,
perhaps even make an outlaw of him. But then the fatal unreasoning knowledge
came to him again. The breaking of the conch and the deaths of Piggy and Simon
lay over the island like a vapor. These painted savages would go further and
further. Then there was that indefinable connection between himself and Jack;
who therefore would never let him alone; never.
He paused, sun-flecked, holding up a bough, prepared to
duck under it. A spasm of terror set him shaking and he cried aloud.
"No. They're not as bad as that. It was an
accident."
He ducked under the bough, ran clumsily, then stopped and
listened.
He came to the smashed acres of fruit and ate greedily.
He saw two littluns and, not having any idea of his own appearance, wondered
why they screamed and ran.
When he had eaten he went toward the beach. The sunlight
was slanting now into the palms by the wrecked shelter. There was the platform
and the pool. The best thing to do was to ignore this leaden feeling about the
heart and rely on their common sense, their daylight sanity. Now that the tribe
had eaten, the thing to do was to try again. And anyway, he couldn't stay here
all night in an empty shelter by the deserted platform. His flesh crept and he
shivered in the evening sun. No fire; no smoke; no rescue. He turned and limped
away through the forest toward Jack's end of the island.
The slanting sticks of sunlight were lost among the
branches. At length he came to a clearing in the forest where rock prevented
vegetation from growing. Now it was a pool of shadows and Ralph nearly flung
himself behind a tree when he saw something standing in the center; but then he
saw that the white face was bone and that the pig's skull grinned at him from
the top of a stick. He walked slowly into the middle of the clearing and looked
steadily at the skull that gleamed as white as ever the conch had done and
seemed to jeer at him cynically. An inquisitive ant was busy in one of the eye
sockets but otherwise the thing was lifeless.
Or was it?
Little prickles of sensation ran up and down his back. He
stood, the skull about on a level with his face, and held up his hair with two
hands. The teeth grinned, the empty sockets seemed to hold his gaze masterfully
and without effort.
What was it?
The skull regarded Ralph like one who knows all the
answers and won't tell. A sick fear and rage swept him. Fiercely he hit out at
the filthy thing in front of him that bobbed like a toy and came back, still
grinning into his face, so that he lashed and cried out in loathing. Then he
was licking his bruised knuckles and looking at the bare stick, while the skull
lay in two pieces, its grin now six feet across. He wrenched the quivering
stick from the crack and held it as a spear between him and the white pieces.
Then he backed away, keeping his face to the skull that lay grinning at the
sky.
When the green glow had gone from the horizon and night
was fully accomplished, Ralph came again to the thicket in front of the Castle
Rock. Peeping through, he could see that the height was still occupied, and
whoever it was up there had a spear at the ready.
He knelt among the shadows and felt his isolation
bitterly. They were savages it was true; but they were human, and the ambushing
fears of the deep night were coming on.
Ralph moaned faintly. Tired though he was, he could not
relax and fall into a well of sleep for fear of the tribe. Might it not be
possible to walk boldly into the fort, say-- "I've got pax," laugh
lightly and sleep among the others? Pretend they were still boys, schoolboys
who had said, "Sir, yes, Sir"--and worn caps? Daylight might have answered
yes; but darkness and the horrors of death said no. Lying there in the
darkness, he knew he was an outcast.
" 'Cos I had some sense."
He rubbed his cheek along his forearm, smelling the acrid
scent of salt and sweat and the staleness of dirt. Over to the left, the waves
of ocean were breathing, sucking down, then boiling back over the rock.
There were sounds coming from behind the Castle Rock.
Listening carefully, detaching his mind from the swing of the sea, Ralph could
make out a familiar rhythm.
"_Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his
blood!_"
The tribe was dancing. Somewhere on the other side of
this rocky wall there would be a dark circle, a glowing fire, and meat. They
would be savoring food and the comfort of safety.
A noise nearer at hand made him quiver. Savages were
clambering up the Castle Rock, right up to the top, and he could hear voices.
He sneaked forward a few yards and saw the shape at the top of the rock change
and enlarge. There were only two boys on the island who moved or talked like
that.
Ralph put his head down on his forearms and accepted this
new fact like a wound. Samneric were part of the tribe now. They were guarding
the Castle Rock against him. There was no chance of rescuing them and building
up an outlaw tribe at the other end of the island. Samneric were savages like
the rest; Piggy was dead, and the conch smashed to powder.
At length the guard climbed down. The two that remained
seemed nothing more than a dark extension of the rock. A star appeared behind
them and was momentarily eclipsed by some movement.
Ralph edged forward, feeling his way over the uneven
surface as though he were blind. There were miles of vague water at his right
and the restless ocean lay under his left hand, as awful as the shaft of a pit.
Every minute the water breathed round the death rock and flowered into a field
of whiteness. Ralph crawled until he found the ledge of the entry in his grasp.
The lookouts were immediately above him and he could see the end of a spear
projecting over the rock.
He called very gently.
"Samneric--"
There was no reply. To carry he must speak louder; and
this would rouse those striped and inimical creatures from their feasting by
the fire. He set his teeth and started to climb, finding the holds by touch.
The stick that had supported a skull hampered him but he would not be parted
from his only weapon. He was nearly level with the twins before he spoke again.
"Samneric--"
He heard a cry and a flurry from the rock. The twins had
grabbed each other and were gibbering.
"It's me. Ralph."
Terrified that they would run and give the alarm, he
hauled himself up until his head and shoulders stuck over the top. Far below
his armpit he saw the luminous flowering round the rock.
"It's only me. Ralph."
At length they bent forward and peered in his face.
"We thought it was--"
"--we didn't know what it was--"
"--we thought--"
Memory of their new and shameful loyalty came to them.
Eric was silent but Sam tried to do his duty.
"You got to go, Ralph. You go away now--"
He wagged his spear and essayed fierceness.
"You shove off. See?"
Eric nodded agreement and jabbed his spear in the air.
Ralph leaned on his arms and did not go.
"I came to see you two."
His voice was thick. His throat was hurting him now though
it had received no wound.
"I came to see you two--"
Words could not express the dull pain of these things. He
fell silent, while the vivid stars were spilt and danced all ways.
Sam shifted uneasily.
"Honest, Ralph, you'd better go."
Ralph looked up again.
"You two aren't painted. How can you--? If it were
light--"
If it were light shame would burn them at admitting these
things. But the night was dark. Eric took up; and then the twins started their
antiphonal speech.
"You got to go because it's not safe--"
"--they made us. They hurt us--"
"Who? Jack?"
"Oh no--"
They bent to him and lowered their voices.
"Push off, Ralph--"
"--it's a tribe--"
"--they made us--"
"--we couldn't help it--"
When Ralph spoke again his voice was low, and seemed
breathless.
"What have I done? I liked him--and I wanted us to
be rescued--"
Again the stars spilled about the sky. Eric shook his
head, earnestly.
"Listen, Ralph. Never mind what's sense. That's
gone--"
"Never mind about the chief--"
"--you got to go for your own good."
"The chief and Roger--"
"--yes, Roger--"
"They hate you, Ralph. They're going to do
you."
"They're going to hunt you tomorrow."
"But why?"
"I dunno. And Ralph, Jack, the chief, says it'll be
dangerous--"
"--and we've got to be careful and throw our spears
like at a pig."
"We're going to spread out in a line across the
island--"
"--we're going forward from this end--"
"--until we find you."
"We've got to give signals like this."
Eric raised his head and achieved a faint ululation by
beating on his open mouth. Then he glanced behind him nervously.
"Like that--"
"--only louder, of course."
"But I've done nothing," whispered Ralph,
urgently. "I only wanted to keep up a fire!"
He paused for a moment, thinking miserably of the morrow.
A matter of overwhelming importance occurred to him.
"What are you--?"
He could not bring himself to be specific at first; but
then fear and loneliness goaded him.
"When they find me, what are they going to do?"
The twins were silent. Beneath him, the death rock
flowered again.
"What are they--oh God! I'm hungry--"
The towering rock seemed to sway under him.
"Well--what--?"
The twins answered his question indirectly.
"You got to go now, Ralph."
"For your own good."
"Keep away. As far as you can."
"Won't you come with me? Three of us--we'd stand a
chance."
After a moment's silence, Sam spoke in a strangled voice.
"You don't know Roger. He's a terror."
"And the chief--they're both--"
"--terrors--"
"--only Roger--"
Both boys froze. Someone was climbing toward them from
the tribe.
"He's coming to see if we're keeping watch. Quick,
Ralph!"
As he prepared to let himself down the cliff, Ralph
snatched at the last possible advantage to be wrung out of this meeting.
"I'll lie up close; in that thicket down
there," he whispered, "so keep them away from it. They'll never think
to look so close--"
The footsteps were still some distance away.
"Sam--I'm going to be all right, aren't I?"
The twins were silent again.
"Here!" said Sam suddenly. "Take
this--"
Ralph felt a chunk of meat pushed against him and grabbed
it.
"But what are you going to do when you catch
me?"
Silence above. He sounded silly to himself. He lowered
himself down the rock.
"What are you going to do--?"
From the top of the towering rock came the
incomprehensible reply.
"Roger sharpened a stick at both ends."
Roger sharpened a stick at both ends. Ralph tried to
attach a meaning to this but could not. He used all the bad words he could
think of in a fit of temper that passed into yawning. How long could you go
without sleep? He yearned for a bed and sheets--but the only whiteness here was
the slow spilt milk, luminous round the rock forty feet below, where Piggy had
fallen. Piggy was everywhere, was on this neck, was become terrible in darkness
and death. If Piggy were to come back now out of the water, with his empty
head--Ralph whimpered and yawned like a littlun. The stick in his hand became a
crutch on which he reeled.
Then he tensed again. There were voices raised on the top
of the Castle Rock. Samneric were arguing with someone. But the ferns and the
grass were near. That was the place to be in, hidden, and next to the thicket
that would serve for tomorrow's hideout. Here--and his hands touched grass--was
a place to be in for the night, not far from the tribe, so that if the horrors
of the supernatural emerged one could at least mix with humans for the time
being, even if it meant . . .
What did it mean? A stick sharpened at both ends. What
was there in that? They had thrown spears and missed; all but one. Perhaps they
would miss next time, too.
He squatted down in the tall grass, remembered the meat
that Sam had given him, and began to tear at it ravenously. While he was
eating, he heard fresh noises--cries of pain from Samneric, cries of panic,
angry voices. What did it mean? Someone besides himself was in trouble, for at
least one of the twins was catching it. Then the voices passed away down the
rock and he ceased to think of them. He felt with his hands and found cool,
delicate fronds backed against the thicket. Here then was the night's lair. At
first light he would creep into the thicket, squeeze between the twisted stems,
ensconce himself so deep that only a crawler like himself could come through,
and that crawler would be jabbed. There he would sit, and the search would pass
him by, and the cordon waver on, ululating along the island, and he would be
free.
He pulled himself between the ferns, tunneling in. He
laid the stick beside him, and huddled himself down in the blackness. One must
remember to wake at first light, in order to diddle the savages--and he did not
know how quickly sleep came and hurled him down a dark interior slope.
He was awake before his eyes were open, listening to a
noise that was near. He opened an eye, found the mold an inch or so from his
face and his fingers gripped into it, light filtering between the fronds of
fern. He had just time to realize that the age-long nightmares of falling and
death were past and that the morning was come, when he heard the sound again.
It was an ululation over by the seashore-- and now the next savage answered and
the next. The cry swept by him across the narrow end of the island from sea to
lagoon, like the cry of a flying bird. He took no time to consider but grabbed
his sharp stick and wriggled back among the ferns. Within seconds he was
worming his way into the thicket; but not before he had glimpsed the legs of a
savage coming toward him. The ferns were thumped and beaten and he heard legs
moving in the long grass. The savage, whoever he was, ululated twice; and the
cry was repeated in both directions, then died away. Ralph crouched still,
tangled in the ferns, and for a time he heard nothing.
At last he examined the thicket itself. Certainly no one
could attack him here--and moreover he had a stroke of luck. The great rock
that had killed Piggy had bounded into this thicket and bounced there, right in
the center, making a smashed space a few feet in extent each way. When Ralph
had wriggled into this he felt secure, and clever. He sat down carefully among
the smashed stems and waited for the hunt to pass. Looking up between the
leaves he caught a glimpse of something red. That must be the top of the Castle
Rock, distant and unmenacing. He composed himself triumphantly, to hear the
sounds of the hunt dying away.
Yet no one made a sound; and as the minutes passed, in
the green shade, his feeling of triumph faded.
At last he heard a voice--Jack's voice, but hushed.
"Are you certain?"
The savage addressed said nothing. Perhaps he made a
gesture.
Roger spoke.
"If you're fooling us--"
Immediately after this, there came a gasp, and a squeal
of pain. Ralph crouched instinctively. One of the twins was there, outside the
thicket, with Jack and Roger.
"You're sure he meant in there?"
The twin moaned faintly and then squealed again.
"He meant he'd hide in there?"
"Yes--yes--oh--!"
Silver laughter scattered among the trees.
So they knew.
Ralph picked up his stick and prepared for battle. But
what could they do? It would take them a week to break a path through the
thicket; and anyone who wormed his way in would be helpless. He felt the point
of his spear with his thumb and grinned without amusement. Whoever tried that
would be stuck, squealing like a pig.
They were going away, back to the tower rock. He could
hear feet moving and then someone sniggered. There came again that high,
bird-like cry that swept along the line. So some were still watching for him;
but some--?
There was a long, breathless silence. Ralph found that he
had bark in his mouth from the gnawed spear. He stood and peered upwards to the
Castle Rock.
As he did so, he heard Jack's voice from the top.
"Heave! Heave! Heave!"
The red rock that he could see at the top of the cliff
vanished like a curtain, and he could see figures and blue sky. A moment later
the earth jolted, there was a rushing sound in the air, and the top of the
thicket was cuffed as with a gigantic hand. The rock bounded on, thumping and
smashing toward the beach, while a shower of broken twigs and leaves fell on
him. Beyond the thicket, the tribe was cheering.
Silence again.
Ralph put his fingers in his mouth and bit them. There
was only one other rock up there that they might conceivably move; but that was
half as big as a cottage, big as a car, a tank. He visualized its probable
progress with agonizing clearness--that one would start slowly, drop from ledge
to ledge, trundle across the neck like an outsize steamroller.
"Heave! Heave! Heave!"
Ralph put down his spear, then picked it up again. He
pushed his hair back irritably, took two hasty steps across the little space
and then came back. He stood looking at the broken ends of branches.
Still silence.
He caught sight of the rise and fall of his diaphragm and
was surprised to see how quickly he was breathing. Just left of center his
heart-beats were visible. He put the spear down again.
"Heave! Heave! Heave!"
A shrill, prolonged cheer.
Something boomed up on the red rock, then the earth
jumped and began to shake steadily, while the noise as steadily increased.
Ralph was shot into the air, thrown down, dashed against branches. At his right
hand, and only a few feet away, the whole thicket bent and the roots screamed
as they came out of the earth together. He saw something red that turned over
slowly as a mill wheel. Then the red thing was past and the elephantine
progress diminished toward the sea.
Ralph knelt on the plowed-up soil, and waited for the
earth to come back. Presently the white, broken stumps, the split sticks and
the tangle of the thicket refocused. There was a kind of heavy feeling in his
body where he had watched his own pulse.
Silence again.
Yet not entirely so. They were whispering out there; and
suddenly the branches were shaken furiously at two places on his right. The
pointed end of a stick appeared. In panic, Ralph thrust his own stick through
the crack and struck with all his might.
"Aaa-ah!"
His spear twisted a little in his hands and then he
withdrew it again.
"Ooh-ooh--"
Someone was moaning outside and a babble of voices rose.
A fierce argument was going on and the wounded savage kept groaning. Then when
there was silence, a single voice spoke and Ralph decided that it was not
Jack's.
"See? I told you--he's dangerous."
The wounded savage moaned again.
What else? What next?
Ralph fastened his hands round the chewed spear and his
hair fell. Someone was muttering, only a few yards away toward the Castle Rock.
He heard a savage say "No!" in a shocked voice; and then there was
suppressed laughter. He squatted back on his heels and showed his teeth at the
wall of branches. He raise his spear, snarled a little, and waited.
Once more the invisible group sniggered. He heard a
curious trickling sound and then a louder crepitation as if someone were
unwrapping great sheets of cellophane. A stick snapped and he stifled a cough.
Smoke was seeping through the branches in white and yellow wisps, the patch of
blue sky overhead turned to the color of a storm cloud, and then the smoke
billowed round him.
Someone laughed excitedly, and a voice shouted.
"Smoke!"
He wormed his way through the thicket toward the forest,
keeping as far as possible beneath the smoke. Presently he saw open space, and
the green leaves of the edge of the thicket. A smallish savage was standing
between him and the rest of the forest, a savage striped red and white, and
carrying a spear. He was coughing and smearing the paint about his eyes with
the back of his hand as he tried to see through the increasing smoke. Ralph launched
himself like a cat; stabbed, snarling, with the spear, and the savage doubled
up. There was a shout from beyond the thicket and then Ralph was running with
the swiftness of fear through the undergrowth. He came to a pig-run, followed
it for perhaps a hundred yards, and then swerved off. Behind him the ululation
swept across the island once more and a single voice shouted three times. He
guessed that was the signal to advance and sped away again, till his chest was
like fire. Then he flung himself down under a bush and waited for a moment till
his breathing steadied. He passed his tongue tentatively over his teeth and
lips and heard far off the ululation of the pursuers.
There were many things he could do. He could climb a
tree; but that was putting all his eggs in one basket. If he were detected,
they had nothing more difficult to do than wait.
If only one had time to think!
Another double cry at the same distance gave him a clue
to their plan. Any savage balked in the forest would utter the double shout and
hold up the line till he was free again. That way they might hope to keep the
cordon unbroken right across the island. Ralph thought of the boar that had
broken through them with such ease. If necessary, when the chase came too
close, he could charge the cordon while it was still thin, burst through, and
run back. But run back where? The cordon would turn and sweep again. Sooner or
later he would have to sleep or eat--and then he would awaken with hands
clawing at him; and the hunt would become a running down.
What was to be done, then? The tree? Burst the line like
a boar? Either way the choice was terrible.
A single cry quickened his heart-beat and, leaping up, he
dashed away toward the ocean side and the thick jungle till he was hung up
among creepers; he stayed there for a moment with his calves quivering. If only
one could have quiet, a long pause, a time to think!
And there again, shrill and inevitable, was the ululation
sweeping across the island. At that sound he shied like a horse among the
creepers and ran once more till he was panting. He flung himself down by some
ferns. The tree, or the charge? He mastered his breathing for a moment, wiped
his mouth, and told himself to be calm. Samneric were somewhere in that line,
and hating it. Or were they? And supposing, instead of them, he met the chief,
or Roger who carried death in his hands?
Ralph pushed back his tangled hair and wiped the sweat
out of his best eye. He spoke aloud.
"Think."
What was the sensible thing to do?
There was no Piggy to talk sense. There was no solemn
assembly for debate nor dignity of the conch.
"Think."
Most, he was beginning to dread the curtain that might
waver in his brain, blacking out the sense of danger, making a simpleton of
him.
A third idea would be to hide so well that the advancing
line would pass without discovering him.
He jerked his head off the ground and listened. There was
another noise to attend to now, a deep grumbling noise, as though the forest
itself were angry with him, a somber noise across which the ululations were
scribbled excruciatingly as on slate. He knew he had heard it before somewhere,
but had no time to remember.
Break the line.
A tree.
Hide, and let them pass.
A nearer cry stood him on his feet and immediately he was
away again, running fast among thorns and brambles. Suddenly he blundered into
the open, found himself again in that open space--and there was the fathom-wide
grin of the skull, no longer ridiculing a deep blue patch of sky but jeering up
into a blanket of smoke. Then Ralph was running beneath trees, with the grumble
of the forest explained. They had smoked him out and set the island on fire.
Hide was better than a tree because you had a chance of
breaking the line if you were discovered.
Hide, then.
He wondered if a pig would agree, and grimaced at
nothing. Find the deepest thicket, the darkest hole on the island, and creep
in. Now, as he ran, he peered about him. Bars and splashes of sunlight flitted
over him and sweat made glistening streaks on his dirty body. The cries were
far now, and faint.
At last he found what seemed to him the right place,
though the decision was desperate. Here, bushes and a wild tangle of creeper
made a mat that kept out all the light of the sun. Beneath it was a space,
perhaps a foot high, though it was pierced everywhere by parallel and rising
stems. If you wormed into the middle of that you would be five yards from the
edge, and hidden, unless the savage chose to lie down and look for you; and
even then, you would be in darkness--and if the worst happened and he saw you,
then you had a chance to burst out at him, fling the whole line out of step and
double back.
Cautiously, his stick trailing behind him, Ralph wormed
between the rising stems. When he reached the middle of the mat he lay and
listened.
The fire was a big one and the drum-roll that he had
thought was left so far behind was nearer. Couldn't a fire outrun a galloping
horse? He could see the sun-splashed ground over an area of perhaps fifty yards
from where he lay, and as he watched, the sunlight in every patch blinked at
him. This was so like the curtain that flapped in his brain that for a moment
he thought the blinking was inside him. But then the patches blinked more
rapidly, dulled and went out, so that he saw that a great heaviness of smoke
lay between the island and the sun.
If anyone peered under the bushes and chanced to glimpse
human flesh it might be Samneric who would pretend not to see and say nothing.
He laid his cheek against the chocolate-colored earth, licked his dry lips and
closed his eyes. Under the thicket, the earth was vibrating very slightly; or
perhaps there was a sound beneath the obvious thunder of the fire and scribbled
ululations that was too low to hear.
Someone cried out. Ralph jerked his cheek off the earth
and looked into the dulled light. They must be near now, he thought, and his
chest began to thump. Hide, break the line, climb a tree--which was the best
after all? The trouble was you only had one chance.
Now the fire was nearer; those volleying shots were great
limbs, trunks even, bursting. The fools! The fools! The fire must be almost at
the fruit trees--what would they eat tomorrow?
Ralph stirred restlessly in his narrow bed. One chanced
nothing! What could they do? Beat him? So what? Kill him? A stick sharpened at
both ends.
The cries, suddenly nearer, jerked him up. He could see a
striped savage moving hastily out of a green tangle, and coming toward the mat
where he hid, a savage who carried a spear. Ralph gripped his fingers into the
earth. Be ready now, in case.
Ralph fumbled to hold his spear so that it was point
foremost; and now he saw that the stick was sharpened at both ends.
The savage stopped fifteen yards away and uttered his
cry.
Perhaps he can hear my heart over the noises of the fire.
Don't scream. Get ready.
The savage moved forward so that you could only see him
from the waist down. That was the butt of his spear. Now you could see him from
the knee down. Don't scream.
A herd of pigs came squealing out of the greenery behind
the savage and rushed away into the forest. Birds were screaming, mice
shrieking, and a little hopping thing came under the mat and cowered.
Five yards away the savage stopped, standing right by the
thicket, and cried out. Ralph drew his feet up and crouched. The stake was in
his hands, the stake sharpened at both ends, the stake that vibrated so wildly,
that grew long, short, light, heavy, light again.
The ululation spread from shore to shore. The savage
knelt down by the edge of the thicket, and there were lights flickering in the
forest behind him. You could see a knee disturb the mold. Now the other. Two
hands. A spear.
A face.
The savage peered into the obscurity beneath the thicket.
You could tell that he saw light on this side and on that, but not in the
middle--there. In the middle was a blob of dark and the savage wrinkled up his
face, trying to decipher the darkness.
The seconds lengthened. Ralph was looking straight into
the savage's eyes.
Don't scream.
You'll get back.
Now he's seen you. He's making sure. A stick sharpened.
Ralph screamed, a scream of fright and anger and
desperation. His legs straightened, the screams became continuous and foaming.
He shot forward, burst the thicket, was in the open, screaming, snarling, bloody.
He swung the stake and the savage tumbled over; but there were others coming
toward him, crying out. He swerved as a spear flew past and then was silent,
running. All at once the lights flickering ahead of him merged together, the
roar of the forest rose to thunder and a tall bush directly in his path burst
into a great fan-shaped flame. He swung to the right, running desperately fast,
with the heat beating on his left side and the fire racing forward like a tide.
The ululation rose behind him and spread along, a series of short sharp cries,
the sighting call. A brown figure showed up at his right and fell away. They
were all running, all crying out madly. He could hear them crashing in the
undergrowth and on the left was the hot, bright thunder of the fire. He forgot
his wounds, his hunger and thirst, and became fear; hopeless fear on flying
feet, rushing through the forest toward the open beach. Spots jumped before his
eyes and turned into red circles that expanded quickly till they passed out of
sight. Below him someone's legs were getting tired and the desperate ululation
advanced like a jagged fringe of menace and was almost overhead.
He stumbled over a root and the cry that pursued him rose
even higher. He saw a shelter burst into flames and the fire flapped at his
right shoulder and there was the glitter of water. Then he was down, rolling
over and over in the warm sand, crouching with arm to ward off, trying to cry
for mercy.
He staggered to his feet, tensed for more terrors, and
looked up at a huge peaked cap. It was a white-topped cap, and above the green
shade of the peak was a crown, an anchor, gold foliage. He saw white drill,
epaulettes, a revolver, a row of gilt buttons down the front of a uniform.
A naval officer stood on the sand, looking down at Ralph
in wary astonishment. On the beach behind him was a cutter, her bows hauled up
and held by two ratings. In the stern-sheets another rating held a sub-machine
gun.
The ululation faltered and died away.
The officer looked at Ralph doubtfully for a moment, then
took his hand away from the butt of the revolver.
"Hullo."
Squirming a little, conscious of his filthy appearance,
Ralph answered shyly.
"Hullo."
The officer nodded, as if a question had been answered.
"Are there any adults--any grownups with you?"
Dumbly, Ralph shook his head. He turned a halfpace on the
sand. A semicircle of little boys, their bodies streaked with colored clay,
sharp sticks in their hands, were standing on the beach making no noise at all.
"Fun and games," said the officer.
The fire reached the coconut palms by the beach and
swallowed them noisily. A flame, seemingly detached, swung like an acrobat and
licked up the palm heads on the platform. The sky was black.
The officer grinned cheerfully at Ralph.
"We saw your smoke. What have you been doing? Having
a war or something?"
Ralph nodded.
The officer inspected the little scarecrow in front of
him. The kid needed a bath, a haircut, a nose-wipe and a good deal of ointment.
"Nobody killed, I hope? Any dead bodies?"
"Only two. And they've gone."
The officer leaned down and looked closely at Ralph.
"Two? Killed?"
Ralph nodded again. Behind him, the whole island was
shuddering with flame. The officer knew, as a rule, when people were telling
the truth. He whistled softly.
Other boys were appearing now, tiny tots some of them,
brown, with the distended bellies of small savages. One of them came close to
the officer and looked up.
"I'm, I'm--"
But there was no more to come. Percival Wemys Madison
sought in his head for an incantation that had faded clean away.
The officer turned back to Ralph.
"We'll take you off. How many of you are
there?"
Ralph shook his head. The officer looked past him to the
group of painted boys.
"Who's boss here?"
"I am," said Ralph loudly.
A little boy who wore the remains of an extraordinary
black cap on his red hair and who carried the remains of a pair of spectacles
at his waist, started forward, then changed his mind and stood still.
"We saw your smoke. And you don't know how many of
you there are?"
"No, sir."
"I should have thought," said the officer as he
visualized the search before him, "I should have thought that a pack of
British boys--you're all British, aren't you?--would have been able to put up a
better show than that--I mean--"
"It was like that at first," said Ralph,
"before things--"
He stopped.
"We were together then--"
The officer nodded helpfully.
"I know. Jolly good show. Like the Coral
Island."
Ralph looked at him dumbly. For a moment he had a fleeting
picture of the strange glamour that had once invested the beaches. But the
island was scorched up like dead wood--Simon was dead--and Jack had. . . . The
tears began to flow and sobs shook him. He gave himself up to them now for the
first time on the island; great, shuddering spasms of grief that seemed to
wrench his whole body. His voice rose under the black smoke before the burning
wreckage of the island; and infected by that emotion, the other little boys
began to shake and sob too. And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted
hair, and unwiped nose, Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of
man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called
Piggy.
The officer, surrounded by these noises, was moved and a
little embarrassed. He turned away to give them time to pull themselves
together; and waited, allowing his eyes to rest on the trim cruiser in the
distance.
Notes on Lord of the Flies *
((*The above Notes pretend to
be no more than a series of reflections on aspects of LORD OF THE FLIES. An
exhaustive study of its symbolism has not yet been attempted.))
In answer to a publicity questionnaire from the American
publishers of LORD OF THE FLIES, William Golding (born Cornwall, 1911) declared
that he was brought up to be a scientist, and revolted; after two years of
Oxford he changed his educational emphasis from science to English literature,
and became devoted to Anglo-Saxon. After publishing a volume of poetry he
"wasted the next four years," and when Word War II broke out he
joined the Royal Navy. For the next five years he was involved in naval matters
except for a few months in New York and six months with Lord Cherwell in a
"research establishment." He finished his naval career as a lieutenant
in command of a rocket ship; he had seen action against battleships, submarines
and aircraft, and had participated in the Walcheren and D-Day operations. After
the war he began teaching and writing. Today, his novels include LORD OF THE
FLIES (Coward-McCann), THE INHERITORS (which may loosely be described as a
novel of prehistory but is, like all of Golding's work, much more), and PINCHER
MARTIN published in hardcover by Harcourt Brace as THE TWO DEATHS OF
CHRISTOPHER MARTIN). He lists his Hobbies as thinking, classical Greek, sailing
and archaeology, and his Literary Influences as Euripides and the anonymous
Anglo-Saxon author of THE BATTLE OF MALDON.
The theme of LORD OF THE FLIES is described by Golding as
follows (in the same publicity questionnaire): "The theme is an attempt to
trace the defects of society back to the defects of human nature. The moral is
that the shape of a society must depend on the ethical nature of the individual
and not on any political system however apparently logical or respectable. The
whole book is symbolic in nature except the rescue in the end where adult life
appears, dignified and capable, but in reality enmeshed in the same evil as the
symbolic life of the children on the island. The officer, having interrupted a
man-hunt, prepares to take the children off the island in a cruiser which will
presently be hunting its enemy in the same implacable way. And who will rescue
the adult and his cruiser?"
This is, of course, merely a casual summing-up on Mr.
Golding's part of his extremely complex and beautifully woven symbolic web
which becomes apparent as we follow through the book, but it does indicate that
LORD OF THE FLIES is not, to say the least, a simple adventure story of boys on
a desert island. In fact, the implications of the story go far beyond the
degeneration of a few children. What is unique about the work of Golding is the
way he has combined and synthesized all of the characteristically
twentieth-century methods of analysis of the human being and human society and
used this unified knowledge to comment on a "test situation." In this
book, as in few others at the present time, are findings of psychoanalysis of
all schools, anthropologists, social psychologists and philosophical historians
mobilized into an attack upon the central problem of modern thought: the nature
of the human personality and the reflection of personality on society.
Another feature of Golding's work is the superb use of
symbolism, a symbolism that "works." The central symbol itself, the
"lord of the flies," is, like any true symbol, much more than the sum
of its parts; but some elements of it may be isolated. The "lord of the
flies" is a translation of the Hebrew Ba'alzevuv (Beelzebub in Greek). It
has been suggested that it was a mistranslation of a mistransliterated word
which gave us this pungent and suggestive name for the Devil, a devil whose
name suggests that he is devoted to decay, destruction, demoralization,
hysteria and panic and who therefore fits in very well with Golding's theme.
The Devil is not present in any traditional religious
sense; Golding's Beelzebub is the modern equivalent, the anarchic, amoral,
driving force that Freudians call the Id, whose only function seems to be to
insure the survival of the host in which it is embedded or embodied, which
function it performs with tremendous and single-minded tenacity. Although it is
possible to find other names for this force, the modern picture of the
personality, whether drawn by theologians or psychoanalysts, inevitably
includes this force or psychic structure as the fundamental principle of the
Natural Man. The tenets of civilization, the moral and social codes, the Ego,
the intelligence itself, form only a veneer over this white-hot power, this
uncontrollable force, "the fury and the mire of human veins."
Dostoievsky found salvation in this freedom, although he found damnation in it
also. Yeats found in it the only source of creative genius ("Whatever
flames upon the night, Man's own resinous heart has fed."). Conrad was
appalled by this "heart of darkness," and existentialists find in the
denial of this freedom the source of perversion of all human values. Indeed one
could, if one were so minded, go through the entire canon of modern literature,
philosophy and psychology and find this great basic drive defined as underlying
the most fundamental conclusions of modem thought.
The emergence of this concealed, basic wildness is the
theme of the book; the struggle between Ralph, the representative of
civilization with his parliaments and his brain trust (Piggy, the intellectual
whose shattering spectacles mark the progressive decay of rational influence as
the story progresses), and Jack, in whom the spark of wildness burns hotter and
closer to the surface than in Ralph and who is the leader of the forces of
anarchy on the island, is also, of course, the struggle in modern society
between those same forces translated onto a worldwide scale.
The turning point in the struggle between Ralph and Jack
is the killing of the sow (pp. 133--144). The sow is a mother: "sunk in
deep maternal bliss lay the largest of the lot . . . the great bladder of her
belly was fringed with a row of piglets that slept or burrowed and
squeaked." The killing of the sow is accomplished in terms of sexual
intercourse.
They were just behind her when she staggered
into an open
space where bright flowers grew and butterflies danced
round each
other and the air was hot and still.
Here, struck down by the heat, the sow fell
and the
hunters hurled themselves at her. This dreadful eruption
from an
unknown world made her frantic; she squealed and bucked
and the
air was full of sweat and noise and blood and terror.
Roger ran
round the heap, prodding with his spear whenever pigflesh
appeared. Jack was on top of the sow, stabbing downward
with his
knife. Roger (a natural sadist, who becomes the
"official"
torturer and executioner for the tribe) found a lodgment
for his
point and began to push till he was leaning with his
whole weight.
The spear moved forward inch by inch, and the terrified
squealing
became a high-pitched scream. Then Jack found the throat
and the
hot blood spouted over his hands. The sow collapsed under
them and
they were heavy and fulfilled upon her. The butterflies
still
danced, preoccupied in the center of the clearing.
The pig's head is cut off; a stick is sharpened at both
ends and "jammed in a crack" in the earth. (The death planned for
Ralph at the end of the book involves a stick sharpened at both ends.) The
pig's head is impaled on the stick; ". . . the head hung there, a little
blood dribbling down the stick. Instinctively the boys drew back too; and the
forest was very still. They listened, and the loudest noise was the buzzing of
flies over the spilled guts." Jack offers this grotesque trophy to
"the Beast," the terrible animal that the littler children had been
dreaming of, and which seems to be lurking on the island wherever they were not
looking. The entire incident forms a horrid parody of an Oedipal wedding night;
these emotions, the sensations aroused by murder and death, and the
overpowering and unaccustomed emotions of sexual love experienced by the
half-grown boys, plus their own irrational fears and blind terrors, release the
forces of death and the devil on the island.
After this occurs the most deeply symbolic incident in
the book, the "interview" of Simon, an embryo mystic, with the head.
The head seems to be saying, to Simon's heightened perceptions, that
"everything was a bad business. . . . The half-shut eyes were dim with the
infinite cynicism of adult life." Simon fights with all his feeble power
against the message of the head, against the "ancient, inescapable
recognition," the recognition of human capacities for evil and the
superficial nature of human moral systems. It is the knowledge of the end of
innocence, for which Ralph is to weep at the close of the book. "'Fancy
thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!' said the head. For a
moment or two the forest and all the other dimly appreciated places echoes with
the parody of laughter. 'You knew, didn't you? I'm part of you? Close, close,
close! I'm the reason why it's no go? Why things are what they are?'"
At the end of this fantastic scene Simon imagines he is
looking into a vast mouth. "There was blackness within, a blackness that
spread. . . . Simon was inside the mouth. He fell down and lost
consciousness." This mouth, * the symbol of ravenous, unreasoning and
eternally insatiable nature, appears again in PINCHER MARTIN, in which the
development of the theme of a Nature inimical to the conscious personality of
man is developed in a stunning fashion. In LORD OF THE FLIES, however, only the
outline of a philosophy is sketched, and the boys of the island are figures in
a parable or fable which like all great parables or fables reveals to the
reader an intimate, disquieting connection between the innocent, time-passing,
story-telling aspect of its surface and the great, "dimly
appreciated" depths of its interior.
((* cf. Conrad's "Heart
of Darkness": "I saw (the dying Kurtz) open his mouth wide--it gave
him a weirdly voracious aspect, as though he wanted to swallow all the air, all
the earth, all the men before him." Indeed Golding seems very close to
Conrad, both in basic principles and in artistic method.))
--E. L. Epstein
