And yet, what did it all suggest so strongly? Death! Death!
More definitely than anything he had ever seen before.
Death! But also a still, quiet, unprotesting type of death into
which one, by reason of choice or hypnosis or unutterable
weariness, might joyfully and gratefully sink. So quiet—so
shaded—so serene. Even Roberta exclaimed over this. And
he now felt for the first time the grip of some seemingly
strong, and yet friendly sympathetic, hands laid firmly on his
shoulders. The comfort of them! The warmth! The strength!
For now they seemed to have a steadying effect on him
and he liked them—their reassurance—their support. If only
they would not be removed! If only they would remain
always—the hands of this friend! For where had he ever
known this comforting and almost tender sensation before
in all his life? Not anywhere—and somehow this calmed
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him and he seemed to slip away from the reality of all
things.
To be sure, there was Roberta over there, but by now she
had faded to a shadow or thought really, a form of illusion
more vaporous than real. And while there was something
about her in color, form that suggested reality—still she was
very insubstantial—so very—and once more now he felt
strangely alone. For the hands of the friend of firm grip had
vanished also. And Clyde was alone, so very much alone
and forlorn, in this somber, beautiful realm to which
apparently he had been led, and then deserted, Also he felt
strangely cold—the spell of this strange beauty
overwhelming him with a kind of chill.
He had come here for what?
And he must do what?
Kill Roberta? Oh, no!
And again he lowered his head and gazed into the
fascinating and yet treacherous depths of that magnetic,
bluish, purple pool, which, as he continued to gaze,
seemed to change its form kaleidoscopically to a large,
crystalline ball. But what was that moving about in this
crystal? A form! It came nearer—clearer—and as it did so,
he recognized Roberta struggling and waving her thin white
arms out of the water and reaching toward him! God! How
terrible! The expression on her face! What in God’s name
was he thinking of anyway? Death! Murder!
And suddenly becoming conscious that his courage, on
which he had counted so much this long while to sustain
him here, was leaving him, and he instantly and consciously
plumbing the depths of his being in a vain search to
recapture it.
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Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
(The weird, haunting cry of that unearthly bird again. So
cold, so harsh! Here it was once more to startle him out of
his soul flight into a realization of the real or unreal
immediate problem with all of its torturesome angles that
lay before him.)
He must face this thing! He must!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
What was it sounding—a warning—a protest—
condemnation? The same bird that had marked the very
birth of this miserable plan. For there it was now upon that
dead tree—that wretched bird. And now it was flying to
another one—as dead—a little farther inland and crying as
it did so. God!
And then to the shore again in spite of himself. For Clyde, in
order to justify his having brought his bag, now must
suggest that pictures of this be taken—and of Roberta—
and of himself, possibly—on land and water. For that would
bring her into the boat again, without his bag, which would
be safe and dry on land. And once on shore, actually
pretending to be seeking out various special views here
and there, while he fixed in his mind the exact tree at the
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base of which he might leave his bag against his return—
which must be soon now—must be soon. They would not
come on shore again together. Never! Never! And that in
spite of Roberta protesting that she was getting tired; and
did he not think they ought to be starting back pretty soon?
It must be after five, surely. And Clyde, assuring her that
presently they would—after he had made one or two more
pictures of her in the boat with those wonderful trees—that
island and this dark water around and beneath her.
His wet, damp, nervous hands!
And his dark, liquid, nervous eyes, looking anywhere but at her.
And then once more on the water again.—about five
hundred feet from shore, the while he fumbled aimlessly
with the hard and heavy and yet small camera that he now
held, as the boat floated out nearer the center. And then, at
this point and time looking fearfully about. For now—now—
in spite of himself, the long evaded and yet commanding
moment. And no voice or figure or sound on shore. No road
or cabin or smoke! And the moment which he or something
had planned for him, and which was now to decide his fate
at hand! The moment of action—of crisis! All that he
needed to do now was to turn swiftly and savagely to one
side or the other—leap up—upon the left wale or right and
upset the boat; or, failing that, rock it swiftly, and if Roberta
protested too much, strike her with the camera in his hand,
or one of the oars at his right. It could be done—it could be
done—swiftly and simply, were he now of the mind and
heart, or lack of it—with him swimming swiftly away
thereafter to freedom—to success—of course—to Sondra
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and happiness—a new and greater and sweeter life than
any he had ever known.
Yet why was he waiting now?
What was the matter with him, anyhow?
Why was he waiting?
At this cataclysmic moment, and in the face of the utmost,
the most urgent need of action, a sudden palsy of the will—
of courage—of hate or rage sufficient; and with Roberta
from her seat in the stern of the boat gazing at his troubled
and then suddenly distorted and fulgurous, yet weak and
even unbalanced face—a face of a sudden, instead of
angry, ferocious, demoniac—confused and all but
meaningless in its registration of a balanced combat
between fear (a chemic revulsion against death or
murderous brutality that would bring death) and a harried
and restless and yet selfrepressed desire to do—to do—to
do—yet temporarily unbreakable here and now—a static
between a powerful compulsion to do and yet not to do.
And in the meantime his eyes—the pupils of the same
growing momentarily larger and more lurid; his face and
body and hands tense and contracted—the stillness of his
position, the balanced immobility of the mood more and
more ominous, yet in truth not suggesting a brutal,
courageous power to destroy, but the imminence of trance
or spasm.
And Roberta, suddenly noticing the strangeness of it all—
the something of eerie unreason or physical and mental
indetermination so strangely and painfully contrasting with
this scene, exclaiming: “Why, Clyde! Clyde! What is it?
Whatever is the matter with you anyhow? You look so—so
strange—so—so— Why, I never saw you look like this
before. What is it?” And suddenly rising, or rather leaning
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forward, and by crawling along the even keel, attempting to
approach him, since he looked as though he was about to
fall forward into the boat—or to one side and out into the
water. And Clyde, as instantly sensing the profoundness of
his own failure, his own cowardice or inadequateness for
such an occasion, as instantly yielding to a tide of
submerged hate, not only for himself, but Roberta—her
power—or that of life to restrain him in this way. And yet
fearing to act in any way—being unwilling to—being willing
only to say that never, never would he marry her—that
never, even should she expose him, would he leave here
with her to marry her—that he was in love with Sondra and
would cling only to her—and yet not being able to say that
even. But angry and confused and glowering. And then, as
she drew near him, seeking to take his hand in hers and the
camera from him in order to put it in the boat, he flinging out
at her, but not even then with any intention to do other than
free himself of her—her touch—her pleading—consoling
sympathy—her presence forever—God!
Yet (the camera still unconsciously held tight) pushing at
her with so much vehemence as not only to strike her lips
and nose and chin with it, but to throw her back sidewise
toward the left wale which caused the boat to careen to the
very water’s edge. And then he, stirred by her sharp
scream, (as much due to the lurch of the boat, as the cut on
her nose and lip), rising and reaching half to assist or
recapture her and half to apologize for the unintended blow
—yet in so doing completely capsizing the boat—himself