The damned thing
I--ONE DOES NOT ALWAYS EAT WHAT IS ON THE TABLE
By the light of a tallow candle which had been placed on one end of a
rough table a man was reading something written in a book. It was an
old account book, greatly worn; and the writing was not, apparently,
very legible, for the man sometimes held the page close to the flame
of the candle to get a stronger light on it. The shadow of the book
would then throw into obscurity a half of the room, darkening a
number of faces and figures; for besides the reader, eight other men
were present. Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent,
motionless, and the room being small, not very far from the table.
By extending an arm any one of them could have touched the eighth
man, who lay on the table, face upward, partly covered by a sheet,
his arms at his sides. He was dead.
The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke; all
seemed to be waiting for something to occur; the dead man only was
without expectation. From the blank darkness outside came in,
through the aperture that served for a window, all the ever
unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness--the long nameless note
of a distant coyote; the stilly pulsing thrill of tireless insects in
trees; strange cries of night birds, so different from those of the
birds of day; the drone of great blundering beetles, and all that
mysterious chorus of small sounds that seem always to have been but
half heard when they have suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an
indiscretion. But nothing of all this was noted in that company; its
members were not overmuch addicted to idle interest in matters of no
practical importance; that was obvious in every line of their rugged
faces--obvious even in the dim light of the single candle. They were
evidently men of the vicinity--farmers and woodsmen.
The person reading was a trifle different; one would have said of him
that he was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that in his
attire which attested a certain fellowship with the organisms of his
environment. His coat would hardly have passed muster in San
Francisco; his foot-gear was not of urban origin, and the hat that
lay by him on the floor (he was the only one uncovered) was such that
if one had considered it as an article of mere personal adornment he
would have missed its meaning. In countenance the man was rather
prepossessing, with just a hint of sternness; though that he may have
assumed or cultivated, as appropriate to one in authority. For he
was a coroner. It was by virtue of his office that he had possession
of the book in which he was reading; it had been found among the dead
man's effects--in his cabin, where the inquest was now taking place.
When the coroner had finished reading he put the book into his breast
pocket. At that moment the door was pushed open and a young man
entered. He, clearly, was not of mountain birth and breeding: he
was clad as those who dwell in cities. His clothing was dusty,
however, as from travel. He had, in fact, been riding hard to attend
the inquest.
The coroner nodded; no one else greeted him.
"We have waited for you," said the coroner. "It is necessary to have
done with this business to-night."
The young man smiled. "I am sorry to have kept you," he said. "I
went away, not to evade your summons, but to post to my newspaper an
account of what I suppose I am called back to relate."
The coroner smiled.
"The account that you posted to your newspaper," he said, "differs,
probably, from that which you will give here under oath."
"That," replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, "is
as you please. I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent.
It was not written as news, for it is incredible, but as fiction. It
may go as a part of my testimony under oath."
"But you say it is incredible."
"That is nothing to you, sir, if I also swear that it is true."
The coroner was silent for a time, his eyes upon the floor. The men
about the sides of the cabin talked in whispers, but seldom withdrew
their gaze from the face of the corpse. Presently the coroner lifted
his eyes and said: "We will resume the inquest."
The men removed their hats. The witness was sworn.
"What is your name?" the coroner asked.
"William Harker."
"Age?"
"Twenty-seven."
"You knew the deceased, Hugh Morgan?"
"Yes."
"You were with him when he died?"
"Near him."
"How did that happen--your presence, I mean?"
"I was visiting him at this place to shoot and fish. A part of my
purpose, however, was to study him and his odd, solitary way of life.
He seemed a good model for a character in fiction. I sometimes write
stories."
"I sometimes read them."
"Thank you."
"Stories in general--not yours."
Some of the jurors laughed. Against a sombre background humor shows
high lights. Soldiers in the intervals of battle laugh easily, and a
jest in the death chamber conquers by surprise.
"Relate the circumstances of this man's death," said the coroner.
"You may use any notes or memoranda that you please."
The witness understood. Pulling a manuscript from his breast pocket
he held it near the candle and turning the leaves until he found the
passage that he wanted began to read.
II--WHAT MAY HAPPEN IN A FIELD OF WILD OATS
" . . . The sun had hardly risen when we left the house. We were
looking for quail, each with a shotgun, but we had only one dog.
Morgan said that our best ground was beyond a certain ridge that he
pointed out, and we crossed it by a trail through the chaparral. On
the other side was comparatively level ground, thickly covered with
wild oats. As we emerged from the chaparral Morgan was but a few
yards in advance. Suddenly we heard, at a little distance to our
right and partly in front, a noise as of some animal thrashing about
in the bushes, which we could see were violently agitated.
"'We've started a deer,' I said. 'I wish we had brought a rifle.'
"Morgan, who had stopped and was intently watching the agitated
chaparral, said nothing, but had cocked both barrels of his gun and
was holding it in readiness to aim. I thought him a trifle excited,
which surprised me, for he had a reputation for exceptional coolness,
even in moments of sudden and imminent peril.
"'O, come,' I said. 'You are not going to fill up a deer with quail-
shot, are you?'
"Still he did not reply; but catching a sight of his face as he
turned it slightly toward me I was struck by the intensity of his
look. Then I understood that we had serious business in hand and my
first conjecture was that we had 'jumped' a grizzly. I advanced to
Morgan's side, cocking my piece as I moved.
"The bushes were now quiet and the sounds had ceased, but Morgan was
as attentive to the place as before.
"'What is it? What the devil is it?' I asked.
"'That Damned Thing!' he replied, without turning his head. His
voice was husky and unnatural. He trembled visibly.
"I was about to speak further, when I observed the wild oats near the
place of the disturbance moving in the most inexplicable way. I can
hardly describe it. It seemed as if stirred by a streak of wind,
which not only bent it, but pressed it down--crushed it so that it
did not rise; and this movement was slowly prolonging itself directly
toward us.
"Nothing that I had ever seen had affected me so strangely as this
unfamiliar and unaccountable phenomenon, yet I am unable to recall
any sense of fear. I remember--and tell it here because, singularly
enough, I recollected it then--that once in looking carelessly out of
an open window I momentarily mistook a small tree close at hand for
one of a group of larger trees at a little distance away. It looked
the same size as the others, but being more distinctly and sharply
defined in mass and detail seemed out of harmony with them. It was a
mere falsification of the law of aerial perspective, but it startled,
almost terrified me. We so rely upon the orderly operation of
familiar natural laws that any seeming suspension of them is noted as
a menace to our safety, a warning of unthinkable calamity. So now
the apparently causeless movement of the herbage and the slow,
undeviating approach of the line of disturbance were distinctly
disquieting. My companion appeared actually frightened, and I could
hardly credit my senses when I saw him suddenly throw his gun to his
shoulder and fire both barrels at the agitated grain! Before the
smoke of the discharge had cleared away I heard a loud savage cry--a
scream like that of a wild animal--and flinging his gun upon the
ground Morgan sprang away and ran swiftly from the spot. At the same
instant I was thrown violently to the ground by the impact of
something unseen in the smoke--some soft, heavy substance that seemed
thrown against me with great force.
"Before I could get upon my feet and recover my gun, which seemed to
have been struck from my hands, I heard Morgan crying out as if in
mortal agony, and mingling with his cries were such hoarse, savage
sounds as one hears from fighting dogs. Inexpressibly terrified, I
struggled to my feet and looked in the direction of Morgan's retreat;
and may Heaven in mercy spare me from another sight like that! At a
distance of less than thirty yards was my friend, down upon one knee,
his head thrown back at a frightful angle, hatless, his long hair in
disorder and his whole body in violent movement from side to side,
backward and forward. His right arm was lifted and seemed to lack
the hand--at least, I could see none. The other arm was invisible.
At times, as my memory now reports this extraordinary scene, I could
discern but a part of his body; it was as if he had been partly
blotted out--I cannot otherwise express it--then a shifting of his
position would bring it all into view again.
"All this must have occurred within a few seconds, yet in that time
Morgan assumed all the postures of a determined wrestler vanquished
by superior weight and strength. I saw nothing but him, and him not
always distinctly. During the entire incident his shouts and curses
were heard, as if through an enveloping uproar of such sounds of rage
and fury as I had never heard from the throat of man or brute!
"For a moment only I stood irresolute, then throwing down my gun I
ran forward to my friend's assistance. I had a vague belief that he
was suffering from a fit, or some form of convulsion. Before I could
reach his side he was down and quiet. All sounds had ceased, but
with a feeling of such terror as even these awful events had not
inspired I now saw again the mysterious movement of the wild oats,
prolonging itself from the trampled area about the prostrate man
toward the edge of a wood. It was only when it had reached the wood
that I was able to withdraw my eyes and look at my companion. He was
dead."
III--A MAN THOUGH NAKED MAY BE IN RAGS
The coroner rose from his seat and stood beside the dead man.
Lifting an edge of the sheet he pulled it away, exposing the entire
body, altogether naked and showing in the candle-light a claylike
yellow. It had, however, broad maculations of bluish black,
obviously caused by extravasated blood from contusions. The chest
and sides looked as if they had been beaten with a bludgeon. There
were dreadful lacerations; the skin was torn in strips and shreds.
The coroner moved round to the end of the table and undid a silk
handkerchief which had been passed under the chin and knotted on the
top of the head. When the handkerchief was drawn away it exposed
what had been the throat. Some of the jurors who had risen to get a
better view repented their curiosity and turned away their faces.
Witness Harker went to the open window and leaned out across the
sill, faint and sick. Dropping the handkerchief upon the dead man's
neck the coroner stepped to an angle of the room and from a pile of
clothing produced one garment after another, each of which he held up
a moment for inspection. All were torn, and stiff with blood. The
jurors did not make a closer inspection. They seemed rather
uninterested. They had, in truth, seen all this before; the only
thing that was new to them being Harker's testimony.
"Gentlemen," the coroner said, "we have no more evidence, I think.
Your duty has been already explained to you; if there is nothing you
wish to ask you may go outside and consider your verdict."
The foreman rose--a tall, bearded man of sixty, coarsely clad.
"I should like to ask one question, Mr. Coroner," he said. "What
asylum did this yer last witness escape from?"
"Mr. Harker," said the coroner, gravely and tranquilly, "from what
asylum did you last escape?"
Harker flushed crimson again, but said nothing, and the seven jurors
rose and solemnly filed out of the cabin.
"If you have done insulting me, sir," said Harker, as soon as he and
the officer were left alone with the dead man, "I suppose I am at
liberty to go?"
"Yes."
Harker started to leave, but paused, with his hand on the door latch.
The habit of his profession was strong in him--stronger than his
sense of personal dignity. He turned about and said:
"The book that you have there--I recognize it as Morgan's diary. You
seemed greatly interested in it; you read in it while I was
testifying. May I see it? The public would like--"
"The book will cut no figure in this matter," replied the official,
slipping it into his coat pocket; "all the entries in it were made
before the writer's death."
As Harker passed out of the house the jury reentered and stood about
the table, on which the now covered corpse showed under the sheet
with sharp definition. The foreman seated himself near the candle,
produced from his breast pocket a pencil and scrap of paper and wrote
rather laboriously the following verdict, which with various degrees
of effort all signed:
"We, the jury, do find that the remains come to their death at the
hands of a mountain lion, but some of us thinks, all the same, they
had fits."
IV--AN EXPLANATION FROM THE TOMB
In the diary of the late Hugh Morgan are certain interesting entries
having, possibly, a scientific value as suggestions. At the inquest
upon his body the book was not put in evidence; possibly the coroner
thought it not worth while to confuse the jury. The date of the
first of the entries mentioned cannot be ascertained; the upper part
of the leaf is torn away; the part of the entry remaining follows:
" . . . would run in a half-circle, keeping his head turned always
toward the centre, and again he would stand still, barking furiously.
At last he ran away into the brush as fast as he could go. I thought
at first that he had gone mad, but on returning to the house found no
other alteration in his manner than what was obviously due to fear of
punishment.
"Can a dog see with his nose? Do odors impress some cerebral centre
with images of the thing that emitted them? . . .
"Sept. 2.--Looking at the stars last night as they rose above the
crest of the ridge east of the house, I observed them successively
disappear--from left to right. Each was eclipsed but an instant, and
only a few at the same time, but along the entire length of the ridge
all that were within a degree or two of the crest were blotted out.
It was as if something had passed along between me and them; but I
could not see it, and the stars were not thick enough to define its
outline. Ugh! I don't like this." . . .
Several weeks' entries are missing, three leaves being torn from the
book.
"Sept. 27.--It has been about here again--I find evidences of its
presence every day. I watched again all last night in the same
cover, gun in hand, double-charged with buckshot. In the morning the
fresh footprints were there, as before. Yet I would have sworn that
I did not sleep--indeed, I hardly sleep at all. It is terrible,
insupportable! If these amazing experiences are real I shall go mad;
if they are fanciful I am mad already.
"Oct. 3.--I shall not go--it shall not drive me away. No, this is MY
house, MY land. God hates a coward . . .
"Oct. 5.--I can stand it no longer; I have invited Harker to pass a
few weeks with me--he has a level head. I can judge from his manner
if he thinks me mad.
"Oct. 7.--I have the solution of the mystery; it came to me last
night--suddenly, as by revelation. How simple--how terribly simple!
"There are sounds that we cannot hear. At either end of the scale
are notes that stir no chord of that imperfect instrument, the human
ear. They are too high or too grave. I have observed a flock of
blackbirds occupying an entire tree-top--the tops of several trees--
and all in full song. Suddenly--in a moment--at absolutely the same
instant--all spring into the air and fly away. How? They could not
all see one another--whole tree-tops intervened. At no point could a
leader have been visible to all. There must have been a signal of
warning or command, high and shrill above the din, but by me unheard.
I have observed, too, the same simultaneous flight when all were
silent, among not only blackbirds, but other birds--quail, for
example, widely separated by bushes--even on opposite sides of a
hill.
"It is known to seamen that a school of whales basking or sporting on
the surface of the ocean, miles apart, with the convexity of the
earth between, will sometimes dive at the same instant--all gone out
of sight in a moment. The signal has been sounded--too grave for the
ear of the sailor at the masthead and his comrades on the deck--who
nevertheless feel its vibrations in the ship as the stones of a
cathedral are stirred by the bass of the organ.
"As with sounds, so with colors. At each end of the solar spectrum
the chemist can detect the presence of what are known as 'actinic'
rays. They represent colors--integral colors in the composition of
light--which we are unable to discern. The human eye is an imperfect
instrument; its range is but a few octaves of the real 'chromatic
scale.' I am not mad; there are colors that we cannot see.
"And, God help me! the Damned Thing is of such a color!"
-THE END-
Ambrose Bierce's short story: The damned thing
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