Norman Invasions by John Norman Page B

on the scene of Gavin’s fall, and had then, too, fallen from the cliff, though more fortunately than he, for I had managed to miss the rocks below. I was not the last person who had spoken to old Duncan but some of the other villagers. He had been alive and well when last I had seen him. It was not clear why Gavin had been about that night, but the constable had conjectured, sensibly enough, at least from his point of view, that he had been up to no good, out on such a night, that he was the trickster who had been playing the village for a fool, and was up to further mischief, taking advantage of the storm to avoid surveillance. He had heard of the prints, and of the disturbance in my room, and such, for old Duncan had told him about these things one day when he had biked to the village. That, it turned out, was the day I had seen Duncan talking to the constable. Duncan, of course, I knew from personal acquaintance, would not have favored the “hoax theory” of the anomalies. Such an explanation, of course, would be that which would first occur to a sober outsider, one not from the village, one like the kindly, sensible constable. “What did he say?” I asked, curious. “Nothing, really,” said the constable. “Only a lot of nonsense, superstitious nonsense. He was a decent, sweet, but daft old man. And, too, I think he may not be the only one in the village, the crazy things they say. I think it may be the wind, the never-stopping wind, the sea, too, always, slapping at the cliffs. After a while, I suppose, anyone could go mad here.” As the constable was leaving, he turned and said to me, “One of the things old Duncan wanted me to do was to keep an eye on you.” “Why?” I asked. “More nonsense,” said the constable. “Good-day, sir!” “Good-day, officer.” That, I supposed, was why Duncan had so apparently abruptly concluded his discussion with the constable, when I had appeared on the scene. I bore him no ill will, sweet old Duncan, with his ale, and his pipe. I think he meant well. He had apparently known my father. He claimed to have seen the calpa. I wondered if he had. If there is such a thing, perhaps he had come too close. Indeed, perhaps he, like Gavin, had been abroad that night, curious, reconnoitering, unwisely. If so, he, like Gavin, might have been well advised to leave well enough alone. He was a character in the village. The village would miss him. I would miss him.
    In my convalescence in Hill House I had, of course, given a great deal of thought, sometimes even against my will or intent, to the seeming events of the past few days, and particularly to those of the night of the storm. I supposed that, somehow, after returning to Hill House that night, and having fallen asleep in my room, I had then, again, risen in my sleep, and walked about, and that the events which had seemed to occur had been no more than the troubling aberrations of an unusual dream. I was fortunate not to have been killed in a fall from the cliff, in the midst of this dangerous, wayward peregrination. I remembered the details of the dream, of course. It was not the sort of dream one would be likely to forget. It had to have been a dream, of course. I could not have behaved in so uncouth and deplorable a manner as the dream suggested. Such behavior would have been crudely and inappropriately atavistic, not to be countenanced, simply unthinkable. Such things hark back to realities and times so ancient, basic, and primitive that they are best precluded from civilized attention, from polite inquiry. Let us not remember what men and women were, for fear we might learn what they are. Not all curtains need be parted. Not all doors need be opened. Perhaps it is well not to search for the truth; there is always the danger that one might find it. The rivers of blood flow deep. Doubtless it is best that we remain masks and shadows to one another.
    I discovered that one