My Bones and My Flute by Edgar Mittelholzer

Author:Edgar Mittelholzer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Peepal Tree Press

15

As you may recall, I hinted in my prefatory remarks that it was my intention to narrate these occurrences in chronological order and that it was only in deference to the wishes of Mr. and Mrs. Nevinson and Jessie that I did not publish my bare diary notes but decided, instead, to amalgamate them into this narrative form. I am a great stickler for tidiness and routine, and even at the risk of being somewhat annoying, I must once again defer touching on the matter of my Theory in the detailed form promised until I have recorded, for your benefit, what Mrs. Nevinson told us the following morning – that is, on Monday – concerning her dream of the night before.

“Something new has come into it,” she said, “though I don’t know that it matters much. Everything seemed like the nights before except that suddenly I found myself breaking off from the track and pushing my way through the jungle. The flute-player seemed to have left the track and taken to the jungle, and I had to follow him. The bush was thick, but I managed to go through it somehow. And then that bony hand gripped my arm and whispered. It said this time: ‘Eight nights – and then to join us!’ And for some reason I began to smell something musky and queer near me – and I could have sworn I saw two greyish furry hands reaching out for my throat. After that I woke up.”

I asked her quickly: “You’re quite sure the wording was altered? ‘Eight nights – and then to join us!’? Was that what you heard?”

“Yes, those were the words,” she replied. She sighed and added: “But for Christ’s sake don’t start cross-examining me about it. I’m not in the mood for that kind of thing this morning, Milton.”

I grinned and said, “I’ll try not to be a nuisance, but just a question or two, all the same. About this musky smell. Was last night the first time you became aware of it?”

“It must be the same smell I smell in my dreams,” Jessie intervened. “A musky kind of goatish smell.”

“That’s right,” said her mother. “There is something goatish about it.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Mrs. Nevvy,” I persisted. “Was last night the first time you became aware of it?”

“I’m not sure – and that’s quite honest. I didn’t like saying it before, but I have an idea I’ve been smelling it for the past two or three nights. On waking up from that dream – or just before waking. It’s so hard to tell. I thought it must be my imagination, but last night I was sure about it. I did smell it – ”

“In your dream – or on waking up?”

She gave me a withering look. “What are you trying to discover now? Why does it matter if it was in my dream or on waking up?”

“It’s extremely important,” I said.

She shrugged. “Well, it must have been in my dream, I suppose.

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