The Undying Monster by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0000000000000
Published: 2021-10-25T02:50:18+00:00

CHAPTER VIII

“The Hidden Room–To-night–”

When the car stopped under the Shaw again darkness was still a thing of the future. The Downs were dull and dim, yet marvellously distinct and solid under a sky mainly devoid of positive colour, but waning to transparent pale orange beyond Thunderbarrow Beacon. Over the Beacon, one puce-coloured cloud jagged along its underedge with red-hot copper that seemed astonishingly distinct and harsh in the airy softness of the rest of the firmament. The moon, a shy, eroded crescent, sailed over the village where in cottage windows little reflections of the coppery cloud glowed luridly.

Frost had set in; it would have been a time of breathless silence, but the eternal wind of the Down heights was pouring, chill and steady, through Shaw and hanger, stirring the trees to a breathy droning like that of an angry sea. Luna and Oliver were halfway along the lower path when a cry came down wind: a shrill little squeal that made both start. “A rabbit, some brute’s been setting traps again!” cried Oliver. His eyes gleamed red with the profound anger of a man who rarely gives way to passion. Luna’s hands went up to her ears at the sound, and down again as it came once more, pitiful as the wail of a little lost soul crying out at worse than physical pain. “It’s in the Shaw, not far!” she exclaimed. “To heel, Roska!”

Oliver caught her wrist. “There’s no danger where I am,” she said, then jerked free with: “Oh!” in pitying horror, as a third cry came.

“You must not go!” he called, but she darted up amongst the beeches, the dog at her heels. She was out of sight in the few moments it took him to realise she had gone and to start after her over the packed leaf-carpet between the wide-set trees. The beeches were passed before he caught sight of her again, speeding into the dark boscage of the Shaw, guided by another squeal. He called, and the wind brought his voice back to him as he darted into the black windings in turn.

There was a faint scent of smashed pine and fir needles under his feet, a little colourless sky showed translucently betwixt the close-shouldering trunks, and overhead in broken threads and rags between the masses of the boughs. In Oliver’s head something seemed to turn over, heave itself, run down, catch at his heart, and send a warm wave along every nerve of his big body. He was joyfully, ecstatically conscious of every bone and muscle, working and rippling in harmony; of the wind that sang through his bristling curls; of his feet slapping crisply on the needle-carpet; and could trace every vein by the burring, singing thrill that ran along it. And back of it all was a consciousness that it was all familiar, had all happened before. It was no new thing; pinewood, and duskiness, and himself coursing like a young god after a woman who fled before him. He had forgotten the Monster; forgotten the cause of the chase; fear and pity alike had no power over him.

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