The Sleeper Awakes by H. G. Wells (book recommendations TXT) đ
- Author: H. G. Wells
- Performer: -
Book online «The Sleeper Awakes by H. G. Wells (book recommendations TXT) đ». Author H. G. Wells
He became aware of a growing fatigue. At times he would turn aside and sit down on one of the numerous benches of the upper ways. But a feverish restlessness, the knowledge of his vital implication in this struggle, would not let him rest in any place for long. Was the struggle on his behalf alone?
And then in a desolate place came the shock of an earthquakeâa roaring and thunderingâa mighty wind of cold air pouring through the city, the smash of glass, the slip and thud of falling masonryâa series of gigantic concussions. A mass of glass and ironwork fell from the remote roofs into the middle gallery, not a hundred yards away from him, and in the distance were shouts and running. He, too, was startled to an aimless activity, and ran first one way and then as aimlessly back.
A man came running towards him. His self-control returned. âWhat have they blown up?â asked the man breathlessly. âThat was an explosion,â and before Graham could speak he had hurried on.
The great buildings rose dimly, veiled by a perplexing twilight, albeit the rivulet of sky above was now bright with day. He noted many strange features, understanding none at the time; he even spelt out many of the inscriptions in Phonetic lettering. But what profit is it to decipher a confusion of odd-looking letters resolving itself, after painful strain of eye and mind, into âHere is Eadhamite,â or, âLabour BureauâLittle Sideâ? Grotesque thought, that all these cliff-like houses were his!
The perversity of his experience came to him vividly. In actual fact he had made such a leap in time as romancers have imagined again and again. And that fact realised, he had been prepared. His mind had, as it were, seated itself for a spectacle. And no spectacle unfolded itself, but a great vague danger, unsympathetic shadows and veils of darkness. Somewhere through the labyrinthine obscurity his death sought him. Would he, after all, be killed before he saw? It might be that even at the next corner his destruction ambushed. A great desire to see, a great longing to know, arose in him.
He became fearful of corners. It seemed to him that there was safety in concealment. Where could he hide to be inconspicuous when the lights returned? At last he sat down upon a seat in a recess on one of the higher ways, conceiving he was alone there.
He squeezed his knuckles into his weary eyes. Suppose when he looked again he found the dark trough of parallel ways and that intolerable altitude of edifice gone. Suppose he were to discover the whole story of these last few days, the awakening, the shouting multitudes, the darkness and the fighting, a phantasmagoria, a new and more vivid sort of dream. It must be a dream; it was so inconsecutive, so reasonless. Why were the people fighting for him? Why should this saner world regard him as Owner and Master?
So he thought, sitting blinded, and then he looked again, half hoping in spite of his ears to see some familiar aspect of the life of the nineteenth century, to see, perhaps, the little harbour of Boscastle about him, the cliffs of Pentargen, or the bedroom of his home. But fact takes no heed of human hopes. A squad of men with a black banner tramped athwart the nearer shadows, intent on conflict, and beyond rose that giddy wall of frontage, vast and dark, with the dim incomprehensible lettering showing faintly on its face.
âIt is no dream,â he said, âno dream.â And he bowed his face upon his hands.
CHAPTER XI. â THE OLD MAN WHO KNEW EVERYTHING
He was startled by a cough close at hand.
He turned sharply, and peering, saw a small, hunched-up figure sitting a couple of yards off in the shadow of the enclosure.
âHave ye any news?â asked the high-pitched wheezy voice of a very old man.
Graham hesitated. âNone,â he said.
âI stay here till the lights come again,â said the old man. âThese blue scoundrels are everywhereâeverywhere.â
Grahamâs answer was inarticulate assent. He tried to see the old man but the darkness hid his face. He wanted very much to respond, to talk, but he did not know how to begin.
âDark and damnable,â said the old man suddenly. âDark and damnable. Turned out of my room among all these dangers.â
âThatâs hard,â ventured Graham. âThatâs hard on you.â
âDarkness. An old man lost in the darkness. And all the world gone mad. War and fighting. The police beaten and rogues abroad. Why donât they bring some negroes to protect us? ... No more dark passages for me. I fell over a dead man.â
âYouâre safer with company,â said the old man, âif itâs company of the right sort,â and peered frankly. He rose suddenly and came towards Graham.
Apparently the scrutiny was satisfactory. The old man sat down as if relieved to be no longer alone. âEh!â he said, âbut this is a terrible time! War and fighting, and the dead lying thereâmen, strong men, dying in the dark. Sons! I have three sons. God knows where they are to-night.â
The voice ceased. Then repeated quavering: âGod knows where they are to-night.â
Graham stood revolving a question that should not betray his ignorance. Again the old manâs voice ended the pause.
âThis Ostrog will win,â he said. âHe will win. And what the world will be like under him no one can tell. My sons are under the wind-vanes, all three. One of my daughters-in-law was his mistress for a while. His mistress! Weâre not common people. Though theyâve sent me to wander to-night and take my chance.... I knew what was going on. Before most people. But this darkness! And to fall over a dead body suddenly in the dark!â
His wheezy breathing could be heard.
âOstrog!â said Graham.
âThe greatest Boss the world has ever seen,â said the voice.
Graham ransacked his mind. âThe Council has few friends among the people,â he hazarded.
âFew friends. And poor ones at that. Theyâve had their time. Eh! They should have kept to the clever ones. But twice they held election. And Ostrogâ. And now it has burst out and nothing can stay it, nothing can stay it. Twice they rejected OstrogâOstrog the Boss. I heard of his rages at the timeâhe was terrible. Heaven save them! For nothing on earth can now he has raised the Labour Companies upon them. No one else would have dared. All the blue canvas armed and marching! He will go through with it. He will go through.â
He was silent for a little while. âThis Sleeper,â he said, and stopped.
âYes,â said Graham. âWell?â
The senile voice sank to a confidential whisper, the dim, pale face came close. âThe real Sleeperââ
âYes,â said Graham.
âDied years ago.â
âWhat?â said Graham, sharply.
âYears ago. Died. Years ago.â
âYou donât say so!â said Graham.
âI do. I do say so. He died. This Sleeper whoâs woke upâthey changed in the night. A poor, drugged insensible creature. But I mustnât tell all I know. I mustnât tell all I know.â
For a little while he muttered inaudibly. His secret was too much for him. âI donât know the ones that put him to sleepâthat was before my timeâbut I know the man who injected the stimulants and woke him again. It was ten to oneâwake or kill. Wake or kill. Ostrogâs way.â
Graham was so astonished at these things that he had to interrupt, to make the old man repeat his words, to re-question vaguely, before he was sure of the meaning and folly of what he heard. And his awakening had not been natural! Was that an old manâs senile superstition, too, or had it any truth in it? Feeling in the dark corners of his memory, he presently came on something that might conceivably be an impression of some such stimulating effect. It dawned upon him that he had happened upon a lucky encounter, that at last he might learn something of the new age. The old man wheezed awhile and spat, and then the piping, reminiscent voice resumed:
âThe first time they rejected him. Iâve followed it all.â
âRejected whom?â said Graham. âThe Sleeper?â
âSleeper? No. Ostrog. He was terribleâterrible! And he was promised then, promised certainly the next time. Fools they wereânot to be more afraid of him. Now all the cityâs his millstone, and such as we dust ground upon it. Dust ground upon it. Until he set to workâthe workers cut each otherâs throats, and murdered a Chinaman or a Labour policeman at times, and left the rest of us in peace. Dead bodies! Robbing! Darkness! Such a thing hasnât been this gross of years. Eh!âbut âtis ill on small folks when the great fall out! Itâs ill.â
âDid you sayâthere had not beenâwhat?âfor a gross of years?â
âEh?â said the old man.
The old man said something about clipping his words, and made him repeat this a third time. âFighting and slaying, and weapons in hand, and fools bawling freedom and the like,â said the old man. âNot in all my life has there been that. These are like the old daysâfor sureâwhen the Paris people broke outâthree gross of years ago. Thatâs what I mean hasnât been. But itâs the worldâs way. It had to come back. I know. I know. This five years Ostrog has been working, and there has been trouble and trouble, and hunger and threats and high talk and arms. Blue canvas and murmurs. No one safe. Everything sliding and slipping. And now here we are! Revolt and fighting, and the Council come to its end.â
âYou are rather well-informed on these things,â said Graham.
âI know what I hear. It isnât all Babble Machine with me.â
âNo,â said Graham, wondering what Babble Machine might be. âAnd you are certain this Ostrogâyou are certain Ostrog organised this rebellion and arranged for the waking of the Sleeper? Just to assert himselfâbecause he was not elected to the Council?â
âEveryone knows that, I should think,â said the old man. âExceptâjust fools. He meant to be master somehow. In the Council or not. Everyone who knows anything knows that. And here we are with dead bodies lying in the dark! Why, where have you been if you havenât heard all about the trouble between Ostrog and the Verneys? And what do you think the troubles are about? The Sleeper? Eh? You think the Sleeperâs real and woke of his own accordâeh?â
âIâm a dull man, older than I look, and forgetful,â said Graham. âLots of things that have happenedâespecially of late yearsâ. If I was the Sleeper, to tell you the truth, I couldnât know less about them.â
âEh!â said the voice. âOld, are you? You donât sound so very old! But itâs not everyone keeps his memory to my time of lifeâtruly. But these notorious things! But youâre not so old as meânot nearly so old as me. Well! I ought not to judge other men by myself, perhaps. Iâm youngâfor so old a man. Maybe youâre old for so
Comments (0)