THE MONKEY’S PAW
by W. W. Jacobs
Click here for the Mp3 version (provided by Project Gutenberg) if you want to listen to the story. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/28731/mp3/28731-01.mp3
I.
Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.
“Hark at the wind,” said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.
“I’m listening,” said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. “Check.”
“I should hardly think that he’d come to-night,” said his father, with his hand poised over the board.
“Mate,” replied the son.
“That’s the worst of living so far out,” bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence; “of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway’s a bog, and the road’s a torrent. I don’t know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses in the road are let, they think it doesn’t matter.”
“Never mind, dear,” said his wife, soothingly; “perhaps you’ll win the next one.”
Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin grey beard.
“There he is,” said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.
The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, “Tut, tut!” and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall, burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.
“Sergeant-Major Morris,” he said, introducing him.
The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whiskey and tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.
At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of wild scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strange peoples.
“Twenty-one years of it,” said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. “When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him.”
“He don’t look to have taken much harm,” said Mrs. White, politely.
“I’d like to go to India myself,” said the old man, “just to look round a bit, you know.”
“Better where you are,” said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.
“I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers,” said the old man. “What was that you started telling me the other day about a monkey’s paw or something, Morris?”
“Nothing,” said the soldier, hastily. “Leastways nothing worth hearing.”
“Monkey’s paw?” said Mrs. White, curiously.
“Well, it’s just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps,” said the sergeant-major, offhandedly.
His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absent-mindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him.
“To look at,” said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, “it’s just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy.”
He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.
“And what is there special about it?” inquired Mr. White as he took it from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.
“It had a spell put on it by an old fakir,” said the sergeant-major, “a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people’s lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it.”
His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter jarred somewhat.
“Well, why don’t you have three, sir?” said Herbert White, cleverly.
The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is wont to regard presumptuous youth. “I have,” he said, quietly, and his blotchy face whitened.
“And did you really have the three wishes granted?” asked Mrs. White.
“I did,” said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth.
“And has anybody else wished?” persisted the old lady.
“The first man had his three wishes. Yes,” was the reply; “I don’t know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That’s how I got the paw.”
His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.
“If you’ve had your three wishes, it’s no good to you now, then, Morris,” said the old man at last. “What do you keep it for?”
The soldier shook his head. “Fancy, I suppose,” he said, slowly. “I did have some idea of selling it, but I don’t think I will. It has caused enough mischief already. Besides, people won’t buy. They think it’s a fairy tale; some of them, and those who do think anything of it want to try it first and pay me afterward.”
“If you could have another three wishes,” said the old man, eyeing him keenly, “would you have them?”
“I don’t know,” said the other. “I don’t know.”
He took the paw, and dangling it between his forefinger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off.
“Better let it burn,” said the soldier, solemnly.
“If you don’t want it, Morris,” said the other, “give it to me.”
“I won’t,” said his friend, doggedly. “I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don’t blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again like a sensible man.”
The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. “How do you do it?” he inquired.
“Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud,” said the sergeant-major, “but I warn you of the consequences.”
“Sounds like the Arabian Nights,” said Mrs. White, as she rose and began to set the supper. “Don’t you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me?”
Her husband drew the talisman from pocket, and then all three burst into laughter as the sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm.
“If you must wish,” he said, gruffly, “wish for something sensible.”
Mr. White dropped it back in his pocket, and placing chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterward the three sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second instalment of the soldier’s adventures in India.
“If the tale about the monkey’s paw is not more truthful than those he has been telling us,” said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guest, just in time for him to catch the last train, “we sha’nt make much out of it.”
“Did you give him anything for it, father?” inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely.
“A trifle,” said he, colouring slightly. “He didn’t want it, but I made him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away.”
“Likely,” said Herbert, with pretended horror. “Why, we’re going to be rich, and famous and happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin with; then you can’t be henpecked.”
He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed with an antimacassar.
Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. “I don’t know what to wish for, and that’s a fact,” he said, slowly. “It seems to me I’ve got all I want.”
“If you only cleared the house, you’d be quite happy, wouldn’t you?” said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. “Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then; that ’ll just do it.”
His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman, as his son, with a solemn face, somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords.
“I wish for two hundred pounds,” said the old man distinctly.
A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him.
“It moved,” he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor.
“As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake.”
“Well, I don’t see the money,” said his son as he picked it up and placed it on the table, “and I bet I never shall.”
“It must have been your fancy, father,” said his wife, regarding him anxiously.
He shook his head. “Never mind, though; there’s no harm done, but it gave me a shock all the same.”
They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night.
“I expect you’ll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed,” said Herbert, as he bade them good-night, “and something horrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains.”
He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and seeing faces in it. The last face was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at it in amazement. It got so vivid that, with a little uneasy laugh, he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it. His hand grasped the monkey’s paw, and with a little shiver he wiped his hand on his coat and went up to bed.
II.
In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty, shrivelled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues.
“I suppose all old soldiers are the same,” said Mrs. White. “The idea of our listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted in these days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?”
“Might drop on his head from the sky,” said the frivolous Herbert.
“Morris said the things happened so naturally,” said his father, “that you might if you so wished attribute it to coincidence.”
“Well, don’t break into the money before I come back,” said Herbert as he rose from the table. “I’m afraid it’ll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you.”
His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched him down the road; and returning to the breakfast table, was very happy at the expense of her husband’s credulity. All of which did not prevent her from scurrying to the door at the postman’s knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habits when she found that the post brought a tailor’s bill.
“Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when he comes home,” she said, as they sat at dinner.
“I dare say,” said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer; “but for all that, the thing moved in my hand; that I’ll swear to.”
“You thought it did,” said the old lady soothingly.
“I say it did,” replied the other. “There was no thought about it; I had just—What’s the matter?”
His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a man outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with the two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well dressed, and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate, and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand upon it, and then with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up the path. Mrs. White at the same moment placed her hands behind her, and hurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair.
She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He gazed at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband’s coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit, for him to broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent.
“I—was asked to call,” he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. “I come from ‘Maw and Meggins.’”
The old lady started. “Is anything the matter?” she asked, breathlessly. “Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it?”
Her husband interposed. “There, there, mother,” he said, hastily. “Sit down, and don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve not brought bad news, I’m sure, sir;” and he eyed the other wistfully.
“I’m sorry—” began the visitor.
“Is he hurt?” demanded the mother, wildly.
The visitor bowed in assent. “Badly hurt,” he said, quietly, “but he is not in any pain.”
“Oh, thank God!” said the old woman, clasping her hands. “Thank God for that! Thank—”
She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other’s averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence.
“He was caught in the machinery,” said the visitor at length in a low voice.
“Caught in the machinery,” repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion, “yes.”
He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife’s hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courting-days nearly forty years before.
“He was the only one left to us,” he said, turning gently to the visitor. “It is hard.”
The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. “The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss,” he said, without looking round. “I beg that you will understand I am only their servant and merely obeying orders.”
There was no reply; the old woman’s face was white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on the husband’s face was a look such as his friend the sergeant might have carried into his first action.
“I was to say that ‘Maw and Meggins’ disclaim all responsibility,” continued the other. “They admit no liability at all, but in consideration of your son’s services, they wish to present you with a certain sum as compensation.”
Mr. White dropped his wife’s hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, “How much?”
“Two hundred pounds,” was the answer.
Unconscious of his wife’s shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor.
III.
In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. It was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it, and remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen —something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts to bear.
But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation—the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled, apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and their days were long to weariness.
It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened.
“Come back,” he said, tenderly. “You will be cold.”
“It is colder for my son,” said the old woman, and wept afresh.
The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.
“The paw!” she cried wildly. “The monkey’s paw!”
He started up in alarm. “Where? Where is it? What’s the matter?”
She came stumbling across the room toward him. “I want it,” she said, quietly. “You’ve not destroyed it?”
“It’s in the parlour, on the bracket,” he replied, marvelling. “Why?”
She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.
“I only just thought of it,” she said, hysterically. “Why didn’t I think of it before? Why didn’t you think of it?”
“Think of what?” he questioned.
“The other two wishes,” she replied, rapidly. “We’ve only had one.”
“Was not that enough?” he demanded, fiercely.
“No,” she cried, triumphantly; “we’ll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish our boy alive again.”
The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from his quaking limbs. “Good God, you are mad!” he cried, aghast.
“Get it,” she panted; “get it quickly, and wish—Oh, my boy, my boy!”
Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. “Get back to bed,” he said, unsteadily. “You don’t know what you are saying.”
“We had the first wish granted,” said the old woman, feverishly; “why not the second?”
“A coincidence,” stammered the old man.
“Go and get it and wish,” cried his wife, quivering with excitement.
The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. “He has been dead ten days, and besides he—I would not tell you else, but—I could only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now?”
“Bring him back,” cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door. “Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?”
He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand.
Even his wife’s face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.
“Wish!” she cried, in a strong voice.
“It is foolish and wicked,” he faltered.
“Wish!” repeated his wife.
He raised his hand. “I wish my son alive again.”
The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind.
He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle-end, which had burned below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a minute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him.
Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one, went downstairs for a candle.
At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike another; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible, sounded on the front door.
The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded through the house.
“What’s that?” cried the old woman, starting up.
“A rat,” said the old man in shaking tones—“a rat. It passed me on the stairs.”
His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the house.
“It’s Herbert!” she screamed. “It’s Herbert!”
She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly.
“What are you going to do?” he whispered hoarsely.
“It’s my boy; it’s Herbert!” she cried, struggling mechanically. “I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the door.”
“For God’s sake don’t let it in,” cried the old man, trembling.
“You’re afraid of your own son,” she cried, struggling. “Let me go. I’m coming, Herbert; I’m coming.”
There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman’s voice, strained and panting.
“The bolt,” she cried, loudly. “Come down. I can’t reach it.”
But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey’s paw, and frantically breathed his third and last wish.
The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back, and the door opened. A cold wind rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road.
***
Marching Orders
(From my book And You Shall Not Live)
Aron Swainsborough lay on the battlefield in silence. He could see the mound. He watched it closely. He had been watching for three days now. He observed how the ants moved in an organized fashion. They moved along, stopping long enough to confer, to pass along whatever information they passed along, one to another. Then they each moved on, up and down the mound, down and out along its edges, and then across the open dirt. The mound was only a foot or so away from him. It was close enough though. It was close enough that he was frightened. He was in fact terrified. His hand lay only inches from the mound. He was lying with an outstretched arm. And he was paralyzed. He couldn’t move. He could breathe. He could watch. He could hear things. He couldn’t hear the ants, of course. But he could almost hear them, at least he thought. His imagination told him that they were whispering something of great import. In only days, or perhaps hours, they would be whispering about him. They would move in on him, first the lone one doing reconnaissance, and then the others, slowly but surely. . .
“Aaron?”
Aaron heard the voice. Aaron knew the voice. It was Harvey. He knew Harvey’s last name but couldn’t think of it at the moment. It didn’t matter. Apparently, bodies were being removed from the battlefield, the dead ones now. All the wounded had probably been removed. Well, besides him. He hadn’t been removed. He was one of the wounded, still alive. That’s what Harvey was checking. He heard Harvey call his name again. He couldn’t answer. He could breath, but his voice wouldn’t come. He lay still and looked up. He couldn’t turn his head, but he could shift his sight. He looked from the mound now and up into the sunlight. He waited for Harvey’s face to appear. It did appear, but only for a minute. “Aaron,” Harvey said. “You alive?” Aaron was screaming for joy at the voice, the face. Nothing was coming out. He saw Harvey look away from him. No, he thought. No. Bring your attention back. I’m here. I’m still here. Aaron tried something. He blinked his eyes. Surely that would get Harvey’s attention. He didn’t know what Harvey was looking at in the distance. Aaron blinked. Harvey had looked back at Aaron, but only for a second. Aaron was frantic. He could imagine his chest rising and falling with each breath. Couldn’t Harvey see it? Aaron knew all Harvey had to do was place his hand on his rising and falling chest to find out that he was still alive. Or he could study his face; Aaron could blink his eyes. Every time Aaron blinked, however, Harvey seemed to not be watching. But then, then, Harvey placed his hand on Aaron’s chest, felt the rise and fall of it. He leaned down and put his ear close to Aaron’s mouth, his parted lips. He looked into Aaron’s eyes. He grinned. Then his attention was distracted. “What?” he hollered to someone in the distance. “Ok.” Aaron could guess that there was probably someone with an open wound in the distance, still alive. Aaron didn’t have an open wound. At least he presumed he didn’t. He was just paralyzed, from the neck down. But why couldn’t he speak? He could breathe. Why couldn’t he form words and make them come out. Harvey smiled back down at him. “I’ll be back, buddy, with help. I might be a little while. Rest easy.” And he was gone. And in a few minutes, after waiting, Harvey wasn’t back. And then Aaron heard the sounds of guns in the distance. He could hear the minné balls whizzing past and hitting the dirt nearby. None hit the mound, however. Aaron watched it, the mound, the ants. He had nothing else to do. It was clearly in view. The ants still trudged up and down the sides of the mound. He noticed that a part of the mound had been crushed though. It hadn’t been crushed by any lead, but by Harvey’s foot. Harvey had stepped on a part of it. The ants swarmed now. They had fanned outward. The side of the mound closest to Aaron’s hand was still intact. He watched his upraised fingers, his upturned palm. An ant had climbed and crawled up between his fingers. It had rounded the mound of his knuckles beneath, and climbed between the fingers of his right hand. Aaron tried to move his finger. The ant crawled up the finger and back down. It was on the finger next to the pinky finger. It moved back down the finger and wandered around the ridge of his palm, the padded mounds. Then Aaron noticed another ant. It too came up the same way. The two conferred on one of the padded mounds. They only conferred for a second and then the second ant went back the way he came. He met another one on the way up. These two spoke, and then the second one did an about face and went back to the first ant. Then there was a fourth one. The first one moved down into the valley of the palm and rested in a crack along the palm of Aaron’s hand. He moved on and another was close behind. Both of them rose up over the padded area at the base of Aaron’s thumb. One went up the thumb and the second one moved onto Aaron’s wrist, just beneath his sleeve. Aaron tried to feel him beneath the sleeve, but couldn’t. He could imagine him there, of course, just out of sight. He could imagine him exploring the cool shade between the shirt and his arm. Aaron could only watch. He waited on Harvey to return. There was no sign of Harvey or anyone else. He waited. And the sun grew hotter above. The firing of the guns stopped. The sun was still up high in the sky. The clouds moved slowly across it, lessening the heat for a moment. Still there was no sound, no approaching footsteps. No gunfire. No Harvey. Aaron waited. Time passed.
Aaron watched the ants. There were more of them now, conferring with one another and then moving on. He watched five or six of them move down into the valley of his palm and up his wrist. One came back out from beneath his sleeve and spoke with one just coming up out of the palm. The one spoken to took a detour over to the edge of Aaron’s hand. This scout disappeared over the side, the side with the pinky finger. Was he searching for an easier route? Two ants came up that way. One of the two was probably the scout. Aaron didn’t know for sure. It was starting, slowly, but starting all the same, the slow march. He wasn’t concerned yet. He had been concerned earlier in the day. His mind had worked up a scenario that had left him very concerned and disturbed. But that was before Harvey had appeared. Harvey would be back. He now knew that Harvey would be back. Aaron had no hope earlier. His mind had worked on the mound, the ants, giving them a threatening power. He wanted to laugh now. So what were a few bites beneath his sleeve? He couldn’t feel them after all. He couldn’t scratch the itch, but neither could he feel the sting. He couldn’t feel the itch. Oh, well, he could feel it in his mind. He could sense that it was there if he thought about it. But that would be illusion, right? Just an illusion. Well, no, not quite. It would be real, the bites would, in fact, be very real. The illusion was only the sting of the bite, and the itch. It would all be in his mind. He couldn’t let it take hold. He couldn’t let it amount to anything; anything more than an ant hill. He wanted to chuckle to himself. He would wait for Harvey to return. Harvey would be back. He had no choice but to wait. He would wait.
And Harvey returned. He was smiling down at Aaron. He had picked up Aaron’s arm earlier and dropped it. He had figured out that Aaron was paralyzed. Where was help? Shouldn’t there be help to lift him up and carry him away to somewhere safe? Was there anywhere safe? As Aaron thought this, he saw Harvey’s shoulders rise, his arms. Harvey’s hands appeared in front of Aaron’s face. The hands were holding a handkerchief, squeezing it. The handkerchief was wet. Water droplets fell onto Aaron’s lips, sat there and then rolled into his mouth, moistening it. Thankfully Harvey had been smart about it, and hadn’t just poured water into Aaron’s mouth where it would run down his throat and choke him. Aaron didn’t know if he could swallow. He thought maybe he could. But if he could swallow, then why couldn’t he speak? He felt the drops of water in his throat, resting at the back of it, slowly moving down. Harvey squeezed again, and more drops came, a couple of them hitting Aaron’s lips and then running across and to the corner of his mouth where they merged into a tiny stream and ran down his chin and cheek. The wetness wasn’t much, just faintly moist on the side of his chin, or so Aaron imagined. He imagined it tingling as it dried in the harsh afternoon sunlight. The couple of other drops that made it into his mouth still rested in the back of his throat. He thought he felt a small trickle start to run down his throat, but this was in fact imagination. And then he saw what Harvey held now. A small bit of cornbread. He crumbled it across Aaron’s lips and into his mouth. Aaron wanted to scream. He wasn’t even sure that the water wasn’t going down his wind pipe. The small bits of cornbread would choke him to death. He knew this instinctively. Stop! He wanted to yell. Wait! No! He knew Harvey’s intentions were good, but it would be dangerous. The small crumbs fell across Aaron’s lips and rested in the front and side of his mouth; nothing went down his throat. Momentary relief.
Harvey disappeared from view. He left again. Aaron heard his footsteps go away. He was probably off to wet the handkerchief again in a nearby stream. He would be back. Aaron waited. Nothing. After a few minutes he heard the footsteps again, approaching. That’s when the firing started up again and the footsteps quickened and moved off in a different direction. He heard Harvey run for cover.
After a time, the rumblings of gunfire subsided. There was silence. The afternoon sun had shifted. Aaron’s gaze drifted back to the ant mound, to his hand. He could see the mound a short distance away. But closer, and more frightening, there were more and more ants now, moving steadily across his palm and up his sleeve. He tried to will his hand to move. Nothing. The ants moved in a steady line. They were very regimental once they got the orders to move, marching orders. Aaron brought his focus away from the ants and the mound. Harvey should have noticed them, brushed them away. Aaron decided he would try somehow to indicate with his eyes that the ants were there, and that Harvey should brush them away. Aaron didn’t think about the bites this time, or the itching. He lay still and waited patiently for Harvey to come back.
Time passed, perhaps another hour or so. Aaron couldn’t hear the firing of the guns anymore. But Aaron did feel a change in the air pressure against his ear. There was something, a whisper of sorts. That’s when Aaron’s imagination sprung up and he could see clearly what it was, at least in his mind’s eye. He saw at least one ant moving, exploring, walking between the hair follicles of his ear. These small, sensitive hairs were attuned to catch any change in air pressure, any slight breeze or wisp of sound. Now they were moving, being parted. Aaron could feel them, the follicles, as they shifted apart to let the ants pass. Just my imagination, he thought. Has to be. It stopped. The sensation stopped. It was just that, imagination. But then he thought he felt a tickling around the curve of the inner cup of his ear. He felt a tickling sensation moving along the spiral path. The ants had moved up his arm, up his neck and into his ear. Harvey hurry, he thought. Please hurry. There wasn’t a sound of footsteps. No sound at all, just the change of pressure in his ear. Were the ants really moving in the inner area of his ear. He glanced at his hand. It was covered quite a bit now; Not totally, but there were an alarming number of ants swarming over it. Any person who had the ability to move his hand would have shaken them off an hour ago, and probably would have been in a panic. Aaron was in a panic, and yet he remained calm because he knew he couldn’t feel the bites. The itching wasn’t there. He had no feeling. He moved his gaze and saw something. It was close. Something was moving close to his eye. It was an ant. It had moved across his cheek. Was there only one? Probably not. Aaron had another thought: The cornbread crumbs. These morsels rested, still on his lips, lodged in the corner. He suspected that some trusty scout would discover these in time. Probably sooner than later. He tried to blow air out, to push them away. The crumbs, he had to move them away from his mouth, somehow. He couldn’t move his head. He tried to move his lips. He wasn’t sure if he was successful in this. Nothing seemed to shift or change. He could see the ants moving now. Several were on his cheek, moving through his patch of whiskers, just like through the small hairs of his ear. He had to push the thoughts of his ear away, out of his mind. But what about his nostrils, the moistness of what breath he had would be within. The ants would need that. It would take them a bit to cart away the cornbread crumblings that rested on his lips. He could picture them working to dislodge the crumbs from the corner of his lips. How many ants would it take? How long? He suspected that there would be enough of them to get the job done. He began, very much against his will, to imagine how many might be swarming beneath his clothes. Had they formed en mass yet? He thought, yes, probably. At the very least, they were on the verge of it. He was, in a way, glad that they were on his face now. At least Harvey would be able to clearly see them now. He would brush them off, and probably glance at Aaron’s hand, the rest of his body. Aaron looked at his hand as he thought this. It was now covered almost completely. He frantically looked away. He saw more movement at his eye. He thought he detected his lower eyelashes being parted. Panic started to seep into his mind. He tried to fend it off. He was not having much luck now in warding it away. He closed his eyes and opened them. An ant, appearing huge, hung from his upper lashes now, dangling, struggling to hang on. It dropped. Aaron saw it fall across his vision. It caught again on his lower lashes. Its leg touched on the fluid at the lower ridge of Aaron’s eye. Aaron wanted to scream. He could no longer simply wait on Harvey. He had to do something. He had to go somewhere. He was beginning to feel bites all over his body. Was the paralysis receding? Was there some sort of miracle happening? In just another second or two would he be able to jump up and brush the army of ants off? He could then go rushing to the stream and wash. He tried to move. He tried again, a mighty effort. Still nothing. He had to leave, somehow escape. The itching was now becoming unbearable. He could see several ants on his nose now. He knew they had found the bread crumbs and were planning the best strategy for carting them away. There was no way for him to know how many had invaded his inner ear at this point. He thought he could hear a scratching. At first, he thought it was footsteps, Harvey returning. It wasn’t. The scratching became louder, the itching was now tormenting him; the stinging bites, and then more itching. He couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out for help. The ants swarmed.
Harvey returned. It had been a couple of hours. The sun had shifted in the sky. It was starting its descent. There was still plenty of light. As Harvey looked down at Aaron’s body, he could see the ants swarming. They were moving all over it now. They moved in and out of the mouth, the nostrils, across the open eyes, more obvious shapes showed on the whites of the eyes. Poor man, thought Harvey. He reached his fingers down and closed the lids over the orbs. He couldn’t know, however, that Aaron was still there.
Aaron stood just on the other side of death’s door. There was a ledge on the other side of that door, and Aaron stood precariously on it, staring down into death’s dark abyss. His back was pressed up against the door, his ear pressed to it, listening to life on the other side. He could hear only the sound of the ants. It was a humming sound, like a multitude of voices, a whispering sound that grew louder and louder, drowning out everything else. In Aaron’s mind, the ants were swarming all over the other side of the door, trying to get to him. There had been no place else for him to go. His whole body ached with bites, and the burning fire of itches. There was not a single spot that didn’t burn, didn’t itch. He listened. Just above the hum he heard something, footsteps. He knew Harvey had returned. He had to get back, to signal him in some way. He heard voices above the din, the hum of ants. “Time to leave,” he heard. “Marching orders.” He thought it was the ant’s line of communication. He was sure it was them. They had received marching orders. They were going to leave, just as orderly and as efficiently as they had arrived. He was sure of it. He flung the door open and came back, arriving just after Harvey had pressed his swollen eyelids shut. It took Aaron a minute or so to realize that the discussion about marching orders was not the ants at all; It was someone passing the information along to Harvey that it was time for the unit to move out. Aaron’s eyes opened just as Harvey’s shadow passed over his body when he turned to walk away. Had Harvey looked down at Aaron again, he would have seen the open eyes, the burning tear that streamed out of the corner of Aaron’s eye and ran down his temple. The tear carried with it the dead ant that Harvey had trapped beneath the lid. Still the ants moved, not leaving at all. They had their marching orders as well, and those orders hadn’t changed. Aaron felt a terror rise up above the din of the ants; He was truly alone now. Harvey wouldn’t be coming back. The wave of terror passed away, no more than a slight wisp of breeze crossing a barren desert. Aaron edged again towards the doorway, the door. There would be no waiting on the ledge this time, no point in it.