John Wyndham - The Chrysalids

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JOHN WYNDHAM

THE CHRYSALIDS

When I was quite small I would sometimes dream of a city — which was strange because it began before I even

knew what a city was. But this city, clustered on the curve of a big blue bay, would come into my mind. I could see the

streets, and the buildings that lined them, the waterfront, even boats in the harbour; yet, waking, I had never seen the

sea, or a boat. ...

And the buildings were quite unlike any I knew. The traffic in the streets was strange, carts running with no

horses to pull them; and sometimes there were things in the sky, shiny fish-shaped things that certainly were not

birds.

Most often I would see this wonderful place by daylight, but occasionally it was by night when the lights lay

like strings of glow-worms along the shore, and a few of them seemed to be sparks drifting on the water, or in the air.

It was a beautiful, fascinating place, and once, when I was still young enough to know no better, I asked my

eldest sister, Mary, where this lovely city could be.

She shook her head, and told me that there was no such place — not now. But, perhaps, she suggested, I could

somehow be dreaming about times long ago. Dreams were funny things, and there was no accounting for them; so it

might be that what I was seeing was a bit of the world as it had been once upon a time — the wonderful world that the

Old People had lived in; as it had been before God sent Tribulation.

But after that she went on to warn me very seriously not to mention it to anyone else; other people, as far as

she knew, did not have such pictures in their heads, either sleeping or waking, so it would be unwise to mention them.

That was good advice, and luckily I had the sense to take it. People in our district had a very sharp eye for the

odd, or the unusual, so that even my left-handedness caused slight disap-proval. So, at that time, and for some years

afterwards, I did not mention it to anyone — indeed, I almost forgot about it, for as I grew older the dream came less

frequently, and then very rarely.

But the advice stuck. Without it I might have mentioned the curious understanding I had with my cousin

Rosalind, and that would certainly have led us both into very grave trouble — if anyone had happened to believe me.

Neither I nor she, I think, paid much attention to it at that time: we simply had the habit of caution. I certainly did not

feel unusual. I was a normal little boy, growing up in a normal way, taking the ways of the world about me for granted.

And I kept on like that until the day I met Sophie. Even then, the difference was not immediate. It is hind-sight that

enables me to fix that as the day when my first small doubts started to germinate.

That day I had gone off by myself, as I often did. I was, I suppose, nearly ten years old. My next sister, Sarah,

was five years older, and the gap meant that I played a great deal alone. I had made my way down the cart-track to the

south, along the borders of several fields until I came to the high bank, and then along the top of the bank for quite a

way.

The bank was no puzzle to me then: it was far too big for me to think of as a thing that men could have built, nor

had it ever occurred to me to connect it with the wondrous doings of the Old People whom I sometimes heard about. It

was simply the bank, coming round in a wide curve, and then running straight as an arrow towards the distant hills;

just a part of the world, and no more to be wondered at than the river, the sky, or the hills themselves.

I had often gone along the top of it, but seldom explored on the farther side. For some reason I regarded the

country there as foreign — not so much hostile, as outside my territory. But there was a place I had discovered where

the rain, in running down the far side of the bank, had worn a sandy gully. If one sat in the start of that and gave a

good push off, one could go swishing down at a fine speed, and finally fly a few feet through the air to land in a pile of

soft sand at the bottom.

I must have been there half a dozen times before, and there had never been anyone about, but on this occasion,

when I was picking myself up after my third descent and preparing for a fourth, a voice said: ' Hullo!'

I looked round. At first I could not tell where it came from; then a shaking of the top twigs in a bunch of bushes

caught my eye. The branches parted, and a face looked out at me. It was a small face, sunburned, and clustered about

by dark curls. The expression was somewhat serious, but the eyes sparkled. We regarded one another for a moment,

then:

'Hallo,' I responded.

She hesitated, then pushed the bushes farther apart. I saw a girl a little shorter than I was, and perhaps a little

younger. She wore reddish-brown dungarees with a yellow shirt. The cross stitched to the front of the dungarees was

of a darker brown material. Her hair was tied on either side of her head with yellow ribbons. She stood still for a few

seconds as though uncertain about leaving the security of the bushes, then curi-osity got the better of her caution,

and she stepped out.

I stared at her because she was completely a stranger. From time to time there were gatherings or parties which

brought together all the children for miles around, so that it was astonishing to encounter one that I had never seen

before.

' What's your name?' I asked her.

' Sophie,' she told me. 'What's yours?'

' David,' I said. 'Where's your home?'

' Over there,' she said, waving her hand vaguely towards the foreign country beyond the bank.

Her eyes left mine and went to the sandy runnel down which I had been sliding.

' Is that fun?' she inquired, with a wistful look.

I hesitated a moment before inviting her, then:

' Yes,' I told her. 'Come and try.'

She hung back, turning her attention to me again. She studied me with a serious expression for a second or two,

then made up her mind quite suddenly. She scrambled to the top of the bank ahead of me.

She sped down the runnel with curls and ribbons flying. When I landed she had lost her serious look, and her

eyes were dancing with excitement.

' Again,' she said, and panted back up the bank.

It was on her third descent that the misadventure occurred. She sat down and shoved off as before. I watched

her swish down and come to a stop in a Hurry of sand. Somehow she had contrived to land a couple of feet to the left

of the usual place. I made ready to follow, and waited for her to get clear. She did not.

' Go on,' I told her impatiently.

She tried to move, and then called up,

' I can't. It hurts.'

I risked pushing off, anyway, and landed close beside her.

' What's the matter?' I asked.

Her face was screwed up. Tears stood in her eyes.

' My foot's stuck,' she said.

Her left foot was buried. I scrabbled the soft sand clear with my hands. Her shoe was jammed in a narrow space

between two up-pointed stones. I tried to move it, but it would not budge.

' Can't you sort of twist it out?' I suggested.

She tried, lips valiantly compressed.

' It won't come.'

' I'll help pull,' I offered.

' No, no! It hurts,' she protested.

I did not know what to do next. Very clearly her predica-ment was painful. I considered the problem.

'We'd better cut the laces so you can pull your foot out of the shoe. I can't reach the knot,' I decided.

'No!' she said, alarmed. 'No, I mustn't.'

She was so emphatic that I was baffled. If she were to pull the foot out of the shoe, we might knock the shoe

itself free with a stone, but if she would not, I didn't see what was to be done. She lay back on the sand, the knee of the

trapped leg sticking up in the air.

'Oh, it is hurting so,' she said. She could not hold back the tears any longer. They ran down her face. But even

then she didn't howl: she made small puppyish noises.

'You'll have to take it off,' I told her.

'No!' she protested again. 'No, I mustn't. Not ever. I mustn't.'

I sat down beside her, at a loss. Both her hands held on to one of mine, gripping it tightly while she cried.

Clearly the pain of her foot was increasing. For almost the first time in my life I found myself in charge of a situation

which needed a decision. I made it.

'It's no good. You've got to get it off,' I told her. 'If you don't, you'll probably stay here and die, I expect.'

She did not give in at once, but at last she consented. She watched apprehensively while I cut the lace. Then

she said:

'Go away! You mustn't look.'

I hesitated, but childhood is a time thickly beset with incom-prehensible, though important, conventions, so I

withdrew a few yards and turned my back. I heard her breathing hard. Then she was crying again. I turned round.

'I can't,' she said, looking at me fearfully through her tears, so I knelt down to see what I could do about it.

'You mustn't ever tell,' she said. 'Never, never! Promise?'

I promised.

She was very brave. Nothing more than the puppy noises.

When I did succeed in getting the foot free, it looked queer: I mean, it was all twisted and puffy - I didn't even

notice then that it had more than the usual number of toes. . . .

I managed to hammer the shoe out of the cleft, and handed it to her. But she found she could not put it on her

swollen foot. Nor could she put the foot to the ground. I thought I might carry her on my back, but she was heavier

than I ex-pected, and it was clear that we should not get far like that.

'I'll have to go and fetch somebody to help,' I told her.

'No. I'll crawl,' she said.

I walked beside her, carrying the shoe, and feeling useless. She kept going gamely for a surprisingly long way,

but she had to give it up. Her trousers were worn through at the knees, and the knees themselves were sore and

bleeding. I had never known anyone, boy or girl, who would have kept on till that pitch; it awed me slightly. I helped

her to stand up on her sound foot, and steadied her while she pointed out where her home was, and the trickle of

smoke that marked it. When I looked back she was on all fours again, disappearing into the bushes.

I found the house without much difficulty, and knocked, a little nervously. A tall woman answered. She had a

fine, hand-some face with large bright eyes. Her dress was russet and a little shorter than those most of the women at

home wore, but it carried the conventional cross, from neck to hem and breast to breast, in a green that matched the

scarf on her head.

'Are you Sophie's mother?' I asked.

She looked at me sharply and frowned. She said, with anxious abruptness:

'What is it?'

I told her.

'Oh!' she exclaimed. 'Her foot!'

She looked hard at me again for a moment, then she leant the broom she was holding against the wall, and

asked briskly:

'Where is she?'

I led her by the way I had come. At the sound of her voice Sophie crawled out of the bushes.

Her mother looked at the swollen, misshapen foot and the bleeding knees.

'Oh, my poor darling!' she said, holding her and kissing her. Then she added: 'He's seen it?'

'Yes,' Sophie told her. 'I'm sorry, Mummy. I tried hard, but I couldn't do it myself, and it did hurt so.'

Her mother nodded slowly. She sighed.

' Oh, well, it can't be helped now. Up you get.'

Sophie climbed on to her mother's back, and we all went back to the house together.

The commandments and precepts one learns as a child can be remembered by rote, but they mean little until

there is example — and, even then, the example needs to be recognized.

Thus, I was able to sit patiently and watch the hurt foot being washed, cold-poulticed, and bound up, and

perceive no connexion between it and the affirmation which I had heard almost every Sunday of my life.

'And God created man in His own image. And God decreed that man should have one body, one head, two arms

and two legs: that each arm should be jointed in two places and end in one hand: that each hand should have four

fingers and one thumb: that each finger should bear a flat finger-nail. . .'

And so on until:

'Then God created woman, also, and in the same image, but with these differences, according to her nature: her

voice should be of higher pitch than man's: she should grow no beard: she should have two breasts ...'

And so on again.

I knew it all, word for word — and yet the sight of Sophie's six toes stirred nothing in my memory. I saw the foot

resting in her mother's lap. Watched her mother pause to look down at it for a still moment, lift it, bend to kiss it gently,

and then look up with tears in her eyes. I felt sorry for her distress, and for Sophie, and for the hurt foot — but nothing

more.

While the bandaging was finished I looked round the room curiously. The house was a great deal smaller than

my home, a cottage, in fact, but I liked it better. It felt friendly. And although Sophie's mother was anxious and worried

she did not give me the feeling that I was the one regrettable and unreliable factor in an otherwise orderly life, the way

most people did at home. And the room itself seemed to me the better, too, for not having groups of words hanging on

the wall for people to point to in disapproval. Instead, this room had several drawings of horses, which I thought very

fine.

Presently, Sophie, tidied up now, and with the tear-marks washed away, hopped to a chair at the table. Quite

restored, but for the foot, she inquired with grave hospitality whether I liked eggs.

Afterwards, Mrs Wender told me to wait where I was while she carried her upstairs. She returned in a few

minutes, and sat down beside me. She took my hand in hers and looked at me seriously for some moments. I could feel

her anxiety strongly; though quite why she should be so worried was not, at first, clear to me. I was surprised by her,

for there had been no sign before that she could think in that way. I thought back to her, trying to reassure her and

show her that she need not be anxious about me, but the thought didn't reach her. She went on looking at me with her

eyes shining, much as Sophie's had when she was trying not to cry. Her own thoughts were all worry and

shapelessness as she kept looking at me. I tried again, but still couldn't reach them. Then she nodded slowly, and said

in words:

'You're a good boy, David. You were very kind to Sophie. I want to thank you for that.'

I felt awkward, and looked at my shoes. I couldn't remember anyone saying before that I was a good boy. I

knew no form of response designed to meet such an event.

'You like Sophie, don't you?' she went on, still looking at me.

'Yes,' I told her. And I added: 'I think she's awfully brave, too. It must have hurt a lot.'

'Will you keep a secret — an important secret — for her sake?' she asked.

'Yes — of course,' I agreed, but a little uncertain in my tone for not realizing what the secret was.

' You — you saw her foot?' she said, looking steadily into my face. ' Her — toes?'

I nodded. 'Yes,' I said again.

'Well, that is the secret, David. Nobody else must know about that. You are the only person who does, except

her father and me. Nobody else must know. Nobody at all — not ever.'

'No,' I agreed, and nodded seriously again.

There was a pause — at least, her voice paused, but her thoughts went on, as if ' nobody' and ' not ever' were

making desolate, unhappy echoes there. Then that changed, and she became tense and fierce and afraid inside. It was

no good think-ing back to her, so I tried clumsily to emphasize in words that I had meant what I said.

' Never — not anybody at all,' I assured her earnestly.

' It's very, very important,' she insisted. ' How can I explain to you?' But she didn't really need to explain. Her

urgent, tight-strung feeling of the importance was very plain. Her words were far less potent. She said:

'If anyone were to find out, they'd — they'd be terribly un-kind to her. We've got to see that that never

happens.'

It was as if the anxious feeling had turned into something hard, like an iron rod.

'Because she has six toes?' I asked.

'Yes. That's what nobody but us must ever know. It must be a secret between us,' she repeated, driving it home.

'You'll promise, David?'

'I'll promise. I can swear, if you like,' I offered.

'The promise is enough,' she told me.

It was so heavy a promise that I was quite resolved to keep it completely — even from my cousin, Rosalind.

Though, un-derneath, I was puzzled by its evident importance. It seemed a very small toe to cause such a degree of

anxiety. But there was often a great deal of grown-up fuss that seemed dispro-portionate to causes. So I held on to the

main point — the need for secrecy.

Sophie's mother kept on looking at me with a sad but un-seeing expression until I became uncomfortable. She

noticed when I fidgeted, and smiled. It was a kind smile.

'All right, then,' she said. 'We'll keep it secret, and never talk about it again?'

'Yes,' I agreed.

On the way down the path from the door, I turned round.

' May I come and see Sophie again soon?' I asked.

She hesitated, giving the question some thought, then she said:

' Very well — but only if you are sure you can come without anyone knowing,' she agreed.

Not until I had reached the bank and was making my home-ward way along the top of it did the monotonous

Sunday pre-cepts join up with reality. Then they did it with a click that was almost audible. The Definition of Man

recited itself in my head: '. . . and each leg shall be jointed twice and have one foot, and each foot five toes, and each

toe shall end with a flat nail....' And so on, until finally: 'And any creature that shall seem to be human, but is not

formed thus is not human. It is neither man nor woman. It is a blasphemy against the true Image of God, and hateful in

the sight of God.'

I was abruptly perturbed — and considerably puzzled, too. A blasphemy was, as had been impressed upon me

often enough, a frightful thing. Yet there was nothing frightful about Sophie. She was simply an ordinary little girl — if

a great deal more sensible and braver than most. Yet, according to the Definition . . .

Clearly there must be a mistake somewhere. Surely having one very small toe extra — well, two very small toes,

because I supposed there would be one to match on the other foot — surely that couldn't be enough to make her

'hateful in the sight of God . . .'?

The ways of the world were very puzzling. . . .

I reached home by my usual method. At a point where the woods had lapped up the side of the bank and grown

across it I scrambled down on to a narrow, little-used track. From there on I was watchful, and kept my hand on my

knife. I was supposed to keep out of the woods, for it did occasionally — though very rarely — happen that large

creatures penetrated as far into civilized parts as Waknuk, and there was just a chance that one might encounter some

kind of wild dog or cat. How-ever, and as usual, the only creatures I heard were small ones, hurriedly making off.

After a mile or so I reached cultivated land, with the house in sight across three or four fields. I worked along

the fringe of the woods, observing carefully from cover, then crossed all but the last field in the shadows of the

hedges, and paused to prospect again. There was no one in sight but old Jacob slowly shovelling muck in the yard.

When his back was safely turned I cut swiftly across the bit of open ground, climbed in through a window, and made

my way cautiously to my own room.

Our house is not easy to describe. Since my grandfather, Elias Strorm, built the first part of it, over fifty years

earlier, it had grown new rooms and extensions at various times. By now it rambled off on one side into stock-sheds,

stores, stables, and barns, and on the other into wash-houses, dairies, cheese-rooms, farm-hands' rooms, and so on

until it three-quarters enclosed a large, beaten-earth yard which lay to leeward of the main house and had a midden for

its central feature.

Like all the houses of the district, it was constructed on a frame of solid, roughly-dressed timbers, but, since it

was the oldest house there, most of the spaces in the outer walls had been filled in with bricks and stones from the

ruins of some of the Old People's buildings, and plastered wattle was used only for the internal walls.

My grandfather, in the aspect he wore when presented to me by my father, appeared to have been a man of

somewhat tediously unrelieved virtue. It was only later that I pieced to-gether a portrait that was more credible, if less

creditable.

Elias Strorm came from the East, somewhere near the sea. Why he came is not quite clear. He himself maintained

that it was the ungodly ways of the East which drove him to search for a less sophisticated, stauncher-minded region;

though I have heard it suggested that there came a point when his native parts refused to tolerate him any longer.

Whatever the cause, it persuaded him to Waknuk — then undeveloped, almost frontier country — with all his worldly

goods in a train of six wagons, at the age of forty-five. He was a husky man, a dominating man, and a man fierce for

rectitude. He had eyes that could flash with evangelical fire beneath bushy brows. Respect for God was frequently on

his lips, and fear of the devil constantly in his heart, and it seems to have been hard to say which inspired him the

more.

Soon after he had started the house he went off on a journey and brought back a bride. She was shy, pretty in

the pink and golden way, and twenty-five years younger than himself. She moved, I have been told, like a lovely colt

when she thought herself unwatched; as timorously as a rabbit when she felt her husband's eye upon her.

All her answers, poor thing, were dusty. She did not find that a marriage service generated love; she did not

enable her husband to recapture his youth through hers; nor could she compensate for that by running his home in

the manner of an experienced housekeeper.

Elias was not a man to let shortcomings pass unremarked. In a few seasons he straitened the coltishness with

admoni-tions, faded the pink and gold with preaching, and produced a sad, grey wraith of wifehood who died,

unprotesting, a year after her second son was born.

Grandfather Elias had never a moment's doubt of the proper pattern for his heir. My father's faith was bred into

his bones, his principles were his sinews, and both responded to a mind richly stored with examples from the Bible,

and from Nicholson's Repentances. In faith father and son were at one; the difference between them was only in

approach; the evangelical flash did not appear in my lather s eye; his virtue was inure legalistic.

Joseph Strorm, my father, did not marry until Elias was dead, and when he did he was not a man to repeat his

father's mistake. My mother's views harmonized with his own. She had a strong sense of duty, and never doubted

where it lay.

Our district, and, consequently, our house as the first there, was called Waknuk because of a tradition that

there had been a place of that name there, or thereabouts, long, long ago, in the time of the Old People. The tradition

was, as usual, vague, but certainly there had been some buildings of some kind, for the remnants and foundations had

remained until they were taken for new buildings. There was also the long bank, running away until it reached the hills

and the huge scar that must have been made by the Old People when, in their superhuman fashion, they had cut away

half a mountain in order to find something or other that interested them. The place may have been called Waknuk then;

anyway, Waknuk it had become; an orderly, law-abiding, God-respecting community of some hundred scattered

holdings, large and small.

My father was a man of local consequence. When, at the age of sixteen, he had made his first public

appearance by giving a Sunday address in the church his father had built, there had still been fewer than sixty families

in the district. But as more land was cleared for farming and more people came to settle, he was not submerged by

them. He was still the largest land-owner, he still continued to preach frequently on Sundays and to explain with

practical clarity the laws and views held in heaven upon a variety of matters and practices, and, upon the appointed

days, he administered the laws temporal, as a magi-strate. For the rest of the time he saw to it that he, and all within his

control, continued to set a high example to the district.

Within the house, life centred, as was the local custom, upon the large living-room which was also the kitchen.

As the house was the largest and best in Waknuk, so was the room. The great fireplace there was an object of pride —

not vain pride, of course; more a matter of being conscious of having given worthy treatment to the excellent materials

that the Lord had provided: a kind of testament, really. The hearth was solid stone blocks. The whole chimney was

built of bricks and had never been known to catch fire. The area about its point of emergence was covered with the

only tiles in the district, so that the thatch which covered the rest of the roof had never caught fire, either.

My mother saw to it that the big room was kept very clean and tidy. The floor was composed of pieces of brick

and stone and artificial stone cleverly fitted together. The furniture was whitely-scrubbed tables and stools, with a few

chairs. The walls were whitewashed. Several burnished pans, too big to go in the cupboards, hung against them. The

nearest approach to decoration was a number of wooden panels with sayings, mostly from Repentances, artistically

burnt into them. The one on the left of the fireplace read: ONLY THE IMAGE OF GOD IS MAN. The one on the right:

KEEP PURE THE STOCK OF THE LORD. On the opposite wall two more said: BLESSED IS THE NORM, and IN

PURITY OUR SALVATION. The largest was the one on the back wall, hung to face the door which led to the yard. It

reminded everyone who came in: WATCH THOU FOR THE MUTANT!

Frequent references to these texts had made me familiar with the words long before I was able to read, in fact I

am not sure that they did not give me my first reading lessons. I knew them by heart, just as I knew others elsewhere in

the house, which said things like: THE NORM IS THE WILL OF GOD, and, REPRODUCTION IS THE ONLY HOLY

PRODUCTION and, THE DEVIL IS THE FATHER OF DEVIATION, and a number of others about Offences and

Blasphemies.

Many of them were still obscure to me; others I had learnt something about. Offences, for instance. That was

because the occurrence of an Offence was sometimes quite an impressive occasion. Usually the first sign that one had

happened was that my father came into the house in a bad temper. Then, in the evening, he would call us all together,

including everyone who worked on the farm. We would all kneel while he pro-claimed our repentance and led prayers

for forgiveness. The next morning we would all be up before daylight and gather in the yard. As the sun rose we would

sing a hymn while my father ceremonially slaughtered the two-headed calf, four-legged chicken, or whatever other kind

of Offence it happened to be. Sometimes it would be a much queerer thing than those. . . .

Nor were Offences limited to the livestock. Sometimes there would be some stalks of corn, or some vegetables,

that my father produced and cast on the kitchen table in anger and shame. If it were merely a matter of a few rows of

vegetables, they just came out and were destroyed. But if a whole field had gone wrong we would wait for good

weather, and then set fire to it, singing hymns while it burnt. I used to find that a very fine sight.

It was because my father was a careful and pious man with a keen eye for an Offence that we used to have more

slaughterings and burnings than anyone else: but any sugges-tion that we were more afflicted with Offences than

other people hurt and angered him. He had no wish at all to throw good money away, he pointed out. If our

neighbours were as conscientious as ourselves, he had no doubt that their liquida-tions would far outnumber ours:

unfortunately there were certain persons with elastic principles.

So I learnt quite early to know what Offences were. They were things which did not look right — that is to say,

did not look like their parents, or parent-plants. Usually there was only some small thing wrong, but however much or

little was wrong it was an Offence, and if it happened among people it was a Blasphemy — at least, that was the

technical term, though commonly both kinds were called Deviations.

Nevertheless, the question of Offences was not always as simple as one might think, and when there was

disagreement the district's inspector could be sent for. My father, however, seldom called in the inspector, he preferred

to be on the safe side and liquidate anything doubtful. There were people who disapproved of his meticulousness,

saying that the local Devia-tion-rate, which had shown a steady overall improvement and now stood at half what it had

been in my grandfather's time, would have been better still, but for my father. All the same, the Waknuk district had a

great name for Purity.

Ours was no longer a frontier region. Hard work and sacrifice had produced a stability of stock and crops which

could be envied even by some communities to the east of us. You could now go some thirty miles to the south or

south-west before you came to Wild Country — that is to say parts where the chance of breeding true was less than

fifty per cent. After that, everything grew more erratic across a belt which was ten miles wide in some places and up to

twenty in others, until you came to the mysterious Fringes where nothing was dependable, and where, to quote my

father, 'the Devil struts his wide estates, and the laws of God are mocked.' Fringes country, too, was said to be variable

in depth, and beyond it lay the Badlands about which nobody knew anything. Usually anybody who went into the

Badlands died there, and the one or two men who had come back from them did not last long.

It was not the Badlands, but the Fringes that gave us trouble from time to time. The people of the Fringes — at

least, one calls them people, because although they were really Devia-tions they often looked quite like ordinary

human people, if nothing had gone too much wrong with them — these people, then, had very little where they lived in

their border country, so they came out into civilized parts to steal grain and livestock and clothes and tools and

weapons, too, if they could; and sometimes they carried off children.

Occasional small raids used to happen two or three times a year, and nobody took much notice of them as a rule

— except the people who got raided, of course. Usually they had time to get away and lost only their stock. Then

everybody would contribute a little in kind, or in money, to help them set up again. But as time went on and the frontier

was pushed back there were more Fringes people trying to live on less country. Some years they got very hungry, and

after a time it was no longer just a matter of a dozen or so making a quick raid and then running back into Fringes

country; they came instead in large, organized bands and did a lot of damage.

In my father's childhood mothers used to quieten and awe troublesome infants by threatening: 'Be good now,

or I'll fetch Old Maggie from the Fringes to you. She's got four eyes to watch you with, and four ears to hear you with,

and four arms to smack you with. So you be careful.' Or Hairy Jack was another ominous figure who might be called in

'... and he'll take you off to his cave in the Fringes where all his family lives. They're all hairy, too, with long tails; and

they eat a little boy each for breakfast every morning, and a little girl each for supper every evening.' Nowadays,

however, it was not only small children who lived in nervous awareness of the Fringes people not so far away. Their

existence had become a danger-ous nuisance and their depredations the cause of many repre-sentations to the

Government in Rigo.

For all the good the petitions did, they might never have been sent. Indeed, with no one able to tell, over a

stretch of five or six hundred miles, where the next attack would come, it is difficult to see what practical help could

have been given. What the Government did do, from its comfortable situation far, far to the east, was to express

sympathy in encouraging phrases, and suggest the formation of a local militia: a sug-gestion which, as all able-bodied

males had as a matter of course been members of a kind of unofficial militia since frontier days, was felt to amount to

disregard of the situation.

As far as the Waknuk district was concerned the threat from the Fringes was more of a nuisance than a menace.

The deepest raid had come no nearer than ten miles, but every now and then there were emergencies, and seemingly

more every year, which called the men away, and brought all the farm work to a stop. The interruptions were expensive

and wasteful; more-over, they always brought anxiety if the trouble was near our sector: nobody could be sure that

they might not come farther one time.. ..

Mostly, however, we led a comfortable, settled, industrious existence. Our household was extensive. There

were my father and mother, my two sisters, and my Uncle Axel to make the family, but also there were the kitchen girls

and dairymaids, some of whom were married to the farm men, and their chil-dren, and, of course, the men themselves,

so when we were all gathered for the meal at the end of the day's work there were over twenty of us; and when we

assembled for prayers there were still more because the men from the adjoining cottages came in with their wives and

children.

Uncle Axel was not a real relative. He had married one of my mother's sisters, Elizabeth. He was a sailor then,

and she had gone East with him and died in Rigo while he was on the voyage that had left him a cripple. He was a

useful all-round man, though slow in getting about because of his leg, so my father let him live with us: he was also my

best friend.

My mother came of a family of five girls and two boys. Four of the girls were full sisters; the youngest girl and

the two boys were half-sister and half-brothers to the rest. Hannah, the eldest, had been sent away by her husband,

and nobody had heard of her since. Emily, my mother, was next in age. Then came Harriet who was married to a man

with a big farm at Kentak, almost fifteen miles away. Then Elizabeth, who had married Uncle Axel. Where my half-aunt

Lilian and my half-uncle Thomas were I did not know, but my half-uncle, Angus Morton, owned the farm next to us,

and a mile or more of our boundaries ran together, which annoyed my father who could scarcely agree with half-uncle

Angus about anything. His daughter, Rosalind, was, of course, my cousin.

Although Waknuk itself was the biggest farm in the district, most of them were organized along the same lines,

and all of them growing larger, for with the improving stability-rate there was the incentive to extend; every year felling

of trees and clearing went on to make new fields. The woods and spurs of forest were being nibbled away until the

countryside was beginning to look like the old, long-cultivated land in the east.

It was said that nowadays even people in Rigo knew where Waknuk was without looking it up on the map.

I lived, in fact, on the most prosperous farm in a prospering district. At the age of ten, however, I had little

appreciation of that. My impression was of an uncomfortably industrious place where there always seemed to be more

jobs than people, unless one was careful, so on this particular evening I contrived to lie low until routine sounds told

me that it was near enough to the mealtime for me to show myself safely.

I hung about, watching the horses being unharnessed and turned out. Presently the bell on the gable-end

tolled a couple of times. Doors opened, and people came into the yard, making for the kitchen. I went along with them.

The warning: WATCH THOU FOR THE MUTANT! faced me as I went in, but it was much too familiar to stir a

thought. What interested me ex-clusively at the moment was the smell of food.

I usually went over to see Sophie once or twice a week after that. What schooling we had — which was a

matter of half a dozen children being taught to read and write and do some sums by one or another of several old

women — took place in the mornings. It was not difficult at the midday meal to slip away from the table early and

disappear until everyone would think someone else had found a job for me.

When her ankle was quite recovered she was able to show me the favourite corners of her territory.

One day I took her over our side of the big bank to see the steam-engine. There wasn't another steam-engine

within a hundred miles, and we were very proud of it. Corky, who looked after it, was not about, but the doors at the

end of its shed were open, letting out the sound of a rhythmic groaning, creaking, and puffing. We ventured on to the

threshold and peered into the gloom inside. It was fascinating to watch the big timbers moving up and down with

wheezing noises while up in the shadows of the roof a huge cross-beam rocked slowly backwards and forwards, with a

pause at the end of each tilt as though it were summoning up energy for the next effort. Fascinating — but, after a time,

monotonous.

Ten minutes of it were enough, and we withdrew to climb to the top of the wood-pile beside the shed. We sat

there with the whole heap quivering beneath us as the engine chugged ponderously on.

'My Uncle Axel says the Old People must have had much better engines than this,' I told her.

'My father says that if one-quarter of the things they say about the Old People are true, they must have been

magicians: not real people, at all,' Sophie countered.

' But they were wonderful,' I insisted.

' Too wonderful to be true, he says,' she told me.

' Doesn't he think they were able to fly, like people say?' I asked.

' No. That's silly. If they could've, we'd be able to.'

' But there are lots of things they could do that we are learn-ing to do again,' I protested.

' Not flying.' She shook her head. ' Things can either fly, or they can't, and we can't,' she said.

I thought of telling her about my dream of the city and the things flying over it, but after all, a dream isn't much

evidence of anything, so I let it pass. Presently we climbed down, leaving the engine to its panting and creaking, and

made our way over to her home.

John Wender, her father, was back from one of his trips. A sound of hammering came from the outside shed

where he was stretching skins on frames, and the whole place smelt of his operations. Sophie rushed to him and flung

her arms round his neck. He straightened up, holding her against him with one arm.

'Hullo, Chicky,' he said.

He greeted me more gravely. We had an unspoken under-standing that we were on a man to man basis. It had

always been like that. When he first saw me he had looked at me in a way that had scared me and made me afraid to

speak in his presence. Gradually, however, that had changed. We became friends. He showed me and told me a lot of

interesting things — all the same I would look up sometimes to find him watching me uneasily.

And no wonder. Only some years later could I appreciate how badly troubled he must have been when he came

home to find Sophie had sprained her ankle, and that it had been David Strorm, the son of Joseph Strorm, of all people,

who had seen her foot. He must, I think, have been greatly tempted by the thought that a dead boy could break no

promise. . . . Perhaps Mrs Wender saved me. . . .

But I think he could have been reassured had he known of an incident at my home about a month after I met

Sophie.

I had run a splinter into my hand and when I pulled it out it bled a lot. I went to the kitchen with it only to find

everybody too busy getting supper to be bothered with me, so I rummaged a strip out of the rag-drawer for myself. I

tried clumsily for a minute or two to tie it, then my mother noticed. She made tchk-tchk noises of disapproval and

insisted on it being washed. Then she wound the strip on neatly, grumbling that of course I had to go and do it just

when she was busy. I said I was sorry, and added:

'I could have managed it all right by myself if I'd had another hand.'

My voice must have carried, for silence fell on the whole room like a clap.

My mother froze. I looked round the room at the sudden quiet. Mary, standing with a pie in her hands, two of

the farm men waiting for their meal, my father about to take his seat at the head of the table, and the others; they were

all staring at me. I caught my father's expression just as it was turning from amazement to anger. Alarmed, but

uncomprehending, I watched his mouth tighten, his jaw come forward, his brows press together over his still

incredulous eyes. He demanded:

'What was that you said, boy?'

I knew the tone. I tried to think in a desperate hurry how I had offended this time. I stumbled and stuttered.

' I — I s-aid I couldn't manage to tie this for myself,' I told him.

His eyes had become less incredulous, more accusing.

'And you wished you had a third hand!'

'No, father. I only said if I had another hand ...'

'. . . you would be able to tie it. If that was not a wish, what was it?'

' I only meant if,' I protested. I was alarmed, and too con-fused to explain that I had only happened to use one

way of expressing a difficulty which might have been put in several ways. I was aware that the rest had stopped

gaping at me, and were now looking apprehensively at my father. His expression was grim.

'You — my own son — were calling upon the Devil to give you another hand!' he accused me.

' But I wasn't. I only —'

'Be quiet, boy. Everyone in this room heard you. You'll certainly make it no better by lying.'

'But —'

'Were you, or were you not, expressing dissatisfaction with the form of the body God gave you — the form in

His own image?'

' I just said if I —'

'You blasphemed, boy. You found fault with the Norm. Everybody here heard you. What have you to say to

that? You know what the Norm is?'

I gave up protesting. I knew well enough that my father in his present mood would not try to understand. I

muttered, parrot-like:

'"The Norm is the Image of God".'

'You do know — and yet, knowing this, you deliberately wished yourself a Mutant. That is a terrible thing, an

out-rageous thing. You, my son, committing blasphemy, and before his parents!' In his sternest pulpit voice, he added:

'What is a Mutant?'

'"A thing accursed in the sight of God and man",' I mumbled.

'And that is what you wished to be! What have you to say?'

With a heart-sunk certainty that it would be useless to say anything, I kept my lips shut and my eyes lowered.

'Down on your knees!' he commanded. 'Kneel and pray!'

The others all knelt, too. My father's voice rose:

' Lord, we have sinned in omission. We beg Thy forgiveness that we have not better instructed this child in

Thy laws ...' The prayer seemed to go booming on for a long time. After the 'Amen' there was a pause, until my father

said:

'Now go to your room, and pray. Pray, you wretched boy for a forgiveness you do not deserve, but which God,

in His mercy, may yet grant you. I will come to you later.'

In the night, when the anguish which had followed my father's visit was somewhat abated, I lay awake,

puzzling. I had had no idea of wishing for a third hand, but even if I had . . .? If it was such a terrible thing just to think

of having three hands, what would happen if one really had them — or anything else wrong; such as, for instance, an

extra toe —?

And when at last I fell asleep I had a dream. We were all gathered in the yard, just as we had been at the last

Purification. Then it had been a little hairless calf that stood waiting, blinking stupidly at the knife in my father's hand;

this time it was a little girl, Sophie, standing barefooted and trying uselessly to hide the whole long row of toes that

everyone could see on each foot. We all stood looking at her, and waiting. Presently she started to run from one

person to another, imploring them to help her, but none of them moved, and none of their faces had any expression.

My father started to walk towards her, the knife shining in his hand. Sophie grew frantic; she flitted from one

unmoving person to another, tears running down her face. My father, stern, implacable, kept on coming nearer; still no

one would move to help her. My father came closer still, with long arms outspread to prevent her bolting as he

cornered her.

He caught her, and dragged her back to the middle of the yard. The sun's edge began to show above the

horizon, and everyone started to sing a hymn. My father held Sophie with one arm just as he had held the struggling

calf. He raised his other hand high, and as he swept it down the knife flashed in the light of the rising sun, just as it

had flashed when he cut the calf's throat....

If John and Mary Wender had been there when I woke up struggling and crying, and then lay in the dark trying

to convince myself that the terrible picture was nothing more than a dream, they would, I think, have felt quite a lot

easier in their minds.

This was a time when I passed out of a placid period into one where things kept on happening. There wasn't

much reason about it; that is to say, only a few of the things were connected with one another: it was more as if an

active cycle had set in, just as a spell of different weather might come along.

My meeting with Sophie was, I suppose, the first incident; the next was that Uncle Axel found out about me

and my half-cousin, Rosalind Morton. He — and it was lucky it was he, and no one else — happened to come upon me

when I was talking to her.

It must have been a self-preserving instinct which had made us keep the thing to ourselves, for we'd no active

feeling of danger - I had so little, in fact, that when Uncle Axel found me sitting behind a rick chatting apparently to

myself, I made very little effort to dissemble. He may have been there a minute or more before I became aware of

somebody just round the corner of my eye, and turned to see who it was.

My Uncle Axel was a tall man, neither thin nor fat, but sturdy, and with a seasoned look to him. I used to think

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JOHNWYNDHAMTHECHRYSALIDS1WhenIwasquitesmallIwouldsometimesdreamofacity—whichwasstrangebecauseitbeganbeforeIevenknewwhatacitywas.Butthiscity,clusteredonthecurveofabigbluebay,wouldcomeintomymind.Icouldseethestreets,andthebuildingsthatlinedthem,thewaterfront,evenboatsintheharbour;yet,waking,Ihadneverse...

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John Wyndham - The Chrysalids

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