The Willows | Page 6

"But what in the world is he doing at nightfall on this flooded river?" I
said, half to myself. "Where is he going at such a time, and what did he
mean by his signs and shouting? D'you think he wished to warn us
about something?"
"He saw our smoke, and thought we were spirits probably," laughed my
companion. "These Hungarians believe in all sorts of rubbish; you
remember the shopwoman at Pressburg warning us that no one ever
landed here because it belonged to some sort of beings outside man's
world! I suppose they believe in fairies and elementals, possibly
demons, too. That peasant in the boat saw people on the islands for the
first time in his life," he added, after a slight pause, "and it scared him,
that's all."
The Swede's tone of voice was not convincing, and his manner lacked
something that was usually there. I noted the change instantly while he
talked, though without being able to label it precisely.
"If they had enough imagination," I laughed loudly--I remember trying
to make as much noise as I could--"they might well people a place like
this with the old gods of antiquity. The Romans must have haunted all
this region more or less with their shrines and sacred groves and
elemental deities."
The subject dropped and we returned to our stew-pot, for my friend was
not given to imaginative conversation as a rule. Moreover, just then I
remember feeling distinctly glad that he was not imaginative; his stolid,
practical nature suddenly seemed to me welcome and comforting. It
was an admirable temperament, I felt; he could steer down rapids like a

red Indian, shoot dangerous bridges and whirlpools better than any
white man I ever saw in a canoe. He was a grand fellow for an
adventurous trip, a tower of strength when untoward things happened. I
looked at his strong face and light curly hair as he staggered along
under his pile of driftwood (twice the size of mine!), and I experienced
a feeling of relief. Yes, I was distinctly glad just then that the Swede
was--what he was, and that he never made remarks that suggested more
than they said.
"The river's still rising, though," he added, as if following out some
thoughts of his own, and dropping his load with a gasp. "This island
will be under water in two days if it goes on."
"I wish the wind would go down," I said. "I don't care a fig for the
river."
The flood, indeed, had no terrors for us; we could get off at ten minutes'
notice, and the more water the better we liked it. It meant an increasing
current and the obliteration of the treacherous shingle-beds that so often
threatened to tear the bottom out of our canoe.
Contrary to our expectations, the wind did not go down with the sun. It
seemed to increase with the darkness, howling overhead and shaking
the willows round us like straws. Curious sounds accompanied it
sometimes, like the explosion of heavy guns, and it fell upon the water
and the island in great flat blows of immense power. It made me think
of the sounds a planet must make, could we only hear it, driving along
through space.
But the sky kept wholly clear of clouds, and soon after supper the full
moon rose up in the east and covered the river and the plain of shouting
willows with a light like the day.
We lay on the sandy patch beside the fire, smoking, listening to the
noises of the night round us, and talking happily of the journey we had
already made, and of our plans ahead. The map lay spread in the door
of the tent, but the high wind made it hard to study, and presently we
lowered the curtain and extinguished the lantern. The firelight was

enough to smoke and see each other's faces by, and the sparks flew
about overhead like fireworks. A few yards beyond, the river gurgled
and hissed, and from time to time a heavy splash announced the falling
away of further portions of the bank.
Our talk, I noticed, had to do with the faraway scenes and incidents of
our first camps in the Black Forest, or of other subjects altogether
remote from the present setting, for neither of us spoke of the actual
moment more than was necessary--almost as though we had agreed
tacitly to avoid discussion of the camp and its incidents. Neither the
otter nor the boatman, for instance, received the honor of a single
mention, though ordinarily these would have furnished discussion for
the greater part of the evening. They were, of course, distinct events in
such a place.
The scarcity of wood made it a business to keep the fire going,