The Promise Of Air Part 11

CHAPTER X

Her father stood upside-down--mentally, of course, not physically.

Certain of the Primer 'Epitomes' came in helter-skelter to support his daughter's nonsense. At the same time he was aware that he ought to chide her. And probably he would have done so but for the fact that before he knew it, the girl was asking to be forgiven. He had not seen her move; his mental sight was still following Mother. There was a flutter of something white across the air--and there Joan was--upon his knee.

And so he did not chide her. Nor did he rebuke her for singing under her breath what she called 'Mother's Song,' beginning:

O Disaster!

You're my Master!

'Your mother's tired to-night,' he observed. 'But all the same, you are a nasty little tease, you know.' Her arms felt like warm, smooth feathers as he stroked them. He seemed floating lightly in mid-air above the roof.

And he remembered vaguely the fairy tales of his youth when Princesses turned suddenly into swans. Oh, how beautiful it was, this bird idea, this seeing and feeling things in the terms of birds. Those girls in Greece the G.o.ds changed into a nightingale and a swallow--what a delightful, exhilarating experience! Easy--and how true! 'The feathery change came o'er you,' he murmured from the Treasury of Song, then, interrupting his own mood of curious enjoyment, turned to Joan abruptly.

'Why did you talk like that?' he inquired.

'To make Mother move----'

'To bed, you mean?' he asked, almost severely.

'Yes, no,' said Joan.

'Answer me properly, girl,' he observed.

'Of course not. Move nearer to you--and me--even to grandpa. We ought to be a flock somehow, I felt. But we looked so separate and apart, you two on chairs, reading, him out of sight, and me on the window-sill.'

'Eh?'

'We ought to be one thing more. The whole world ought to be.

Not crowded--oh, there'd be heaps of room to move in--but all together somehow like birds. It's only bad birds that are apart--ravens, hawks, and birds of prey. All the others flock.' She darted from his knee and stood upon her toes a second before him, staring down into his eyes.

'It's coming, you know, Daddy. It's coming, anyhow!' She said it brightly, eagerly, yet with a singular conviction in her tone.

'The whole world's flocking somehow--somewhere--for I feel it. We shall all be happy together once we get into the country.'

A s.h.i.+ver of beauty pa.s.sed through him as he heard her. He remembered his walk up Maida Vale, and the rus.h.i.+ng, shadowy presentiment in his mind that something new was on the way.

'Like a single big family, you mean? All after one high big thing together?' He asked it, greatly wondering at her. But her reply made him gasp. Where had she learned such things, unless from the air?

'Your language is so draughty, Daddy. _I_ mean a bird-world.

Birds aren't unselfish, they're just--together.'

He rubbed his forehead, saying nothing, while she fluttered down upon his knees again.

'Like my body,' she said. 'Don't you see?'

'Yes, no,' he laughed, using her method unconsciously.

'I can't lace my boot with one hand, but the other isn't unselfish when it comes to help. My head is no farther from _me_ than my boot, is it?'

And she sang softly her bird-song of movement and delight, until he felt the quality of her volatile, aerial mind flash down into his own and lighten it amazingly.

'My precious little daughter,' he cried, 'you are a bird, and you shall teach me all your flying secrets. But, tell me,' he whispered, 'how in the world did you find out all this?'

'Oh, I can't tell _that_,' she replied almost impatiently, 'for once I begin to think it all goes, and I feel like an animal in a hole. But I'll tell you soon--when the right moment comes--in the fields. I just go about and it all shoots into me.'

It was the true bird-quality, always singing, always on the alert, swift to notice and be glad.

'Yet I said it without thinking,' she went on, 'and the meaning came in afterwards at the end--all of its own accord. And that's really the way to live together. At least, it's coming----'

'The next stage, the next move!'

'Flight!' she cried, half singing it.

'You live and talk,' he laughed, 'like a German sentence that carries all in the head and suddenly puts the verb down at the end.'

'Yes, yes,' he realised after she had gone to bed, while he sat there, pondering her fluid statements, 'there is this new thing coming into life, and it is in some sense indeed a bird-thing. It's a new outlook!'

He caught at her feathery meanings none the less. A great aerial movement had begun, an etherialisation, a spiritualisation of life. And in true spirituality there was nothing vague; its expression was terrifically definite, stupendously alive, swift, sure, and steady as a mighty bird.

Spirit was a bird of fire. Joan left him in that dreary sitting-room with a feeling that life was glorious and that the entire population of the globe must presently take flight and wing its way to some less ponderous star--migration. Joan's language was absurd, yet she left winged ideas rus.h.i.+ng like imperial eagles through his mind. Humanity was really one, but on earth alone it would never, never find it out. In the air it would. Its upward struggles were not mere figures of speech.

Routine oppressed and deadened life, prisoning it within a network of rigid, fixed ideas, and behind barriers of concentrated effort which turned the fluid stagnant--hard. Routine was dulling, anti-spiritual.

To live like a quicksand before you get fixed and sank, this was the way.

To be ready for a fire that should burn up all you had. Life flows, flies, flows; it has rhythm and abandon; self, by means of boundaries and casting limits, resists this universal flow towards expansion characteristic of all Nature. A bird was poised. True! But it was ready to go in any direction instantly, for it was more various and less intense, by no means purposeless, and never bound. It was spontaneous, instantaneous, for ever on the run. That was living, that was 'fun.'

People, like animals, were congested. But life was growing quicker, lighter, with rhythm, movement everywhere.

The shadow dance began again deliciously.

Yet to act intuitively seemed a dangerous plan for the majority at present, to live on impulse seemed mere recklessness. But it would come.

Already people were tired of knowing exact and detailed reasons for all they did. Confusion would come first, of course, but out of that confusion, as out of the apparent trouble of a rising flock of birds, or the scattered muddle of leaves and branches in a wind-tossed tree, would follow magnificent concerted life. Democracy was growing wings. Soon it would sing for joy.

Yes, there was truth in it. Majestic powers were moving already past the visible curtain of fixed and rigid formulae. To obey an intuition the instant it came, was to find the opportunity at hand for carrying it out effectively. To wait and hesitate, consider, reflect and reason out, was to lose the chance. It was disobedience, and disobedience detached from power. Fate was controlled by an obedient and instantaneous mind, for it meant acting in harmony with these majestic powers. Understanding followed later, as with Joan's outlook; the verb came down at the end, explaining, justifying all that had preceded it. Good and evil were, after all, misnomers of the nursery. In rhythm or out of rhythm was common, aye, the commonest sense. Rhythm was simply ease, as separateness, due to want of rhythm, was dis-ease.

'Oh dear!' sighed Joseph Wimble, as he turned the light out and pattered down the corridor to bed. 'I feel carried off my feet. What a buoyant thing life is, to be sure! It gets big and light and happy when you least expect it! Evidently, there's a big universal thing underlying it all-- that's what she means by air--and to lean upon _that_--subconsciously, I suppose--to act in rhythm with it----' He broke off, colliding with a chest of drawers Mother _would_ keep in the narrow pa.s.sage.

Then, suddenly, as he switched the light on in his bedroom, he realised something very big and striking:

'_Of course_, I'm a cosmic, not merely a planetary, being . . .!'

CHAPTER XI

But what followed that night, while it may have caught him into the air, as he phrased it, and given him an airy point of view, took his breath away at the same time. He was not ready yet for so strange a revelation.

He did not sleep very soundly. Too many ideas were rustling in his brain.

'Rise out of rigid ideas,' a voice kept whispering. 'Hold ideas loosely in the mind. Cultivate agility of thought. Re-fresh, remake your thought. Destroy the hard walls that hide G.o.d from you. He is so close to you always. Shatter your idols and get free! Rise out of the network of fixed ideas! Watch life without sinking into your own personality.

That is, share every point of view and think in every corner of your body.

Grow alive all over. Don't think things out in your head; _just see_ them! Embrace all possibilities! Get into the air! Melt down that absurdity, the scientific materialist, and show him LIFE!'

He heard these whispered sentences traversing the darkness like singing arrows whose whistling speed made a noise of words. Even in sleep he stood upon his head. But the arrows, of course, were feathered.

They were feathers. Wings flashed and fluttered everywhere about him.