Ngaio Marsh - Dead Water

“There’s the band. It must have been the big drum you heard, not thunder.”

“It was thunder,” said Jenny.

The band debouched from the village towards the jetty. It was a small combination, entirely dominated by the drum. Behind it walked Mr. Nankivell in full regalia, supported by his Council. They embarked in the large motor launch, manned by Trehern, who was got up as a sort of wherryman. The band filled a small fleet of attendant dinghies and continued to play with determination, if a trifle wildly, throughout the short passage. Miss Cost could be seen darting up and down the length of her procession, taking photographs.

A union of the two elements was achieved, and soon they ascended the hill. The children sang. The band attempted a diminuendo.

Through the night of doubt and sorrow …

“Now why that !” the Rector exclaimed. “You see? No, Dulcie, it’s too much!”

“Look, dear. Do look. There she is.”

Miss Emily had approached by the path from the hotel. She inserted her disk, entered the enclosure, and advanced to her seat just before the procession arrived. Major Barrimore stood up to welcome her, looking furious.

A double gate, normally locked and used to admit only stretcher cases, was now opened. The procession marched in and disposed itself in a predestined order.

It is doubtful if any of the official party paid much attention to the Mayor’s inaugural address. They were all too busy furtively keeping an eye on Miss Emily. She sat bolt upright with her hands clasped over the handle of her furled umbrella, and she stared at Mr. Nankivell.

“…And so, Ladies and Gentlemen, I have great pleasure in declaring the First — the First Festival of Portcarrow Island Springs, O-PEN.”

He sat down to a patter of applause, through which Miss Cost advanced to a position near the little waterfall. Wally stood behind her. A microphone had been set up, but she neglected to use it consistently. When she did speak into it, it seized upon her words, and loud-speakers savagely flung them upon the heavy air. When she turned aside she changed into a voiceless puppet that opened and shut its mouth, cast up its eyes and waved its arms. The Mayor, nodding and smiling, pointed repeatedly to the microphone, but Miss Cost did not observe him.

“One wonderful afternoon… little boy…so sorrowful… who can tell?… ancient wisdom… running water…”

Evidently she was approaching her climax, but all was lost until she turned sharply, and the loud-speakers bellowed: “All gone.”

The words reverberated about the hillside in a very desolate fashion: All gone…All gone .… Miss Cost was bowing and ineffably smiling. She added something that was completely inaudible and, with an arch look at her audience, turned to Wally — and found he had vanished. He was extricated from the rear of the choir, where he had retired to sit down on some seepage from the spring.

Miss Cost led him forward. The back of his smock was slimy and green. Unfortunately, she did not place him before the microphone, but, for the first time, herself directly confronted it.

“Now, Wally, now ,” roared the loud-speakers. “ ‘ Once upon a Summer’s day …Go on , dear.”

At first, little of Wally’s recitation was lost, since he required constant prompting which Miss Cost, unwittingly, fed into the microphone. At the second stanza, however, the Mayor advanced upon her and in his turn was broadcast. “Shift over,” the loud-speakers advised. “Come ’ere, you silly lad.” The Mayor, quick to perceive his error, backed away.

“Oh, dear !” cried Miss Cost, publicly, and effected the change.

“Got it right this time!” said Major Barrimore loudly, and gave a snort of laughter. Miss Cost evidently heard him. She threw him a furious glance. Wally’s recitation continued.

Be not froightened sayed the Loidy …

“This is killing me,” Jenny whispered.

“Shut up, for pity’s sake. Oh, God!” Patrick muttered. “What now? What’s he saying now?”

“Shut up.”

Mrs. Carstairs turned and shook her head at them. They moaned together in agony.

Wally came to an unexpected stop, and walked away.

The audience, relieved, burst into sustained applause.

Miss Emily remained immovable.

The choir, accompanied by tentative grunts from the band, began to sing. Wally, recaptured, squatted beside the waterfall, looking cheerfully about him, and pushed his hands under the stream.

“This will be the inexplicable dumb show,” Patrick said.

“Look! Oh, look!”

From behind a boulder above the spring emerged a large girl dressed in green cheesecloth. She was a blonde, and the most had been made of her hair, which was crowned by a tinsel star. From her left hand depended a long string of glittering beads, symbolic, clearly, of Water. Her right hand was raised. The gesture, inappropriately, was accompanied by a really formidable roll of thunder. The sun was now overcast, and the heavens were black.

Wally looked up at the newcomer, gave one of his strange cries, pointed to her and laughed uproariously. The choir sang:

Thus, the Magic Spell was wroughten

Thus the little lad was healed …

The Green Lady executed some weaving movements with her left hand. A sudden clap of thunder startled her. The string of beads fell on the ledge below. She looked helplessly after it and continued her pantomime. The choir sang on and began a concerted movement. They flanked the spring and formed up in set groups, kneeling and pointing out the green girl to the audience. Miss Cost propelled Wally towards the ledge. It was the denouement.

The applause had scarcely died away when Miss Emily rose and approached the microphone.

“Mr. Mayor,” she began, “ladies and gentlemen: I wish to protest…”

Major Baltimore had risen to his feet with an oath. At the same moment there was a blinding flash of lightning, followed immediately by a stentorian thunderclap, a deluge of rain and a shout of uncontrollable laughter from Dr. Mayne.

The stampede was immediate. Crowds poured out of the enclosure and down to the foreshore. The launch filled. There were clamorous shouts for dinghies. The younger element ran round the point of the bay, making for the hotel causeway. Most of the Boy-and-Lobster contingent took the path that led directly to the hotel. It was a holocaust. Miss Cost, wildly at large among her drenched and disorganized troupe, was heard to scream: “It’s a judgment!” Unmindful, they swept past her. She was deserted. Her velvet bodice leaked green dye into her blouse. Green rivulets ran down her arms. Her hair was plastered like seaweed against her face. The text of the play fell from her hand, and lay, disregarded, in the mud.

Mrs. Barrimore now held a brief exchange with Miss Emily, who had opened her umbrella and, from beneath it, was steadily regarding Superintendent Coombe’s late companion. She waved her hostess aside. Mrs. Barrimore took to her heels, followed by her husband and Dr. Mayne. She outdistanced them, fled the enclosure, ran like a gazelle along the path to the Boy-and-Lobster, and disappeared.

Major Barrimore and Dr. Mayne, who was still laughing, made after her. Before they could reach the enclosure gates they were confronted by Miss Cost.

It was an ugly and grotesque encounter. She pushed her wet face towards them and her jaw trembled as if she had a rigour. She looked from one to the other. “ You ,” she stuttered. “ You ! Both of you. Animals. Now wait! Now, wait and see!”

Major Barrimore said: “Look here, Elspeth,” and Dr. Mayne said: “My dear Miss Cost!”

She broke into uncertain laughter and mouthed at them.