John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You know the kind, cheek-bones wide apart, chin and forehead melting into the cheeks to complete the perfect round, and the nose, broad and pudgy, equidistant from the circumference, flattened against the very centre of the face like a dough-ball upon the ceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for truly he had become an offense to my eyes, and I believed the earth to be cumbered with his presence. Perhaps my mother may have been superstitious of the moon and looked upon it over the wrong shoulder at the wrong time. Be that as it may, I hated John Claverhouse. Not that he had done me what society would consider a wrong or an ill turn. Far from it. The evil was of a deeper, subtler sort; so elusive, so intangible, as to defy clear, definite analysis in words. We all experience such things at some period in our lives. For the first time we see a certain individual, one who the very instant before we did not dream existed; and yet, at the first moment of meeting, we say: "I do not like that man." Why do we not like him? Ah, we do not know why; we know only that we do not. We have taken a dislike, that is all. And so I with John Claverhouse. What right had such a man to be happy? Yet he was an optimist. He was always gleeful and laughing. All things were always all right, curse him! Ah I how it grated on my soul that he should be so happy! Other men could laugh, and it did not bother me. I even used to laugh myself--before I met John Claverhouse. But his laugh! It irritated me, maddened me, as nothing else under the sun could irritate or madden me. It haunted me, gripped hold of me, and would not let me go. It was a huge, Gargantuan laugh. Waking or sleeping it was always with me, whirring and jarring across my heart-strings like an enormous rasp. At break of day it came whooping across the fields to spoil my pleasant morning revery. Under the aching noonday glare, when the green things drooped and the birds withdrew to the depths of the forest, and all nature drowsed, his great "Ha! ha!" and "Ho! ho!" rose up to the sky and challenged the sun. And at black midnight, from the lonely cross-roads where he turned from town into his own place, came his plaguey cachinnations to rouse me from my sleep and make me writhe and clench my nails into my palms. I went forth privily in the night-time, and turned his cattle into his fields, and in the morning heard his whooping laugh as he drove them out again. "It is nothing," he said; "the poor, dumb beasties are not to be blamed for straying into fatter pastures." He had a dog he called "Mars," a big, splendid brute, part deer-hound and part blood-hound, and resembling both. Mars was a great delight to him, and they were always together. But I bided my time, and one day, when opportunity was ripe, lured the animal away and settled for him with strychnine and beefsteak. It made positively no impression on John Claverhouse. His laugh was as hearty and frequent as ever, and his face as much like the full moon as it always had been. Then I set fire to his haystacks and his barn. But the next morning, being Sunday, he went forth blithe and cheerful. "Where are you going?" I asked him, as he went by the cross-roads. "Trout," he said, and his face beamed like a full moon. "I just dote on trout." Was there ever such an impossible man! His whole harvest had gone up in his haystacks and barn. It was uninsured, I knew. And yet, in the face of famine and the rigorous winter, he went out gayly in quest of a mess of trout, forsooth, because he "doted" on them! Had gloom but rested, no matter how lightly, on his brow, or had his bovine countenance grown long and serious and less like the moon, or had he removed that smile but once from off his face, I am sure I could have forgiven him for existing. But no. he grew only more cheerful under misfortune. I insulted him. He looked at me in slow and smiling surprise. "I fight you? Why?" he asked slowly. And then he laughed. "You are so funny! Ho! ho! You'll be the death of me! He! he! he! Oh! Ho! ho! ho! What would you? It was past endurance. By the blood of Judas, how I hated him! Then there was that name--Claverhouse! What a name! Wasn't it absurd? Claverhouse! Merciful heaven, why Claverhouse? Again and again I asked myself that question. I should not have minded Smith, or Brown, or Jones--but Claverhouse! I leave it to you. Repeat it to yourself--Claverhouse. Just listen to the ridiculous sound of it--Claverhouse! Should a man live with such a name? I ask of you. "No," you say. And "No" said I. But I bethought me of his mortgage. What of his crops and barn destroyed, I knew he would be unable to meet it. So I got a shrewd, close-mouthed, tight-fisted money-lender to get the mortgage transferred to him. I did not appear but through this agent I forced the foreclosure, and but few days (no more, believe me, than the law allowed) were given John Claverhouse to remove his goods and chattels from the premises. Then I strolled down to see how he took it, for he had lived there upward of twenty years. But he met me with his saucer-eyes twinkling, and the light glowing and spreading in his face till it was as a full-risen moon. "Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed. "The funniest tike, that youngster of mine! Did you ever hear the like? Let me tell you. He was down playing by the edge of the river when a piece of the bank caved in and splashed him. 'O papa!' he cried; 'a great big puddle flewed up and hit me.'" He stopped and waited for me to join him in his infernal glee. "I don't see any laugh in it," I said shortly, and I know my face went sour. He regarded me with wonderment, and then came the damnable light, glowing and spreading, as I have described it, till his face shone soft and warm, like the summer moon, and then the laugh--"Ha! ha! That's funny! You don't see it, eh? He! he! Ho! ho! ho! He doesn't see it! Why, look here. You know a puddle--" But I turned on my heel and left him. That was the last. I could stand it no longer. The thing must end right there, I thought, curse him! The earth should be quit of him. And as I went over the hill, I could hear his monstrous laugh reverberating against the sky. Now, I pride myself on doing things neatly, and when I resolved to kill John Claverhouse I had it in mind to do so in such fashion that I should not look back upon it and feel ashamed. I hate bungling, and I hate brutality. To me there is something repugnant in merely striking a man with one's naked fist--faugh! it is sickening! So, to shoot, or stab, or club John Claverhouse (oh, that name!) did not appeal to me. And not only was I impelled to do it neatly and artistically, but also in such manner that not the slightest possible suspicion could be directed against me. To this end I bent my intellect, and, after a week of profound incubation, I hatched the scheme. Then I set to work. I bought a water spaniel bitch, five months old, and devoted my whole attention to her training. Had any one spied upon me, they would have remarked that this training consisted entirely of one thing--retrieving. I taught the dog, which I called "Bellona," to fetch sticks I threw into the water, and not only to fetch, but to fetch at once, without mouthing or playing with them. The point was that she was to stop for nothing, but to deliver the stick in all haste. I made a practice of running away and leaving her to chase me, with the stick in her mouth, till she caught me. She was a bright animal, and took to the game with such eagerness that I was soon content. After that, at the first casual opportunity, I presented Bellona to John Claverhouse. I knew what I was about, for I was aware of a little weakness of his, and of a little private sinning of which he was regularly and inveterately guilty. "No," he said, when I placed the end of the rope in his hand. "No, you don't mean it." And his mouth opened wide and he grinned all over his damnable moon-face. "I--I kind of thought, somehow, you didn't like me," he explained. "Wasn't it funny for me to make such a mistake?" And at the thought he held his sides with laughter. "What is her name?" he managed to ask between paroxysms. "Bellona," I said. "He! he!" he tittered. "What a funny name." I gritted my teeth, for his mirth put them on edge, and snapped out between them, "She was the wife of Mars, you know." Then the light of the full moon began to suffuse his face, until he exploded with: "That was my other dog. Well, I guess she's a widow now. Oh! Ho! ho! E! he! he! Ho!" he whooped after me, and I turned and fled swiftly over the hill. The week passed by, and on Saturday evening I said to him, "You go away Monday, don't you?" He nodded his head and grinned. "Then you won't have another chance to get a mess of those trout you just 'dote' on." But he did not notice the sneer. "Oh, I don't know," he chuckled. "I'm going up to-morrow to try pretty hard." Thus was assurance made doubly sure, and I went back to my house hugging myself with rapture. Early next morning I saw him go by with a dip-net and gunnysack, and Bellona trotting at his heels. I knew where he was bound, and cut out by the back pasture and climbed through the underbrush to the top of the mountain. Keeping carefully out of sight, I followed the crest along for a couple of miles to a natural amphitheatre in the hills, where the little river raced down out of a gorge and stopped for breath in a large and placid rock-bound pool. That was the spot! I sat down on the croup of the mountain, where I could see all that occurred, and lighted my pipe. Ere many minutes had passed, John Claverhouse came plodding up the bed of the stream. Bellona was ambling about him, and they were in high feather, her short, snappy barks mingling with his deeper chest-notes. Arrived at the pool, he threw down the dip-net and sack, and drew from his hip-pocket what looked like a large, fat candle. But I knew it to be a stick of "giant"; for such was his method of catching trout. He dynamited them. He attached the fuse by wrapping the "giant" tightly in a piece of cotton. Then he ignited the fuse and tossed the explosive into the pool. Like a flash, Bellona was into the pool after it. I could have shrieked aloud for joy. Claverhouse yelled at her, but without avail. He pelted her with clods and rocks, but she swam steadily on till she got the stick of "giant" in her mouth, when she whirled about and headed for shore. Then, for the first time, he realized his danger, and started to run. As foreseen and planned by me, she made the bank and took out after him. Oh, I tell you, it was great! As I have said, the pool lay in a sort of amphitheatre. Above and below, the stream could be crossed on stepping-stones. And around and around, up and down and across the stones, raced Claverhouse and Bellona. I could never have believed that such an ungainly man could run so fast. But run he did, Bellona hot-footed after him, and gaining. And then, just as she caught up, he in full stride, and she leaping with nose at his knee, there was a sudden flash, a burst of smoke, a terrific detonation, and where man and dog had been the instant before there was naught to be seen but a big hole in the ground. "Death from accident while engaged in illegal fishing." That was the verdict of the coroner's jury; and that is why I pride myself on the neat and artistic way in which I finished off John Claverhouse. There was no bungling, no brutality; nothing of which to be ashamed in the whole transaction, as I am sure you will agree. No more does his infernal laugh go echoing among the hills, and no more does his fat moon-face rise up to vex me. My days are peaceful now, and my night's sleep deep. Jack London / 1906 -

Yoshiko was accustomed to sending her husband off to work at ten each morning. Having at last gained her freedom, she would then make her way to the study which she shared with him and shut herself within its walls, whereupon she busied herself on a lengthy piece she was writing for the summer special edition of K magazine. Elegant in stature and beloved by her fans, Yoshiko maintained a reputation enough that even her husband’s lofty position as the secretary to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs paled by comparison. It seemed like every day that she was inundated with letter after letter from her innumerable worshippers. Today as well, as she sat down before her study desk, she made sure to glance through the fresh pile of letters from faceless admirers before beginning her work. Each one was as trite and uninteresting as the last, but Yoshiko, in her warm feminine consideration, would nevertheless read through every message directed to her, regardless of what it was. After first dispatching with the simpler missives (a pair of envelopes and a postcard), she was left with what appeared to be a rather bulky manuscript sealed in a large envelope. Yoshiko had not received any notice of such a delivery, but even so, having an unsolicited manuscript sent to her was a fairly common occurrence in itself. The majority of such items were invariably dry, long-winded things. Despite this, Yoshiko determined to read the title at least, and so, slitting the envelope open, she retrieved the bundle of papers and looked at the first line. It was bound with the usual manuscript stationery, as expected. What was unexpected was how it began. Where one would expect a title or author to be displayed, instead Yoshiko saw a line of greeting. “Dear Madam,” it read. Well then, she thought, this must be some form of letter after all. As she casually scanned the next few lines, however, she felt a strange sense of foreboding creep over her. Still, her innate curiosity aroused, she quickly read onwards despite her growing unease. It read as follows. Dear Madam, I beg that you forgive my presumptuousness in sending this unexpected letter for I am sure you do not know me. What I am about to tell you will no doubt come as a surprise, but I must confess to you the strange and terrible crimes that I have committed. For these past few months I have lived as a demon, hiding from the gaze of my fellow man. Consequently there is nobody on this earth who knows of the fouls deeds I have done. I had hoped to continue this wretched existence forever, never to return to the human sphere. I know not what change has stolen over my heart, but I am now driven to confess my wretched tale to another soul. I understand that even having said all this, my story will surely sound like the ravings of a madman, but I implore you, dear Madam, to read this letter until the end. By the end of my story it will become clear why I feel this way and why I sent this confession to be read by you and no other. Now then, where to begin. It is a tale so far detached from the realm of civilization and so utterly fantastical that it feels to me absurd to chronicle it with such mundane tools as pen and paper. Still, I suppose such concerns are no matter. I will start from the beginning and follow the events in order as they occurred. I was extraordinarily hideous from birth. I must stress this fact, for if you were to indulge this hopeless wretch’s wish and meet me in person, you would surely faint in terror at my horrible visage, made all the more ghastly by my long years of neglect, if not for my warning. And oh! What an unlucky wretch that I am! For as hideous as I was, within my breast burned a passion just as hot. I was a poor workman with the face of a monster, but in my heart I nurtured dreams of luxury and opulence that shone brightly enough to nearly blot out the sad reality of my existence. If I had been born to a wealthy family, I surely would have drowned in various pleasures and thus lessened the burden of my grotesque features. Or perhaps if I had more talent in the artistic realm, I could have forgotten the bland world around me through the comforts of verse. Alas, I was allowed neither of these blessings, and I grew up the destitute son of a carpenter, inheriting my father’s work when he died and henceforth passing my days in unchanging tedium. My specialty was in making chairs of all kinds. My chairs would never fail to please even the most critical of clients, and within the industry my reputation earned me no shortage of special commissions. With these commissions would come requests for special decorations for the backs and legs, and each client had his own preference regarding the texture of the seat cushion or various other details. An amateur could hardly imagine the pains it took to satisfy every demand, every whim, but for all the pain the pleasure was still greater. Perhaps it is impudent of me to say so, but the accomplishment that the artist feels at seeing his work finished before him could hardly be compared to the intense gratification that washed over me with each completed piece. As I finished each chair, I would always first sit in it myself to test it. Despite my uniformly bland existence as a craftsman, this one activity never failed to fill me with an unspeakable satisfaction. I felt that no matter what manner of nobleman or beauty should ultimately sit upon this chair, it would be in a truly glorious residence worthy of its presence. The walls would be set with oils by van Gogh and Monet; crystal chandeliers would cascade from the ceiling, festooned with brilliant cut gemstones; on the floor, a Turkish rug, stretching from corner to corner; and finally, on the table before the chair, my chair, a vase of exotic flowers bursting in full bloom, filling the room with their sweet fragrance. As I basked in these visions, I felt almost as if I were the master of that very palace, and I was filled with an indescribable happiness and contentment. These fruitless delusions only grew stronger with time. Within the realm of fantasy, I, no more than a poor, hideous craftsman in life, could become a prince, sitting in my own magnificent chair. And always in these fantasies, at my side would appear my sweetheart, angelic and smiling as she listened to my every word. That was not all. In my dreams, I would take her hands in mine, and we would even whisper sweet nothings to each other. These moments never lasted long. Always there would be the shrill call of the nearby innkeeper or the hysterical sobbing of some ailing child to rend apart the rosy tapestry of my dreams and drag me awake. I was immediately faced with the bleak features of my loathsome reality and my own hideousness, so far from the prince that I was mere moments ago. And the angel who so sweetly showered her smiles upon me… Where was I to find such a being? Here even the nannies, covered in grime from head to toe from playing with their charges, would hardly deign to so much as glance in my direction. My chair alone was left to me, a last vestige of that happy reverie. Even then, I knew this chair would soon be carried off to some faraway place, to a world entirely separate from our own. Thus, with each chair that I finished, I was beset with indescribable sadness. That terrible, unspeakable, horrible feeling only grew with time, and soon it was all too much for me to bear. “If I should be forced to live the rest of my days like this, as a lowly maggot, why, I would rather die instead,” I resolved. Whether I was chiseling wood into shape, driving in nails, or mixing heady paints in a bucket, my mind remained fixed on this thought. “But wait, if I should die anyway, if I should have determination enough to end my own existence anyway, perhaps there is another way after all… And so my thoughts gradually began to turn in a far more sinister direction. It was precisely at that time that I had received a commission for a set of large leather armchairs, a type that I had never created before. This particular order came from a foreign-run hotel in the same city of Y where I lived. Normally such orders would be imported from their home country, but the company that I worked for had worked to convince the owners that the skill of their Japanese craftsmen could match any imported wares. As the result of their long negotiation, this order eventually made its way to me. The weight of this responsibility drove me to forgo sleep and food as I tended to the creation of these chairs. I was truly, utterly devoted to my task, pouring my heart and soul into every moment of my work. As I gazed upon the finished chairs, I felt a satisfaction unlike any I had ever experienced. I was taken away by the results of my own labor. Then, as was my custom, I took one of the set of four that I had made, brought it out into the next room where the evening sunlight was filtering in through the windows, and lowered myself into the seat. What a comfortable chair it was! The seat cushion was at once luxuriously voluminous yet neither too soft nor too firm. The upholstering, a simple undyed gray suede, was of a heavenly texture. The thickly padded back was angled at the perfect incline to gently support my own. The armrests were elegantly arched and rose delicately to meet the occupant’s wrists. Each fiber of the chair seemed to come together in a sublime harmony, as if to embody the word “comfort” in every sense as it gently embraced its occupant. I sank deep into the chair, blissfully stroking the armrests with both hands. As inevitably as in the past, my vision began to fill with vibrant scenes one after another, bursting forth like a rainbow before me. This was beyond a simple daydream, and I felt I must at last be hallucinating. Every thought that visited my mind played out in vivid detail before my very eyes, so much that I felt a vague sensation of dread at the spectacle. As I sat there in this state, a terrible and wonderful idea rose unbidden into my mind. I thought then that I understood what Eve felt when the fell serpent whispered into her ear. This idea was at once wilder than my furthest fantasies and dreadful beyond compare. Yet before long, this dread turned to fascination, and I found myself unable to resist its temptation. At first, I simply did not want to relinquish this beautiful chair that I had poured such labors into. I wished nothing more than to forever go with it wherever it may be taken. But as I dozed, carried on the wings of my fantasies, this idea continued to spread its insidious roots within my mind, and before long, it bore a singular, terrible fruit. I must have lost my mind then. This vision was the extent of madness, yet I determined then to see it into reality. I quickly selected the best of the four armchairs and smashed it to pieces. Then, I carefully remade it in such a way to suit my grotesque intentions. It was an extremely large armchair, covered in leather on every surface from top to bottom. Besides that, the back and the armrests were of unusual thickness, such that the hollow cavern enclosed by these parts was spacious enough that if a man were to hide inside of it, it would be impossible to tell he was there from the outside. This space, of course, was filled with sturdy beams of wood and a multitude of springs, but I carefully arranged them so that if I placed my legs in the spot where a person would sit and positioned my head and torso into the back rest, sitting right in the pose of the chair, I had enough space to hide within. Such modifications were my specialty, and I was able to include many conveniences into my design as well. For example, I left a gap in the leather, invisible from the outside, to let in air and sounds into my hiding space. In the back rest next to my head I constructed a little shelf on which I stacked bottles of water and hardtack. For certain purposes I also included a large rubber bag in the seat of the chair. This and countless other considerations went into my work, so that when I had finished I could remain hidden in the chair for two or three days on end without any inconvenience. In a sense, this chair had become a tiny room housing a single occupant. I stripped down to a single shirt and, by way of the trapdoor I had installed underneath the chair, slid into the space I had prepared within. It was truly a strange sensation. Sitting in the stifling darkness, I felt as if I had crawled into a crypt instead. Now as I think about it, it truly was no different from a tomb. For as I crept into the chair, as if donning the helm of Hades, I was completely and utterly vanishing from the realm of my fellow man. Before long, a dispatch from the company arrived in a large truck to claim the set of four chairs. My apprentice (the two of us lived alone in the residence), oblivious to the truth, helped the men move the chairs out. As they lifted my chair into the bed of the truck, one of the workmen groaned from the weight, and I felt my heart race within the little enclosure. Still, a heavy armchair is nothing unusual in itself, and soon enough I felt the rumbling of the truck announce our departure. I was extremely anxious during this entire trip, but by the afternoon the chair that I was in had been installed without issue in one of the hotel’s rooms. I later learned that this room was not a private quarters but rather a lounge where people came and went frequently, visiting occasionally to meet with guests or read a newspaper and smoke a cigarette. No doubt you have already guessed by now my intentions. I waited for the room to be empty of people before leaving my hiding spot and sneaking around the hotel, looking to steal what I needed. After all, who could imagine such a ridiculous thing as a person hiding inside of a chair? I was a shade among men, free to pillage from room to room as I pleased. By the time people began to raise an alarm, I simply returned to my spot within the chair, listening with glee to their inept attempts to find me. Have you ever been to the shore and seen a type of crab called the hermit crab? Its appearance is like a giant spider, and when people are nowhere around it struts about the shore as if it were king of its kind. The moment it hears the footsteps of a person approaching, however, it disappears into its shell with amazing speed. There, it ever so slightly stretches its ugly, spined claws out beyond the safety of its shell and waits for its enemy to leave. In that moment, I was truly a hermit crab myself. In lieu of a shell, I had my chair, and instead of the shore, I strutted about the halls of the hotel. In any case, for all that my plan was preposterous and removed from the realm of common sense (and indeed because of this), it succeeded marvelously. By the third day after arriving at the hotel my thievery had become routine to me. The fear of capture and the thrill of success, combined with the pleasure I derived from hearing the hotel staff scurry here and there, never realizing that the target of their pursuit was mere inches away, proved intoxicating. Unfortunately, I do not have time to go into detail about these adventures. I soon discovered a strange new pleasure, far more fulfilling than mere thievery. It is for the confession of this deed that I write this letter. I must reverse the story a few days to when my chair was first placed in the lounge of the hotel. For a while after my arrival, the owners of the hotel came one after the other to test the quality of the chair. They eventually left, and a silence fell over the room. I thought that the room must be empty, but I was too afraid to leave my chair so soon after my arrival. For a very long time (or at least, that is how it felt), I strained my ears to catch even the slightest noise as I waited. After remaining like this for some time, I heard heavy footsteps echoing from what I assumed was the hallway. When the footsteps came as close as three yards, the thick carpet that covered the floor of the room muffled them so that I could barely hear, but before long, I heard the ragged breathing of a man. Just as I realized what was about to happen, the heavy body of a large European man slammed into my lap and bounced two or three times. My thighs were separated from his vast buttocks by only a thin layer of suede, and I could feel his body heat permeate through the thin barrier. His broad shoulders leaned back exactly where my chest was, and his bulky hands stacked on top of mine across the leather. It seemed that he was smoking a cigar. I could smell a thick, masculine aroma wafting through the gaps in the leather into my little space. Dear Madam, I ask that you imagine yourself in my situation at that moment. It is truly a spectacle bizarre beyond belief. I was beside myself in terror, trying desperately to make myself as small as possible as cold sweat dripped from my armpits. I felt my mind go blank, and I sat there in a daze as time passed. This man was the first of many visitors, who each came and sat down on my lap before rising and immediately being replaced by another. Not a one realized that I was there – that the soft cushion beneath him was actually the thighs of a man hiding inside the chair. A pitch black world, locked in on all sides by leather. What a mysterious allure this world held. From inside these walls humans seemed alien and obscure, far removed from the typical qualities one would associate with humanity. They were reduced to nothing more than a collection of voices, breathing, footsteps, rustling cloth, and a number of round, bouncy mounds of flesh. I found that I was able to identify each one of them not by sight, but by touch. One of them was grossly fat and had the texture of rotten fish. Another one was the exact opposite, an extremely skinny individual that felt indistinguishable from a skeleton. Besides that, I became familiar enough with the spines, shoulder blades, arms, thighs, and tailbones of the various people that came and went that no matter how similar in stature they were, the sum of this data allowed me to isolate the peculiarities of each and every one. There is no doubt in my mind that human beings can be identified by the texture of their bodies no less precisely than by their faces or their fingerprints. The same thing can be said of the opposite sex. Normally one would judge potential partners by their appearance, but within the world of this chair, such considerations were nearly out of the question. All that existed here was the naked flesh, the voice, and the smells. Dear Madam, I hope that I do not offend you with my extreme frankness. In that chair, I fell deeply and feverishly in love with a woman’s body (indeed, she was the first woman to sit down in my chair). If I were to imagine from her voice, she was a rather young maiden from a foreign land. At that moment, nobody else was in the room. She seemed happy about some thing or other and was humming a strange tune as her footsteps entered the room with almost a dancing cadence. Right when I estimated she had reached the foot of the chair in which I lay hidden, she suddenly flung her bountiful yet graceful body upon my lap. Then she seemed to recall something humorous, as she began to laugh out loud and beat her legs and hands against the cushions, wriggling about like a fish caught in a net. For nearly a half hour following this, she continued to move about on top of my lap, occasionally singing a song and matching the rhythm with little wiggles of her heavy body. This was truly an unimaginable situation for myself. I had considered women to be objects of either worship or fear, having spent my entire life avoiding meeting their gazes with my own. Now, here was a woman I had never met, from a country I had never been to, in the same room, on the same chair as me. I was pressed so closely to her that I could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin layer of suede between us. Oblivious to all this, she was reclining in the most leisurely fashion with her full body weight resting on me. From within the chair, I could pretend that I was embracing her from behind. I could shower kisses upon her graceful neck from behind the leather. In fact, I was free to do whatever I wanted. Upon this startling realization, I completely forgot my initial objective of stealing and instead simply indulged in this new and strange world of sensation. I thought to myself: Is the world within this chair not, in fact, my true and proper home? An ugly, cowardly man such as myself was doomed to a life of inferiority and shame out there in the world of light. And yet, in this new world, by simply enduring the cramped space within this chair, that same man could draw close to, hear the voices of, and even touch the skin of such beautiful women who would never forgive his presence in that bright outside world. A love, springing from within the chair! Such a mysterious, intoxicating sensation could surely be understood by no one who has not crept into this chair himself! It is a love composed exclusively of hearing, touch, and to the slightest degree, smell. A love found only in a world of darkness, never to be seen in this world. This is, without a doubt, a temptation that belongs to the realm of demons and devils. In fact, I can only imagine what manner of terrible and eldritch matters are conducted in the dark corners of this world, hidden away from the eyes of man. It goes without saying that my intention was, at first, to simply steal what I needed and quit the hotel immediately. Having discovered this all too foreign pleasure, however, I found myself far from leaving, and instead I declared the chair my permanent residence and continued in this manner for some time. On my nightly expeditions, I took great pains to ensure that I remained silent and invisible, and so I was in no danger of discovery. Even still, I am amazed by how long I was able to maintain my residence within the chair, never once throughout the long months attracting the suspicion of any passersby. Night and day, I kept my arms and legs bent within the cramped space inside the chair. My body went numb from this abuse, and I eventually found myself unable to fully straighten. Consequently, when I left my hiding spot and made my way to the kitchen or toilets, I did so on all fours, crawling along the ground. What madness must have overtaken me then, for even as I endured such suffering, I never once thought to abandon that strange and wonderful world of touch. There were the occasional guests who took up residence in the hotel for one or two months at a time, but as with any hotel, there was a constant flux of visitors coming and leaving. The object of my own strange love would likewise inevitably shift in time with the flow of the guests. Each one left her indelible impression in my heart, but whereas normally these would be associated with a face, their physiques instead were imprinted into my memory. There was one as sprightly as a colt, with a lithe, compact frame. Another was like a snake, her body constantly wriggling voluptuously. One woman was like a rubber ball, possessing a body of endless girth and elasticity. Yet another felt as robust as a Greek statue, her body solid and perfectly balanced above me. And there were so many more, each with her own unique traits and her peculiar allure. As my attention was thus constantly drawn from each woman to the next, the days brought a number of completely unrelated experiences. The first was when an ambassador from a large European nation (I learned this fact from the passing conversations of the Japanese staff) placed his immense frame squarely upon my lap. Evidently he was known more as a poet than as a politician, but for his fame I felt pride as much as excitement at the opportunity to become acquainted with the touch of his skin. He spoke with two or three of his countrymen for only about ten minutes before standing and leaving. Of course, I had no clue as to what the topic of conversation was, but with every gesture, he would shift around as well. This, combined with his unusually warm body temperature, produced an almost ticklish stimulation that eludes description. At that moment, I suddenly thought, what if! What if I were to take a sharp knife and, plunging it through the thin leather, pierce through the man’s heart? Of course, such a wound would surely be fatal. The political spheres both in his home country and in Japan would be in a frenzy over such an event. Newspapers would fill their front pages with headlines of this tragedy. Furthermore, his death would not only impact the diplomatic relations between his own country and mine, but to lose a man of his talent would no doubt deal a grievous blow to the world of art as well. In my hand, I held the power to bring about such disaster. As I thought this, I could not suppress a strange glee that took over me. The other incident was when a famous dancer from some foreign country arrived in Japan and, by chance, checked into that very hotel and sat in my chair. That moment left a strong impression much like the time with the diplomat but even more so, for this woman sent through the leather a sensation of the most ideal proportions, unlike any I had ever experienced. I felt myself so swept away by her beauty that any impure thoughts were driven from my mind as I simply admired her as one does a fine work of art. These were only a few of the various rare and bizarre, even uncanny experiences that filled my days, but the purpose of my letter is not to chronicle them here in detail. My tale has gone on quite long as it is, and so I shall cut to the heart of the matter. It had been a number of months since I had first arrived at the hotel when my living situation experienced a shift. For some reason or other, the hotel owners returned to their home country, leaving the hotel, furniture and all, in the custody of a Japanese company. This company rejected the opulent nature of its inheritance and so made plans to transform the hotel into one that could appeal to the more mainstream clients. Expensive furniture and other items that thus lost their value to the company were auctioned off by a large retailer. Among those items listed for auction was my own chair. At first, I was disappointed to learn of this fact. Then I thought to use this chance to return to the company of my fellow man once more and begin a new life for myself. By this point I had saved up a considerable sum from my thieving habits so that even if I were to return to society, I would never be at risk of falling back into that penury which I had left behind. Still, as I reflected on my situation, I realized that although leaving the hotel behind was certainly a disappointment in one sense, in another sense it opened up a new hope entirely. This hope sprung from my experiences these past few months. I had loved many and various women throughout my stay, yet because these were all foreign women, no matter how lovely, how delightful their bodies were, I was always left with a sense of wanting something more. Could it be that in the end, we Japanese are unable to feel true love for any except our fellow Japanese? This thought gradually solidified within my heart. At that time, my chair was being presented for auction. Perhaps this time it would be claimed by a Japanese buyer and placed in a household among other Japanese people. This became my new hope. I decided that in any case, I would continue my life within the chair for a little while longer. The two or three days I spent in the store awaiting auction were truly stifling and unpleasant. To my relief, once the auction began, a buyer immediately appeared for my chair. Old as it was, it was still a fine chair that quickly drew the attention of many. The buyer was some government official from the metropolitan area not far from Y city. I felt quite ill as I was constantly jostled and shaken in the truck that carried my chair the few miles from the warehouse to the buyer’s residence, but this was nothing compared to the joy I felt at knowing the buyer was Japanese, just as I had hoped. This official was the owner of a rather splendid home, and I was soon placed within a spacious study in the main estate. To my intense satisfaction, I discovered that this study was not often used by the husband himself but rather mostly visited by his beautiful young wife. For nearly a month from that day forward, I was never apart from her. Barring only the times when she retired to the dining room or to bed, her graceful form was always right above mine. This was because the wife was constantly in the study, engrossed in her writing. It goes without saying that I loved her dearly. Not only was she the first Japanese woman I encountered, but her body was of truly exquisite beauty. For the first time in my life, I felt true love. By comparison, none of those experiences in the hotel could be worthy of the title of love. As proof of this, I had never once thought to do any more than enjoy my secret caresses before, but now I fervently wished to make myself known to her. I wanted for her to recognize my existence within the chair, and, as laughably selfish as it is, I wanted her to love me. But how would I indicate such to her? If she were to suddenly learn that someone was hiding within her chair, she should surely call for her husband or the maids in her surprise. All my plans would come to nothing, and I would face the judgment of the law for a heinous crime. And so, I endeavored to provide her with the most comfortable seat I could so that she would think fondly of this chair. As an artist, she doubtlessly possessed more sensitive faculties than others. I hoped that she would sense the life within her chair and feel a sense of love for it, not as a lump of matter, but as a living creature. Whenever she placed her weight upon my body, I strove to receive her as softly and comfortably as I could. When I sensed that she was tired, I would adjust the angle of my lap to shift her posture, carefully moving just enough so that she would not notice. And when she dozed above me, I ever so gently rocked my lap back and forth to simulate the motions of a cradle. Perhaps my efforts were rewarded, or perhaps it was simply wishful thinking, but it seemed that recently she started to show love for my chair. She sank her body into my chair with the sweet affection that a mother shows for her infant or a maiden shows in her lover’s embrace. For my own part, the feeling of her moving around atop my lap was soon deeply familiar to me as well. Thus my passions grew day by day. And now, at last, dear Madam, dear sweet Madam, at last I found myself entertaining a truly outrageous wish far beyond my lot in life. I thought to myself that if I could but once gaze upon the face of my lover and exchange words with her, I could die a happy man. Dear Madam, no doubt you have long since realized the truth of the matter. The one I refer to as my lover, and I hope dearly that you will forgive this presumptuousness, is none other than yourself. From that day that your husband purchased my chair from the warehouse in Y city, I have been here, a miserable man with nothing to offer but my love for you. Dear Madam, if you would be so kind to grant my one request, could I ask that you meet me, just once? Would you please offer just one word of comfort to this miserable, abominable wretch? I ask for nothing more. I am simply too wretched and loathsome to do so. Please, please, would you grant this last ardent wish of a truly unhappy man? I left from the residence last night in order to write this letter. It was simply too dangerous for me to ask you of this in person, nor could I bring myself to do it in any case. As you read this letter, I will be wandering the grounds around the manor, pale with anxiety as I wait. If, by chance, you should deign to grant this ever so brazen request, place your handkerchief upon the dianthus in the window of your study. With that sign, I will wait at the gate of the manor as simply another visitor. Thus, the curious letter concluded with a fervent request. By the midpoint of the letter, Yoshiko had already been seized with a horrible premonition and turned deathly pale. She stood up unconsicously and ran from the study, leaving the dreaded armchair behind as she entered the Japanese style living room beyond. She thought to tear up and throw away the horrible letter without reading the rest, but something stayed her hand, and so she sat down at the little desk in the living room and continued to read. Her premonition proved true. What a terrible thing to learn! That armchair which she had sat upon day after day had contained a strange man within it all this time. “Ohh, how very dreadful!” Yoshiko felt a chill run down her back as her body began to tremble. She stood there in a daze, unable to fully comprehend the situation and completely helpless for a solution. Examine the chair? No, no, she could hardly even bear the thought. Even if the chair no longer held its usual resident, there was no doubt in her mind that some filthy residue remained, whether from his meals or from his body. “Madam, a letter for you.” She gave a start and turned to see a member of the maid staff standing there with an envelope that had just arrived. Yoshiko took the envelope from her and reflexively moved to open it to retrieve its contents when she saw the address upon it. She recoiled in horror, the envelope falling from her hands. There, in a hand identical to that which had written the loathsome letter from earlier, was written her own name. For a long time she debated whether she should open the envelope or not. At last, she tore open the seal and, with trembling fingers, withdrew the letter from within and read its contents. It was a remarkably short letter, but even so, the few lines that composed it were enough to give Yoshiko another surprise. I beg that you forgive my impudence in sending this sudden letter. I have always enjoyed reading your works. Enclosed in a separate envelope is a rough manuscript of my own writing. If you would be so kind as to read it and provide your honest critique of it, I would be honored beyond words. For certain reasons, I have taken the liberty of posting the manuscript before writing this letter, and so I assume that by the time you are reading this, you will have read the manuscript already. What did you think of it? If my little ramblings would have left you with a lasting impression, then I would certainly be pleased to hear it. I intentionally omitted the title on the manuscript, but I am thinking of titling it “The Human Chair.” I hope you can look past my rudeness. Sincerely yours, ______. Edogawa Ranpo / 1925 -

As they emerged suddenly from the dense forest the Indian halted, and Grimwood, his employer, stood beside him, gazing into the beautiful wooded valley that lay spread below them in the blaze of a golden sunset. Both men leaned upon their rifles, caught by the enchantment of the unexpected scene. “We camp here,” said Tooshalli abruptly, after a careful survey. “To-morrow we make a plan.” He spoke excellent English. The note of decision, almost of authority, in his voice was noticeable, but Grimwood set it down to the natural excitement of the moment. Every track they had followed during the last two days, but one track in particular as well, had headed straight for this remote and hidden valley, and the sport promised to be unusual. “That’s so,” he replied, in the tone of one giving an order. “You can make camp ready at once.” And he sat down on a fallen hemlock to take off his moccasin boots and grease his feet that ached from the arduous day now drawing to a close. Though under ordinary circumstances he would have pushed on for another hour or two, he was not averse to a night here, for exhaustion had come upon him during the last bit of rough going, his eye and muscles were no longer steady, and it was doubtful if he could have shot straight enough to kill. He did not mean to miss a second time.[114] With his Canadian friend, Iredale, the latter’s half-breed, and his own Indian, Tooshalli, the party had set out three weeks ago to find the “wonderful big moose” the Indians reported were travelling in the Snow River country. They soon found that the tale was true; tracks were abundant; they saw fine animals nearly every day, but though carrying good heads, the hunters expected better still and left them alone. Pushing up the river to a chain of small lakes near its source, they then separated into two parties, each with its nine-foot bark canoe, and packed in for three days after the yet bigger animals the Indians agreed would be found in the deeper woods beyond. Excitement was keen, expectation keener still. The day before they separated, Iredale shot the biggest moose of his life, and its head, bigger even than the grand Alaskan heads, hangs in his house to-day. Grimwood’s hunting blood was fairly up. His blood was of the fiery, not to say ferocious, quality. It almost seemed he liked killing for its own sake. Four days after the party broke into two he came upon a gigantic track, whose measurements and length of stride keyed every nerve he possessed to its highest tension. Tooshalli examined the tracks for some minutes with care. “It is the biggest moose in the world,” he said at length, a new expression on his inscrutable red visage. Following it all that day, they yet got no sight of the big fellow that seemed to be frequenting a little marshy dip of country, too small to be called valley, where willow and undergrowth abounded. He had not yet scented his pursuers. They were after him again at dawn. Towards the evening of the second day Grimwood caught a sudden glimpse of the monster among a thick clump of willows, and the sight of the magnificent head that easily beat all records set his heart beating like a hammer with excitement. He aimed and fired. But the moose, instead of crashing, went thundering away through the further scrub and disappeared, the sound of his plunging[115] canter presently dying away. Grimwood had missed, even if he had wounded. They camped, and all next day, leaving the canoe behind, they followed the huge track, but though finding signs of blood, these were not plentiful, and the shot had evidently only grazed the animal. The travelling was of the hardest. Towards evening, utterly exhausted, the spoor led them to the ridge they now stood upon, gazing down into the enchanting valley that opened at their feet. The giant moose had gone down into this valley. He would consider himself safe there. Grimwood agreed with the Indian’s judgment. They would camp for the night and continue at dawn the wild hunt after “the biggest moose in the world.” Supper was over, the small fire used for cooking dying down, with Grimwood became first aware that the Indian was not behaving quite as usual. What particular detail drew his attention is hard to say. He was a slow-witted, heavy man, full-blooded, unobservant; a fact had to hurt him through his comfort, through his pleasure, before he noticed it. Yet anyone else must have observed the changed mood of the Redskin long ago. Tooshalli had made the fire, fried the bacon, served the tea, and was arranging the blankets, his own and his employer’s, before the latter remarked upon his—silence. Tooshalli had not uttered a word for over an hour and a half, since he had first set eyes upon the new valley, to be exact. And his employer now noticed the unaccustomed silence, because after food he liked to listen to wood talk and hunting lore. “Tired out, aren’t you?” said big Grimwood, looking into the dark face across the firelight. He resented the absence of conversation, now that he noticed it. He was over-weary himself, he felt more irritable than usual, though his temper was always vile. “Lost your tongue, eh?” he went on with a growl, as the Indian returned his stare with solemn, expressionless[116] face. That dark inscrutable look got on his nerves a bit. “Speak up, man!” he exclaimed sharply. “What’s it all about?” The Englishman had at last realized that there was something to “speak up” about. The discovery, in his present state, annoyed him further. Tooshalli stared gravely, but made no reply. The silence was prolonged almost into minutes. Presently the head turned sideways, as though the man listened. The other watched him very closely, anger growing in him. But it was the way the Redskin turned his head, keeping his body rigid, that gave the jerk to Grimwood’s nerves, providing him with a sensation he had never known in his life before—it gave him what is generally called “the goose-flesh.” It seemed to jangle his entire system, yet at the same time made him cautious. He did not like it, this combination of emotions puzzled him. “Say something, I tell you,” he repeated in a harsher tone, raising his voice. He sat up, drawing his great body closer to the fire. “Say something, damn it!” His voice fell dead against the surrounding trees, making the silence of the forest unpleasantly noticeable. Very still the great woods stood about them; there was no wind, no stir of branches; only the crackle of a snapping twig was audible from time to time, as the night-life moved unwarily sometimes watching the humans round their little fire. The October air had a frosty touch that nipped. The Redskin did not answer. No muscle of his neck nor of his stiffened body moved. He seemed all ears. “Well?” repeated the Englishman, lowering his voice this time instinctively. “What d’you hear, God damn it!” The touch of odd nervousness that made his anger grow betrayed itself in his language. Tooshalli slowly turned his head back again to its normal position, the body rigid as before. “I hear nothing, Mr. Grimwood,” he said, gazing with quiet dignity into his employer’s eyes.[117] This was too much for the other, a man of savage temper at the best of times. He was the type of Englishman who held strong views as to the right way of treating “inferior” races. “That’s a lie, Tooshalli, and I won’t have you lie to me. Now what was it? Tell me at once!” “I hear nothing,” repeated the other. “I only think.” “And what is it you’re pleased to think?” Impatience made a nasty expression round the mouth. “I go not,” was the abrupt reply, unalterable decision in the voice. The man’s rejoinder was so unexpected that Grimwood found nothing to say at first. For a moment he did not take its meaning; his mind, always slow, was confused by impatience, also by what he considered the foolishness of the little scene. Then in a flash he understood; but he also understood the immovable obstinacy of the race he had to deal with. Tooshalli was informing him that he refused to go into the valley where the big moose had vanished. And his astonishment was so great at first that he merely sat and stared. No words came to him. “It is——” said the Indian, but used a native term. “What’s that mean?” Grimwood found his tongue, but his quiet tone was ominous. “Mr. Grimwood, it mean the ‘Valley of the Beasts,’” was the reply in a tone quieter still. The Englishman made a great, a genuine effort at self-control. He was dealing, he forced himself to remember, with a superstitious Redskin. He knew the stubbornness of the type. If the man left him his sport was irretrievably spoilt, for he could not hunt in this wilderness alone, and even if he got the coveted head, he could never, never get it out alone. His native selfishness seconded his effort. Persuasion, if only he could keep back his rising anger, was his rôle to play. “The Valley of the Beasts,” he said, a smile on his lips rather than in his darkening eyes; “but that’s just what[118] we want. It’s beasts we’re after, isn’t it?” His voice had a false cheery ring that could not have deceived a child. “But what d’you mean, anyhow—the Valley of the Beasts?” He asked it with a dull attempt at sympathy. “It belong to Ishtot, Mr. Grimwood.” The man looked him full in the face, no flinching in the eyes. “My—our—big moose is there,” said the other, who recognized the name of the Indian Hunting God, and understanding better, felt confident he would soon persuade his man. Tooshalli, he remembered, too, was nominally a Christian. “We’ll follow him at dawn and get the biggest head the world has ever seen. You will be famous,” he added, his temper better in hand again. “Your tribe will honour you. And the white hunters will pay you much money.” “He go there to save himself. I go not.” The other’s anger revived with a leap at this stupid obstinacy. But, in spite of it, he noticed the odd choice of words. He began to realize that nothing now would move the man. At the same time he also realized that violence on his part must prove worse than useless. Yet violence was natural to his “dominant” type. “That brute Grimwood” was the way most men spoke of him. “Back at the settlement you’re a Christian, remember,” he tried, in his clumsy way, another line. “And disobedience means hell-fire. You know that!” “I a Christian—at the post,” was the reply, “but out here the Red God rule. Ishtot keep that valley for himself. No Indian hunt there.” It was as though a granite boulder spoke. The savage temper of the Englishman, enforced by the long difficult suppression, rose wickedly into sudden flame. He stood up, kicking his blankets aside. He strode across the dying fire to the Indian’s side. Tooshalli also rose. They faced each other, two humans alone in the wilderness, watched by countless invisible forest eyes. Tooshalli stood motionless, yet as though he expected[119] violence from the foolish, ignorant white-face. “You go alone, Mr. Grimwood.” There was no fear in him. Grimwood choked with rage. His words came forth with difficulty, though he roared them into the silence of the forest: “I pay you, don’t I? You’ll do what I say, not what you say!” His voice woke the echoes. The Indian, arms hanging by his side, gave the old reply. “I go not,” he repeated firmly. It stung the other into uncontrollable fury. The beast then came uppermost; it came out. “You’ve said that once too often, Tooshalli!” and he struck him brutally in the face. The Indian fell, rose to his knees again, collapsed sideways beside the fire, then struggled back into a sitting position. He never once took his eyes from the white man’s face. Beside himself with anger, Grimwood stood over him. “Is that enough? Will you obey me now?” he shouted. “I go not,” came the thick reply, blood streaming from his mouth. The eyes had no flinching in them. “That valley Ishtot keep. Ishtot see us now. He see you.” The last words he uttered with strange, almost uncanny emphasis. Grimwood, arm raised, fist clenched, about to repeat his terrible assault, paused suddenly. His arm sank to his side. What exactly stopped him he could never say. For one thing, he feared his own anger, feared that if he let himself go he would not stop till he had killed—committed murder. He knew his own fearful temper and stood afraid of it. Yet it was not only that. The calm firmness of the Redskin, his courage under pain, and something in the fixed and burning eyes arrested him. Was it also something in the words he had used—“Ishtot see you”—that stung him into a queer caution midway in his violence? He could not say. He only knew that a momentary[120] sense of awe came over him. He became unpleasantly aware of the enveloping forest, so still, listening in a kind of impenetrable, remorseless silence. This lonely wilderness, looking silently upon what might easily prove murder, laid a faint, inexplicable chill upon his raging blood. The hand dropped slowly to his side again, the fist unclenched itself, his breath came more evenly. “Look you here,” he said, adopting without knowing it the local way of speech. “I ain’t a bad man, though your going-on do make a man damned tired. I’ll give you another chance.” His voice was sullen, but a new note in it surprised even himself. “I’ll do that. You can have the night to think it over, Tooshalli—see? Talk it over with your——” He did not finish the sentence. Somehow the name of the Redskin God refused to pass his lips. He turned away, flung himself into his blankets, and in less than ten minutes, exhausted as much by his anger as by the day’s hard going, he was sound asleep. The Indian, crouching beside the dying fire, had said nothing. Night held the woods, the sky was thick with stars, the life of the forest went about its business quietly, with that wondrous skill which millions of years have perfected. The Redskin, so close to this skill that he instinctively used and borrowed from it, was silent, alert and wise, his outline as inconspicuous as though he merged, like his four-footed teachers, into the mass of the surrounding bush. He moved perhaps, yet nothing knew he moved. His wisdom, derived from that eternal, ancient mother who from infinite experience makes no mistakes, did not fail him. His soft tread made no sound; his breathing, as his weight, was calculated. The stars observed him, but they did not tell; the light air knew his whereabouts, yet without betrayal.... The chill dawn gleamed at length between the trees,[121] lighting the pale ashes of an extinguished fire, also of a bulky, obvious form beneath a blanket. The form moved clumsily. The cold was penetrating. And that bulky form now moved because a dream had come to trouble it. A dark figure stole across its confused field of vision. The form started, but it did not wake. The figure spoke: “Take this,” it whispered, handing a little stick, curiously carved. “It is the totem of great Ishtot. In the valley all memory of the White Gods will leave you. Call upon Ishtot.... Call on Him if you dare”; and the dark figure glided away out of the dream and out of all remembrance.... 2 The first thing Grimwood noticed when he woke was that Tooshalli was not there. No fire burned, no tea was ready. He felt exceedingly annoyed. He glared about him, then got up with a curse to make the fire. His mind seemed confused and troubled. At first he only realized one thing clearly—his guide had left him in the night. It was very cold. He lit the wood with difficulty and made his tea, and the actual world came gradually back to him. The Red Indian had gone; perhaps the blow, perhaps the superstitious terror, perhaps both, had driven him away. He was alone, that was the outstanding fact. For anything beyond outstanding facts, Grimwood felt little interest. Imaginative speculation was beyond his compass. Close to the brute creation, it seemed, his nature lay. It was while packing his blankets—he did it automatically, a dull, vicious resentment in him—that his fingers struck a bit of wood that he was about to throw away when its unusual shape caught his attention suddenly. His odd dream came back then. But was it a dream? The bit of wood was undoubtedly a totem stick.[122] He examined it. He paid it more attention than he meant to, wished to. Yes, it was unquestionably a totem stick. The dream, then, was not a dream. Tooshalli had quit, but, following with Redskin faithfulness some code of his own, had left him the means of safety. He chuckled sourly, but thrust the stick inside his belt. “One never knows,” he mumbled to himself. He faced the situation squarely. He was alone in the wilderness. His capable, experienced woodsman had deserted him. The situation was serious. What should he do? A weakling would certainly retrace his steps, following the track they had made, afraid to be left alone in this vast hinterland of pathless forest. But Grimwood was of another build. Alarmed he might be, but he would not give in. He had the defects of his own qualities. The brutality of his nature argued force. He was determined and a sportsman. He would go on. And ten minutes after breakfast, having first made a cache of what provisions were left over, he was on his way—down across the ridge and into the mysterious valley, the Valley of the Beasts. It looked, in the morning sunlight, entrancing. The trees closed in behind him, but he did not notice. It led him on.... He followed the track of the gigantic moose he meant to kill, and the sweet, delicious sunshine helped him. The air was like wine, the seductive spoor of the great beast, with here and there a faint splash of blood on leaves or ground, lay forever just before his eyes. He found the valley, though the actual word did not occur to him, enticing; more and more he noticed the beauty, the desolate grandeur of the mighty spruce and hemlock, the splendour of the granite bluffs which in places rose above the forest and caught the sun.... The valley was deeper, vaster than he had imagined. He felt safe, at home in it, though, again these actual terms did not occur to him.... Here he could hide for ever and find peace.... He became[123] aware of a new quality in the deep loneliness. The scenery for the first time in his life appealed to him, and the form of the appeal was curious—he felt the comfort of it. For a man of his habit, this was odd, yet the new sensations stole over him so gently, their approach so gradual, that they were first recognized by his consciousness indirectly. They had already established themselves in him before he noticed them; and the indirectness took this form—that the passion of the chase gave place to an interest in the valley itself. The lust of the hunt, the fierce desire to find and kill, the keen wish, in a word, to see his quarry within range, to aim, to fire, to witness the natural consummation of the long expedition—these had all become measurably less, while the effect of the valley upon him had increased in strength. There was a welcome about it that he did not understand. The change was singular, yet, oddly enough, it did not occur to him as singular; it was unnatural, yet it did not strike him so. To a dull mind of his unobservant, unanalytical type, a change had to be marked and dramatic before he noticed it; something in the nature of a shock must accompany it for him to recognize it had happened. And there had been no shock. The spoor of the great moose was much cleaner, now that he caught up with the animal that made it; the blood more frequent; he had noticed the spot where it had rested, its huge body leaving a marked imprint on the soft ground; where it had reached up to eat the leaves of saplings here and there was also visible; he had come undoubtedly very near to it, and any minute now might see its great bulk within range of an easy shot. Yet his ardour had somehow lessened. He first realized this change in himself when it suddenly occurred to him that the animal itself had grown less cautious. It must scent him easily now, since a moose, its sight being indifferent, depends chiefly for its safety upon its unusually keen sense of smell, and the wind came[124] from behind him. This now struck him as decidedly uncommon: the moose itself was obviously careless of his close approach. It felt no fear. It was this inexplicable alteration in the animal’s behaviour that made him recognize, at last, the alteration in his own. He had followed it now for a couple of hours and had descended some eight hundred to a thousand feet; the trees were thinner and more sparsely placed; there were open, park-like places where silver birch, sumach and maple splashed their blazing colours; and a crystal stream, broken by many waterfalls, foamed past towards the bed of the great valley, yet another thousand feet below. By a quiet pool against some over-arching rocks, the moose had evidently paused to drink, paused at its leisure, moreover. Grimwood, rising from a close examination of the direction the creature had taken after drinking—the hoof-marks were fresh and very distinct in the marshy ground about the pool—looked suddenly straight into the great creature’s eyes. It was not twenty yards from where he stood, yet he had been standing on that spot for at least ten minutes, caught by the wonder and loneliness of the scene. The moose, therefore, had been close beside him all this time. It had been calmly drinking, undisturbed by his presence, unafraid. The shock came now, the shock that woke his heavy nature into realization. For some seconds, probably for minutes, he stood rooted to the ground, motionless, hardly breathing. He stared as though he saw a vision. The animal’s head was lowered, but turned obliquely somewhat, so that the eyes, placed sideways in its great head, could see him properly; its immense proboscis hung as though stuffed upon an English wall; he saw the fore-feet planted wide apart, the slope of the enormous shoulders dropping back towards the fine hind-quarters and lean flanks. It was a magnificent bull. The horns and head justified his wildest expectations, they were superb, a record specimen, and a phrase—where had he[125] heard it?—ran vaguely, as from far distance, through his mind: “the biggest moose in the world.” There was the extraordinary fact, however, that he did not shoot; nor feel the wish to shoot. The familiar instinct, so strong hitherto in his blood, made no sign; the desire to kill apparently had left him. To raise his rifle, aim and fire had become suddenly an absolute impossibility. He did not move. The animal and the human stared into each other’s eyes for a length of time whose interval he could not measure. Then came a soft noise close beside him: the rifle had slipped from his grasp and fallen with a thud into the mossy earth at his feet. And the moose, for the first time now, was moving. With slow, easy stride, its great weight causing a squelching sound as the feet drew out of the moist ground, it came towards him, the bulk of the shoulders giving it an appearance of swaying like a ship at sea. It reached his side, it almost touched him, the magnificent head bent low, the spread of the gigantic horns lay beneath his very eyes. He could have patted, stroked it. He saw, with a touch of pity, that blood trickled from a sore in its left shoulder, matting the thick hair. It sniffed the fallen rifle. Then, lifting its head and shoulders again, it sniffed the air, this time with an audible sound that shook from Grimwood’s mind the last possibility that he witnessed a vision or dreamed a dream. One moment it gazed into his face, its big brown eyes shining and unafraid, then turned abruptly, and swung away at a speed ever rapidly increasing across the park-like spaces till it was lost finally among the dark tangle of undergrowth beyond. And the Englishman’s muscles turned to paper, his paralysis passed, his legs refused to support his weight, and he sank heavily to the ground....[126] 3 It seems he slept, slept long and heavily; he sat up, stretched himself, yawned and rubbed his eyes. The sun had moved across the sky, for the shadows, he saw, now ran from west to east, and they were long shadows. He had slept evidently for hours, and evening was drawing in. He was aware that he felt hungry. In his pouchlike pockets, he had dried meat, sugar, matches, tea, and the little billy that never left him. He would make a fire, boil some tea and eat. But he took no steps to carry out his purpose, he felt disinclined to move, he sat thinking, thinking.... What was he thinking about? He did not know, he could not say exactly; it was more like fugitive pictures that passed across his mind. Who, and where, was he? This was the Valley of the Beasts, that he knew; he felt sure of nothing else. How long had he been here, and where had he come from, and why? The questions did not linger for their answers, almost as though his interest in them was merely automatic. He felt happy, peaceful, unafraid. He looked about him, and the spell of this virgin forest came upon him like a charm; only the sound of falling water, the murmur of wind sighing among innumerable branches, broke the enveloping silence. Overhead, beyond the crests of the towering trees, a cloudless evening sky was paling into transparent orange, opal, mother of pearl. He saw buzzards soaring lazily. A scarlet tanager flashed by. Soon would the owls begin to call and the darkness fall like a sweet black veil and hide all detail, while the stars sparkled in their countless thousands.... A glint of something that shone upon the ground caught his eye—a smooth, polished strip of rounded metal: his rifle. And he started to his feet impulsively, yet not knowing exactly what he meant to do. At the sight of the weapon, something had leaped to life in him, then faded out, died down, and was gone again.[127] “I’m—I’m——” he began muttering to himself, but could not finish what he was about to say. His name had disappeared completely. “I’m in the Valley of the Beasts,” he repeated in place of what he sought but could not find. This fact, that he was in the Valley of the Beasts, seemed the only positive item of knowledge that he had. About the name something known and familiar clung, though the sequence that led up to it he could not trace. Presently, nevertheless, he rose to his feet, advanced a few steps, stooped and picked up the shining metal thing, his rifle. He examined it a moment, a feeling of dread and loathing rising in him, a sensation of almost horror that made him tremble, then, with a convulsive movement that betrayed an intense reaction of some sort he could not comprehend, he flung the thing far from him into the foaming torrent. He saw the splash it made, he also saw that same instant a large grizzly bear swing heavily along the bank not a dozen yards from where he stood. It, too, heard the splash, for it started, turned, paused a second, then changed its direction and came towards him. It came up close. Its fur brushed his body. It examined him leisurely, as the moose had done, sniffed, half rose upon its terrible hind legs, opened its mouth so that red tongue and gleaming teeth were plainly visible, then flopped back upon all fours again with a deep growling that yet had no anger in it, and swung off at a quick trot back to the bank of the torrent. He had felt its hot breath upon his face, but he had felt no fear. The monster was puzzled but not hostile. It disappeared. “They know not——” he sought for the word “man,” but could not find it. “They have never been hunted.” The words ran through his mind, if perhaps he was not entirely certain of their meaning; they rose, as it were, automatically; a familiar sound lay in them somewhere. At the same time there rose feelings in him that were equally, though in another way, familiar and quite natural,[128] feelings he had once known intimately but long since laid aside. What were they? What was their origin? They seemed distant as the stars, yet were actually in his body, in his blood and nerves, part and parcel of his flesh. Long, long ago.... Oh, how long, how long? Thinking was difficult; feeling was what he most easily and naturally managed. He could not think for long; feeling rose up and drowned the effort quickly. That huge and awful bear—not a nerve, not a muscle quivered in him as its acrid smell rose to his nostrils, its fur brushed down his legs. Yet he was aware that somewhere there was danger, though not here. Somewhere there was attack, hostility, wicked and calculated plans against him—as against that splendid, roaming animal that had sniffed, examined, then gone its own way, satisfied. Yes, active attack, hostility and careful, cruel plans against his safety, but—not here. Here he was safe, secure, at peace; here he was happy; here he could roam at will, no eye cast sideways into forest depths, no ear pricked high to catch sounds not explained, no nostrils quivering to scent alarm. He felt this, but he did not think it. He felt hungry, thirsty too. Something prompted him now at last to act. His billy lay at his feet, and he picked it up; the matches—he carried them in a metal case whose screw top kept out all moisture—were in his hand. Gathering a few dry twigs, he stooped to light them, then suddenly drew back with the first touch of fear he had yet known. Fire! What was fire? The idea was repugnant to him, it was impossible, he was afraid of fire. He flung the metal case after the rifle and saw it gleam in the last rays of sunset, then sink with a little splash beneath the water. Glancing down at his billy, he realized next that he could not make use of it either, nor of the dark dry dusty stuff he had meant to boil in water. He felt no repugnance, certainly no fear, in connexion with these[129] things, only he could not handle them, he did not need them, he had forgotten, yes, “forgotten,” what they meant exactly. This strange forgetfulness was increasing in him rapidly, becoming more and more complete with every minute. Yet his thirst must be quenched. The next moment he found himself at the water’s edge; he stooped to fill his billy; paused, hesitated, examined the rushing water, then abruptly moved a few feet higher up the stream, leaving the metal can behind him. His handling of it had been oddly clumsy, his gestures awkward, even unnatural. He now flung himself down with an easy, simple motion of his entire body, lowered his face to a quiet pool he had found, and drank his fill of the cool, refreshing liquid. But, though unaware of the fact, he did not drink. He lapped. Then, crouching where he was, he ate the meat and sugar from his pockets, lapped more water, moved back a short distance again into the dry ground beneath the trees, but moved this time without rising to his feet, curled his body into a comfortable position and closed his eyes again to sleep.... No single question now raised its head in him. He felt contentment, satisfaction only.... He stirred, shook himself, opened half an eye and saw, as he had felt already in slumber, that he was not alone. In the park-like spaces in front of him, as in the shadowed fringe of the trees at his back, there was sound and movement, the sound of stealthy feet, the movement of innumerable dark bodies. There was the pad and tread of animals, the stir of backs, of smooth and shaggy beasts, in countless numbers. Upon this host fell the light of a half moon sailing high in a cloudless sky; the gleam of stars, sparkling in the clear night air like diamonds, shone reflected in hundreds of ever-shifting eyes, most of them but a few feet above the ground. The whole valley was alive. He sat upon his haunches, staring, staring, but staring in wonder, not in fear, though the foremost of the great[130] host were so near that he could have stretched an arm and touched them. It was an ever-moving, ever-shifting throng he gazed at, spell-bound, in the pale light of moon and stars, now fading slowly towards the approaching dawn. And the smell of the forest itself was not sweeter to him in that moment than the mingled perfume, raw, pungent, acrid, of this furry host of beautiful wild animals that moved like a sea, with a strange murmuring, too, like sea, as the myriad feet and bodies passed to and fro together. Nor was the gleam of the starry, phosphorescent eyes less pleasantly friendly than those happy lamps that light home-lost wanderers to cosy rooms and safety. Through the wild army, in a word, poured to him the deep comfort of the entire valley, a comfort which held both the sweetness of invitation and the welcome of some magical home-coming. No thoughts came to him, but feeling rose in a tide of wonder and acceptance. He was in his rightful place. His nature had come home. There was this dim, vague consciousness in him that after long, futile straying in another place where uncongenial conditions had forced him to be unnatural and therefore terrible, he had returned at last where he belonged. Here, in the Valley of the Beasts, he had found peace, security and happiness. He would be—he was at last—himself. It was a marvellous, even a magical, scene he watched, his nerves at highest tension yet quite steady, his senses exquisitely alert, yet no uneasiness in the full, accurate reports they furnished. Strong as some deep flood-tide, yet dim, as with untold time and distance, rose over him the spell of long-forgotten memory of a state where he was content and happy, where he was natural. The outlines, as it were, of mighty, primitive pictures, flashed before him, yet were gone again before the detail was filled in. He watched the great army of the animals, they were all about him now; he crouched upon his haunches in the[131] centre of an ever-moving circle of wild forest life. Great timber wolves he saw pass to and fro, loping past him with long stride and graceful swing; their red tongues lolling out; they swarmed in hundreds. Behind, yet mingling freely with them, rolled the huge grizzlies, not clumsy as their uncouth bodies promised, but swiftly, lightly, easily, their half tumbling gait masking agility and speed. They gambolled, sometimes they rose and stood half upright, they were comely in their mass and power, they rolled past him so close that he could touch them. And the black bear and the brown went with them, bears beyond counting, monsters and little ones, a splendid multitude. Beyond them, yet only a little further back, where the park-like spaces made free movement easier, rose a sea of horns and antlers like a miniature forest in the silvery moonlight. The immense tribe of deer gathered in vast throngs beneath the starlit sky. Moose and caribou, he saw, the mighty wapiti, and the smaller deer in their crowding thousands. He heard the sound of meeting horns, the tread of innumerable hoofs, the occasional pawing of the ground as the bigger creatures manœuvred for more space about them. A wolf, he saw, was licking gently at the shoulder of a great bull-moose that had been injured. And the tide receded, advanced again, once more receded, rising and falling like a living sea whose waves were animal shapes, the inhabitants of the Valley of the Beasts. Beneath the quiet moonlight they swayed to and fro before him. They watched him, knew him, recognized him. They made him welcome. He was aware, moreover, of a world of smaller life that formed an under-sea, as it were, numerous under-currents rather, running in and out between the great upright legs of the larger creatures. These, though he could not see them clearly, covered the earth, he was aware, in enormous numbers, darting hither and thither, now hiding, now reappearing, too intent upon their busy purposes to pay him[132] attention like their huger comrades, yet ever and anon tumbling against his back, cannoning from his sides, scampering across his legs even, then gone again with a scuttering sound of rapid little feet, and rushing back into the general host beyond. And with this smaller world also he felt at home. How long he sat gazing, happy in himself, secure, satisfied, contented, natural, he could not say, but it was long enough for the desire to mingle with what he saw, to know closer contact, to become one with them all—long enough for this deep blind desire to assert itself, so that at length he began to move from his mossy seat towards them, to move, moreover, as they moved, and not upright on two feet. The moon was lower now, just sinking behind a towering cedar whose ragged crest broke its light into silvery spray. The stars were a little paler too. A line of faint red was visible beyond the heights at the valley’s eastern end. He paused and looked about him, as he advanced slowly, aware that the host already made an opening in their ranks and that the bear even nosed the earth in front, as though to show the way that was easiest for him to follow. Then, suddenly, a lynx leaped past him into the low branches of a hemlock, and he lifted his head to admire its perfect poise. He saw in the same instant the arrival of the birds, the army of the eagles, hawks and buzzards, birds of prey—the awakening flight that just precedes the dawn. He saw the flocks and streaming lines, hiding the whitening stars a moment as they passed with a prodigious whirr of wings. There came the hooting of an owl from the tree immediately overhead where the lynx now crouched, but not maliciously, along its branch. He started. He half rose to an upright position. He knew not why he did so, knew not exactly why he started. But in the attempt to find his new, and, as it now seemed, his unaccustomed balance, one hand fell against his side[133] and came in contact with a hard straight thing that projected awkwardly from his clothing. He pulled it out, feeling it all over with his fingers. It was a little stick. He raised it nearer to his eyes, examined it in the light of dawn now growing swiftly, remembered, or half remembered what it was—and stood stock still. “The totem stick,” he mumbled to himself, yet audibly, finding his speech, and finding another thing—a glint of peering memory—for the first time since entering the valley. A shock like fire ran through his body; he straightened himself, aware that a moment before he had been crawling upon his hands and knees; it seemed that something broke in his brain, lifting a veil, flinging a shutter free. And Memory peered dreadfully through the widening gap. “I’m—I’m Grimwood,” his voice uttered, though below his breath. “Tooshalli’s left me. I’m alone...!” He was aware of a sudden change in the animals surrounding him. A big, grey wolf sat three feet away, glaring into his face; at its side an enormous grizzly swayed itself from one foot to the other; behind it, as if looking over its shoulder, loomed a gigantic wapiti, its horns merged in the shadows of the drooping cedar boughs. But the northern dawn was nearer, the sun already close to the horizon. He saw details with sharp distinctness now. The great bear rose, balancing a moment on its massive hind-quarters, then took a step towards him, its front paws spread like arms. Its wicked head lolled horribly, as a huge bull-moose, lowering its horns as if about to charge, came up with a couple of long strides and joined it. A sudden excitement ran quivering over the entire host; the distant ranks moved in a new, unpleasant way; a thousand heads were lifted, ears were pricked, a forest of ugly muzzles pointed up to the wind. And the Englishman, beside himself suddenly with a sense of ultimate terror that saw no possible escape, stiffened and stood rigid. The horror of his position petrified[134] him. Motionless and silent he faced the awful army of his enemies, while the white light of breaking day added fresh ghastliness to the scene which was the setting for his cruel death in the Valley of the Beasts. Above him crouched the hideous lynx, ready to spring the instant he sought safety in the tree; above it again, he was aware of a thousand talons of steel, fierce hooked beaks of iron, and the angry beating of prodigious wings. He reeled, for the grizzly touched his body with its outstretched paw; the wolf crouched just before its deadly spring; in another second he would have been torn to pieces, crushed, devoured, when terror, operating naturally as ever, released the muscles of his throat and tongue. He shouted with what he believed was his last breath on earth. He called aloud in his frenzy. It was a prayer to whatever gods there be, it was an anguished cry for help to heaven. “Ishtot! Great Ishtot, help me!” his voice rang out, while his hand still clutched the forgotten totem stick. And the Red Heaven heard him. Grimwood that same instant was aware of a presence that, but for his terror of the beasts, must have frightened him into sheer unconsciousness. A gigantic Red Indian stood before him. Yet, while the figure rose close in front of him, causing the birds to settle and the wild animals to crouch quietly where they stood, it rose also from a great distance, for it seemed to fill the entire valley with its influence, its power, its amazing majesty. In some way, moreover, that he could not understand, its vast appearance included the actual valley itself with all its trees, its running streams, its open spaces and its rocky bluffs. These marked its outline, as it were, the outline of a superhuman shape. There was a mighty bow, there was a quiver of enormous arrows, there was this Redskin figure to whom they belonged. Yet the appearance, the outline, the face and figure too—these were the valley; and when the voice became audible,[135] it was the valley itself that uttered the appalling words. It was the voice of trees and wind, and of running, falling water that woke the echoes in the Valley of the Beasts, as, in that same moment, the sun topped the ridge and filled the scene, the outline of the majestic figure too, with a flood of dazzling light: “You have shed blood in this my valley.... I will not save...!” The figure melted away into the sunlit forest, merging with the new-born day. But Grimwood saw close against his face the shining teeth, hot fetid breath passed over his cheeks, a power enveloped his whole body as though a mountain crushed him. He closed his eyes. He fell. A sharp, crackling sound passed through his brain, but already unconscious, he did not hear it. His eyes opened again, and the first thing they took in was—fire. He shrank back instinctively. “It’s all right, old man. We’ll bring you round. Nothing to be frightened about.” He saw the face of Iredale looking down into his own. Behind Iredale stood Tooshalli. His face was swollen. Grimwood remembered the blow. The big man began to cry. “Painful still, is it?” Iredale said sympathetically. “Here, swallow a little more of this. It’ll set you right in no time.” Grimwood gulped down the spirit. He made a violent effort to control himself, but was unable to keep the tears back. He felt no pain. It was his heart that ached, though why or wherefore, he had no idea. “I’m all to pieces,” he mumbled, ashamed yet somehow not ashamed. “My nerves are rotten. What’s happened?” There was as yet no memory in him. “You’ve been hugged by a bear, old man. But no bones broken. Tooshalli saved you. He fired in the nick of time—a brave shot, for he might easily have hit you instead of the brute.”[136] “The other brute,” whispered Grimwood, as the whisky worked in him and memory came slowly back. “Where are we?” he asked presently, looking about him. He saw a lake, canoes drawn up on the shore, two tents, and figures moving. Iredale explained matters briefly, then left him to sleep a bit. Tooshalli, it appeared, travelling without rest, had reached Iredale’s camping ground twenty-four hours after leaving his employer. He found it deserted, Iredale and his Indian being on the hunt. When they returned at nightfall, he had explained his presence in his brief native fashion: “He struck me and I quit. He hunt now alone in Ishtot’s Valley of the Beasts. He is dead, I think. I come to tell you.” Iredale and his guide, with Tooshalli as leader, started off then and there, but Grimwood had covered a considerable distance, though leaving an easy track to follow. It was the moose tracks and the blood that chiefly guided them. They came up with him suddenly enough—in the grip of an enormous bear. It was Tooshalli that fired. The Indian lives now in easy circumstances, all his needs cared for, while Grimwood, his benefactor but no longer his employer, has given up hunting. He is a quiet, easy-tempered, almost gentle sort of fellow, and people wonder rather why he hasn’t married. “Just the fellow to make a good father,” is what they say; “so kind, good-natured and affectionate.” Among his pipes, in a glass case over the mantlepiece, hangs a totem stick. He declares it saved his soul, but what he means by the expression he has never quite explained. Algernon Blackwood / 1910 -