The Siren by Tarleton Collier. With an abrupt jerk, Joe Wilson, from
lying on a cot in a little tent, lifted himself on his elbow in
an attitude of intent. Listening. There was no sound except the hum of
a sleepy breeze through the pines, the sleepier contralto of a mocking bird,
and the purring undertone of rippling water. That's her, he whispered with an
effort. He sat erect and again told himself that's her. All. At
once there came a crackle of words without and sound of thudding footsteps. Joe
flung himself back on the cot and closed his eyes with furious energy, as
the flap of the tent was lifted and the engineer and the doctor peered within.
He's asleep, said the engineer, in a low voice. Hum said
the doctor. He was a wizzened little man with spectacles. Then he let
the flap drop, and his voice came to Joe brusquely through the canvas.
Well, we'll come back. I want to talk to him. He's probably
not very sick, but by God, man, we've got to keep your
men from the water around here, or you'll never finish your railroad. They
were walking away as he spoke, and to Joe the voice seemed to fade.
I tell you polluted fever. Then they were gone, and the sound
of them swallowed up by the ripples of the little creek over the rocks.
With a start, Joe again was erect, his eyes furtive, glancing about
the little canvas chamber. He tiptoed to the flap and lifted it a bare
inch, peering out upon the receding figures of the two men as they asked
beneath the water oak. With no less caution, he crept to the other
end of the tent and stepped through the flap into the open. For a
moment he stood irresolute, his eyes closed, as if he were dizzy.
Keep away from the water, you fool, he whispered. There was no
other sound of life in the woods now, the breeze had died, and
the mocking bird was silent, only the prattle of a nearby stream over its
rocky bed. With a stumbling, nervous stride that was almost a run,
Joe Wilson went toward the sound of the water, and at last he plunged
through a thick clump of willows, and stood stiff, half crouching at the
top of a bank of damp green moss that sloped steeply to the little stream,
with pools like black wells, still and silent, only the silver shallows
between pool wouls rippled with life. At the foot of the bank was a
shell of rock, splotched with green moss, reaching into the stream, barely
an inch above the water. Upon it, Joe's glance rested, as if
held by a power outside himself. He drew back into the willows, his
sunken eyes closed in his pale face. Then with a sudden spring, he
was over the bank and perched upon the rock. Something like a smile lightened
his face, as if with the leap he had settled a troublesome matter.
He sat down as easily and comfortably as he might, his legs doubled,
his hands clasped about his knees, and stared intently at the bleak pool at
his feet. And then, between a closing and an opening of his eyes,
a woman was there where he was looking for her. There was no
sense of suddenness about the apparition. Only when he closed his eyes against dizziness
there was the water and nothing else. When he opened them. An instant
later, she was standing in the midst of the pool, almost where he
could touch her, and it was as if she had been there all the
while. The water reached a little above her ankles. Her legs were bare
to the knees clothed above that, and her body as well, in a
soft, clinging garment of white that seemed a part of her white. Throat
and arms were bare. Her face was alive with a pleasant smile. Her
eyes, of green and gray together were alive and pleasant too. You are
late, she said, There was something of the stream's bright ripple in her
voice. Joe Wilson could only smile and answer. Then his smile faded,
and his face was scornful and somewhat stubborn. He said, and I came
near, not coming at all. I swore I wouldn't, but you came,
she said, still smiling, only to tell you that this is the
last time. Her smile merrier now, was accompanied by a sound that might
have been the gurgle of the little whirlpool in the rapids, or it might
have been a low note of laughter. You didn't mean it then, that
you love me, she chided, coming nearer. It was not by a
step that she moved, or by any perceptible effort. The space between them
all at once was lessened nothing else. Joe had lost his careless air and
posture. He was on his knees, a fury in his words. I
didn't mean it. You can say that I have become less than a man.
I love you so you bring me here every day to do as you
will, and I would die if I didn't come. I love you so
for you. I have broken my word to my friends back there in camp.
And I don't know who you are or what you are. Again that
gentle sound that might have been a sudden swirl of water or her laughter.
Then she was nearer, and her pleasant eyes looked into his mockery in them.
You don't know who I am, she asked softly, And yet I
am yours. The stubborn lines in Joe's face vanished, A quick throb of
blood choked into a gulp. The word he would have spoken, and he
stretched out his arms. She was suddenly beyond his reach. Yours, she
said again, and that she laughed. There was no doubt. This time.
Joe's eyes were hungry. Joe leaned forward upon his stiffened arms and stared
at her like a wistful dog. I don't know who you are, he
whispered. I don't know who you are. I am whoever you want me
to be. She said, I'll call you Sadie. He said, Sadie.
Her lids drooped, veiling her eyes, but their narrow glimmer was keenly
alive. Yes, there is a girl between two words. She was close
before him, at the edge of the rock. I am yours, she
said, in a fierce, low voice. What do you care for any
girl? I am all woman, and you have me. What do you
care for the world? You have me? He felt her breath on his
face. There was warmth and fragrance in it. Her white beauty was greater
than that of the dogwood blossoms showering there through the gloom. Under A sudden
breeze, and a dizziness struck him so that the trees swam before his eyes.
I have you, he repeated, thickly. Raised to his feet,
and the girl, Sadie, she asked, You are Sadie. Only you
I have forgotten. He put out his arms, but she was beyond his
reach. Again, her eyes mysterious. With outstretched arms, he begged her
to return. I love you, he said, for a full breath.
She looked at him gravely. Then we shall see, she said, plunging
her hands into the stream. As she arose, her hands were cupped and
brimming with water. She moved toward him, smiling. Terror gathered in Joe's
white face. Drink, she tempted him. He whispered, and the refusal
seemed to strengthen him, for when she said again, drink, he shouted
no. She dropped her hands and the water went splashing back into the stream.
And smiling still, she came nearer until she was beside him upon the
rock, her wet feet glistening silver upon the greenish brown surface. Her eyes
held fast his wide, frightened stare. Why she asked him, when she
was so close that he was aware of the warmth and fragrance of her person.
He answered her steadily, I will not. That's why I must not.
I have told you I must not every day that I have come here,
and yet I have always drunk this water. It has made me less
than a man. It has made me break my word and my own rules.
Once more, her eyes were grave, You must not, she asked.
Her voice might have been that of the purring shallows. There was no
escaping her gaze, and before it his eyes wavered and shifted. His shoulders
drooped. You will not, the purring voice went on, not for me,
and you say you love me. It is so little, that I
asked. There was a pain in his voice as he cried, don't,
Sadie, I have promised the rule. It was she whose figure drooped now,
and her face that was mournful. But you have broken the rules before
this for me, She murmured. I came to day to say that I
would no more. But it is so little, I asked, and I
am yours. He pleaded, don't With sudden abandon she flung herself against him,
and for the first time, his arms closed about her. She yielded
to his fierce embrace, her head against his breast. You do not love
me, she whispered, Sadie. His arms tightened with his cry, and
the red mist blinded him as he felt her warm, vital body closer against
him. She lifted her face and looked at him. You will, she
asked, smiling, No, he said, almost with a moan. She
kissed him to drink, Only to drink, she said, softly. It
is so little I have given you myself, isn't that something? With one
arm she clung to him as tightly as he held her. The other arm
was free, and with her hand she stroked his face. Her kisses were
hot upon his lips. His eyes were closed, and he swayed with a
dizziness that was mightier than any other he had known. Only to drink,
she said, do you not care for me? And I have given you
myself? What are those men in the camp to gi? They and their
rules? You will not drink? Yet I give you this. Her lips
met his in an eternity of giving and taking. No, he said again,
but his voice quivered and broke with the plain message of surrender. With
a little cry, she knelt at the edge of the pool, her arms
still about him, so that he was forced to kneel with her. She
plunged her hands into the water and lifted them to him with their silver freight.
With an eager, moaning sound. He drank the cool water, and
as he did so, the red mist before his eyes thickened, and his
ears roared with a thunder of blood within. To drink became then his passion,
and he cupped his own hands, filled them with water, and drank.
For a moment the mist cleared and the roaring eased. He saw that
he was alone on the rock. Sadie, he called. The answering sound
might have been only the prattle of the stream, or it might have been
low laughter. The thought came to him that perhaps she had fled to the
bank, and with prodigious labor, he clambered up the tiny slope. She
was not there. He parted the soft blown curtain of the willows, and
through the fronds that were so light a bird might have flown through them.
He gasped with the effort it cost him. Staggering into the sunlight beyond the
fringe of trees, he found that she was not there either. He tried
to run, but only stumbled, lifting himself painfully to stagger onward. Then
the midst of his delirium closed upon him, and the blood at his ear.
Drums pounded, and the tumult came out of the earth and sky to
overwhelm him. The doctor and the engineer going fishing stumbled upon his crumpled form.
An hour later, the former wizzened spectacled little man bent over him and
studied him with eyes that seemed to see everything. He studied the young fellow's
pulse, loosened his shirt, stared into the pupils of his eyes. At
last, he turned to the other, frowning, and said, fever,
and maybe that damned typhoid. He's the sickest man I ever saw. Then
his voice rose with a flare of anger. Say can't you keep these fools
away from this water? He asked, there's death in it. The End
of the Siren by Tarlton Collier