Speaker 1: The Siren by Tarlton 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 wizened 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 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. Yes, 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 no, oh,
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 ask. 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 blighted 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 you? 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 a wizened, 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
damn 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