We need shelters because of the—”
He paused for a moment and they both pushed their anger away. Then he went on with the safe, changed subject.
“You’ve noticed, haven’t you?”
Jack put down his spear and squatted.
“Noticed what?”
“Well. They’re frightened.”
He rolled over and peered into Jack’s fierce, dirty face.
“I mean the way things are. They dream. You can hear ’em. Have you been awake at night?”
Jack shook his head.
“They talk and scream. The littluns. Even some of the others. As if—”
“As if it wasn’t a good island.”
Astonished at the interruption, they looked up at Simon’s serious face.
“As if,” said Simon, “the beastie, the beastie or the snake-thing, was real. Remember?”
The two older boys flinched when they heard the shameful syllable. Snakes were not mentioned now, were not mentionable.
“As if this wasn’t a good island,” said Ralph slowly. “Yes, that’s right.”
Jack sat up and stretched out his legs.
“They’re batty.”
“Crackers. Remember when we went exploring?” They grinned at each other, remembering the glamour of the first day. Ralph went on.
“So we need shelters as a sort of—”
“Home.”
“That’s right.”
Jack drew up his legs, clasped his knees, and frowned in an effort to attain clarity.
“All the same—in the forest. I mean when you’re hunting, not when you’re getting fruit, of course, but when you’re on your own—”
He paused for a moment, not sure if Ralph would take him seriously.
“Go on.”
“If you’re hunting sometimes you catch yourself feeling as if—” He flushed suddenly.
“There’s nothing in it of course. Just a feeling. But you can feel as if you’re not hunting, but— being hunted, as if something’s behind you all the time in the jungle.”
They were silent again: Simon intent, Ralph incredulous and faintly indignant. He sat up, rubbing one shoulder with a dirty hand.
“Well, I don’t know.”
Jack leapt to his feet and spoke very quickly.
“That’s how you can feel in the forest. Of course there’s nothing in it. Only—only—”
He took a few rapid steps toward the beach, then came back.
“Only I know how they feel. See? That’s all.”
“The best thing we can do is get ourselves rescued.”
Jack had to think for a moment before he could remember what rescue was.
“Rescue? Yes, of course! All the same, I’d like to catch a pig first—” He snatched up his spear and dashed it into the ground. The opaque, mad look came into his eyes again. Ralph looked at him critically through his tangle of fair hair.
“So long as your hunters remember the fire—”
“You and your fire!”
The two boys trotted down the beach, and, turning at the water’s edge, looked back at the pink mountain. The trickle of smoke sketched a chalky line up the solid blue of the sky, wavered high up and faded. Ralph frowned.
“I wonder how far off you could see that.”
“Miles.”
“We don’t make enough smoke.”
The bottom part of the trickle, as though conscious of their gaze, thickened to a creamy blur which crept up the feeble column.
“They’ve put on green branches,” muttered Ralph. “I wonder!” He screwed up his eyes and swung round to search the horizon.
“Got it!”
Jack shouted so loudly that Ralph jumped.
“What? Where? Is it a ship?”
But Jack was pointing to the high declivities that led down from the mountain to the flatter part of the island.
“Of course! They’ll lie up there—they must, when the sun’s too hot—”
Ralph gazed bewildered at his rapt face.
“—they get up high. High up and in the shade, resting during the heat, like cows at home—”
“I thought you saw a ship!”
“We could steal up on one—paint our faces so they wouldn’t see—perhaps surround them and then—”
Indignation took away Ralph’s control.
“I was talking about smoke! Don’t you want to be rescued? All you can talk about is pig, pig, pig!”
“But we want meat!”
“And I work all day with nothing but Simon and you come back and don’t even notice the huts!”
“I was working too—”
“But you like it!” shouted Ralph. “You want to hunt! While I—”
They faced each other on the bright beach, astonished at the rub of feeling. Ralph looked away first, pretending interest in a group of littluns on the sand. From beyond the platform came the shouting of the hunters in the swimming pool. On the end of the platform, Piggy was lying flat, looking down into the brilliant water.
“People don’t help much.”
He wanted to explain how people were never quite what you thought they were.
“Simon. He helps.” He pointed at the shelters.
“All the rest rushed off. He’s done as much as I have. Only—”
“Simon’s always about.”
Ralph stared back to the shelters with Jack by his side.
“Do a bit for you[11],” muttered Jack, “before I have a bathe.”
“Don’t bother.”
But when they reached the shelters Simon was not to be seen. Ralph put his head in the hole, withdrew it, and turned to Jack.
“He’s buzzed off.”
“Got fed up[12],” said Jack, “and gone for a bathe.”
Ralph frowned.
“He’s queer. He’s funny.”
Jack nodded, as much for the sake of agreeing as anything, and by tacit consent they left the shelter and went toward the bathing pool.
“And then,” said Jack, “when I’ve had a bathe and something to eat, I’ll just trek over to the other side of the mountain and see if I can see any traces. Coming?”
“But the sun’s nearly set!”
“I might have time—”
They walked along, two continents of experience and feeling, unable to communicate.
“If I could only get a pig!”
“I’ll come back and go on with the shelter.”
They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate. All the warm salt water of the bathing pool and the shouting and splashing and laughing were only just sufficient to bring them together again.
* * *
Simon