Lord of the Flies - William Golding [63]
"We've got to keep it going."
Eric flung himself down.
"I'm too tired. And what's the good?"
"Eric!" cried Ralph in a shocked voice. "Don't talk like that!"
Sam knelt by Eric.
"Well―what is the good?"
Ralph tried indignantly to remember. There was something good about a fire. Something overwhelmingly good.
"Ralph's told you often enough," said Piggy moodily. "How else are we going to be rescued?"
"Of course! If we don't make smoke―"
He squatted before them in the crowding dusk.
"Don't you understand? What's the good of wishing for radios and boats?"
He held out his hand and twisted the fingers into a fist. "There's only one thing we can do to get out of this mess. Anyone can play at hunting, anyone can get us meat―"
He looked from face to face. Then, at the moment of greatest passion and conviction, that curtain flapped in his head and he forgot what he had been driving at. He knelt there, his fist clenched, gazing solemnly from one to the other. Then the curtain whisked back.
"Oh, yes. So we've got to make smoke; and more smoke―"
"But we can't keep it going! Look at that!"
The fire was dying on them.
"Two to mind the fire," said Ralph, half to himself, "that's twelve hours a day."
"We can't get any more wood, Ralph―"
"―not in the dark―"
"―not at night―"
"We can light it every morning," said Piggy. "Nobody ain't going to see smoke in the dark."
Sam nodded vigorously.
"It was different when the fire was―"
"―up there."
Ralph stood up, feeling curiously defenseless with the darkness pressing in.
"Let the fire go then, for tonight."
He led the way to the first shelter, which still stood, though battered. The bed leaves lay within, dry and noisy to the touch. In the next shelter a littlun was talking in his sleep. The four biguns crept into the shelter and burrowed under the leaves. The twins lay together and Ralph and Piggy at the other end. For a while there was the continual creak and rustle of leaves as they tried for comfort.
"Piggy."
"Yeah?"
"All right?"
"S'pose so."
At length, save for an occasional rustle, the shelter was silent. An oblong of blackness relieved with brilliant spangles hung before them and there was the hollow sound of surf on the reef. Ralph settled himself for his nightly game of supposing....
Supposing they could be transported home by jet, then before morning they would land at that big airfield in Wiltshire. They would go by car; no, for things to be perfect they would go by train; all the way down to Devon and take that cottage again. Then at the foot of the garden the wild ponies would come and look over the wall....
Ralph turned restlessly in the leaves. Dartmoor was wild and so were the ponies. But the attraction of wildness had gone.
His mind skated to a consideration of a tamed town where savagery could not set foot. What could be safer than the bus center with its lamps and wheels?
All at once, Ralph was dancing round a lamp standard. There was a bus crawling out of the bus station, a strange bus....
"Ralph! Ralph!"
"What is it?"
"Don't make a noise like that―"
"Sorry."
From the darkness of the further end of the shelter came a dreadful moaning and they shattered the leaves in their fear. Sam and Eric, locked in an embrace, were fighting each other.
"Sam! Sam!"
"Hey―Eric!"
Presently all was quiet again.
Piggy spoke softly to Ralph.
"We got to get out of this."
"What d'you mean?"
"Get rescued."
For the first time that day, and despite the crowding blackness, Ralph sniggered.
"I mean it," whispered Piggy. "If we don't get home soon we'll be barmy."
"Round the bend."
"Bomb happy."
"Crackers;"
Ralph pushed the damp tendrils of hair out of his eyes.
"You write a letter to your auntie."
Piggy considered this solemnly.
"I don't know where she is now. And I haven't got an envelope and a stamp. An' there isn't a mailbox. Or a postman."
The success of his tiny joke overcame Ralph. His sniggers became uncontrollable, his body jumped and twitched.
Piggy rebuked him with dignity.
"I haven't said anything all that funny."
Ralph continued to snigger though his chest hurt. His twitchings exhausted him till he lay, breathless and woebegone, waiting for the next spasm. During one of these pauses he was ambushed by sleep.