Lord of the Flies - William Golding [55]
"I know that."
Simon discovered that he had spoken aloud. He opened his eyes quickly and there was the head grinning amusedly in the strange daylight, ignoring the flies, the spilled guts, even ignoring the indignity of being spiked on a stick.
He looked away, licking his dry lips.
A gift for the beast. Might not the beast come for it? The head, he thought, appeared to agree with him. Run away, said the head silently, go back to the others. It was a joke really―why should you bother? You were just wrong, that's all. A little headache, something you ate, perhaps. Go back, child, said the head silently.
Simon looked up, feeling the weight of his wet hair, and gazed at the sky. Up there, for once, were clouds, great bulging towers that sprouted away over the island, grey and cream and copper-colored. The clouds were sitting on the land; they squeezed, produced moment by moment this close, tormenting heat. Even the butterflies deserted the open space where the obscene thing grinned and dripped. Simon lowered his head, carefully keeping his eyes shut, then sheltered them with his hand. There were no shadows under the trees but everywhere a pearly stillness, so that what was real seemed illusive and without definition. The pile of guts was a black blob of flies that buzzed like a saw. After a while these flies found Simon. Gorged, they alighted by his runnels of sweat and drank. They tickled under his nostrils and played leapfrog on his thighs. They were black and iridescent green and without number; and in front of Simon, the Lord of the Flies hung on his stick and grinned. At last Simon gave up and looked back; saw the white teeth and dim eyes, the blood―and his gaze was held by that ancient, inescapable recognition. In Simon's right temple, a pulse began to beat on the brain.
Ralph and Piggy lay in the sand, gazing at the fire and idly flicking pebbles into its smokeless heart.
"That branch is gone."
"Where's Samneric?"
"We ought to get some more wood. We're out of green branches."
Ralph sighed and stood up. There were no shadows under the palms on the platform; only this strange light that seemed to come from everywhere at once. High up among the bulging clouds thunder went off like a gun.
"We're going to get buckets of rain."
"What about the fire?"
Ralph trotted into the forest and returned with a wide spray of green which he dumped on the fire. The branch crackled, the leaves curled and the yellow smoke expanded.
Piggy made an aimless little pattern in the sand with his fingers.
"Trouble is, we haven't got enough people for a fire. You got to treat Samnenc as one turn. They do everything together―"
"Of course."
"Well, that isn't fair. Don't you see? They ought to do two turns."
Ralph considered this and understood. He was vexed to find how little he thought like a grownup and sighed again. The island was getting worse and worse.
Piggy looked at the fire.
"You'll want another green branch soon."
Ralph rolled over.
"Piggy. What are we going to do?"
"Just have to get on without 'em."
"But―the fire."
He frowned at the black and white mess in which lay the unburnt ends of branches. He tried to formulate.
"I'm scared."
He saw Piggy look up; and blundered on.
"Not of the beast. I mean I'm scared of that too. But nobody else understands about the fire. If someone threw you a rope when you were drowning. If a doctor said take this because if you don't take it you'll die―you would, wouldn't you? I mean?"
"'Course I would."
"Can't they see? Can't they understand? Without the smoke signal we'll die here? Look at that!"
A wave of heated air trembled above the ashes but without a trace of smoke.
"We can't keep one fire going. And they don't care. And what's more―" He looked intensely into Piggy's streaming face.
"What's more, I don't sometimes. Supposing I got like the others―not caring. What 'ud become of us?"
Piggy took off his glasses, deeply troubled.
"I dunno, Ralph. We just got to go on, that's all. That's what grownups would