Thirty Strange StoriesWells, H. G. (Herbert George)
Science
Thirty Strange Stories
Wells, H. G. (Herbert George)
Fantasy fiction, English; Science fiction, English; Short stories, English
“He gave me this in the face.” The man indicated his scar. “Then he
kicked me. It was like a cart horse. I got up, and seeing he hadn’t
finished I started off full tilt with my arms doubled up over my face.
But he ran on those gawky legs of his faster than a race horse, and kept
landing out at me with sledge-hammer kicks, and bringing his pickaxe
down on the back of my head. I made for the lagoon, and went in up to my
neck. He stopped at the water, for he hated getting his feet wet, and
began to make a shindy, something like a peacock’s, only hoarser. He
started strutting up and down the beach. I’ll admit I felt small to see
this blessed fossil lording it there. And my head and face were all
bleeding, and—well, my body just one jelly of bruises.
“I decided to swim across the lagoon and leave him alone for a bit,
until the affair blew over. I shinned up the tallest palm-tree and sat
there thinking of it all. I don’t suppose I ever felt so hurt by
anything before or since. It was the brutal ingratitude of the creature.
I’d been more than a brother to him. I’d hatched him. Educated him. A
great, gawky, out-of-date bird! And me a human being—heir of the ages
and all that.
“I thought after a time he’d begin to see things in that light himself,
and feel a little sorry for his behaviour. I thought if I was to catch
some nice little bits of fish, perhaps, and go to him presently in a
casual kind of way, and offer them to him, he might do the sensible
thing. It took me some time to learn how unforgiving and cantankerous an
extinct bird can be. Malice!
“I won’t tell you all the little devices I tried to get that bird round
again. I simply can’t. It makes my cheek burn with shame even now to
think of the snubs and buffets I had from this infernal curiosity. I
tried violence. I chucked lumps of coral at him from a safe distance,
but he only swallowed them. I shied my open knife at him and almost lost
it, though it was too big for him to swallow. I tried starving him out
and struck fishing, but he took to picking along the beach at low water
after worms, and rubbed along on that. Half my time I spent up to my
neck in the lagoon, and the rest up the palm-trees. One of them was
scarcely high enough, and when he caught me up it he had a regular Bank
Holiday with the calves of my legs. It got unbearable. I don’t know if
you have ever tried sleeping up a palm-tree. It gave me the most
horrible nightmares. Think of the shame of it too! Here was this extinct
animal mooning about my island like a sulky duke, and me not allowed to
rest the sole of my foot on the place. I used to cry with weariness and
vexation. I told him straight that I didn’t mean to be chased about a
desert island by any damned anachronisms. I told him to go and peck a
navigator of his own age. But he only snapped his beak at me. Great ugly
bird—all legs and neck!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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