It was like talking out
loud in church, or in some place where it was not lawful, perhaps not
quite _safe_, to be overheard. The eeriness of this lonely island, set among a million willows, swept
by a hurricane, and surrounded by hurrying deep waters, touched us
both, I fancy. Untrodden by man, almost unknown to man, it lay there
beneath the moon, remote from human influence, on the frontier of
another world, an alien world, a world tenanted by willows only and the
souls of willows. And we, in our rashness, had dared to invade it, even
to make use of it! Something more than the power of its mystery stirred
in me as I lay on the sand, feet to fire, and peered up through the
leaves at the stars. For the last time I rose to get firewood. “When this has burnt up,” I said firmly, “I shall turn in,” and my
companion watched me lazily as I moved off into the surrounding
shadows. For an unimaginative man I thought he seemed unusually receptive that
night, unusually open to suggestion of things other than sensory. He
too was touched by the beauty and loneliness of the place. I was not
altogether pleased, I remember, to recognize this slight change in him,
and instead of immediately collecting sticks, I made my way to the far
point of the island where the moonlight on plain and river could be
seen to better advantage. The desire to be alone had come suddenly upon
me; my former dread returned in force; there was a vague feeling in me
I wished to face and probe to the bottom. When I reached the point of sand jutting out among the waves, the spell
of the place descended upon me with a positive shock. No mere “scenery”
could have produced such an effect. There was something more here,
something to alarm. I gazed across the waste of wild waters; I watched the whispering
willows; I heard the ceaseless beating of the tireless wind; and, one
and all, each in its own way, stirred in me this sensation of a strange
distress. But the _willows_ especially; for ever they went on
chattering and talking among themselves, laughing a little, shrilly
crying out, sometimes sighing—but what it was they made so much to-do
about belonged to the secret life of the great plain they inhabited. And it was utterly alien to the world I knew, or to that of the wild
yet kindly elements. They made me think of a host of beings from
another plane of life, another evolution altogether, perhaps, all
discussing a mystery known only to themselves. I watched them moving
busily together, oddly shaking their big bushy heads, twirling their
myriad leaves even when there was no wind. They moved of their own will
as though alive, and they touched, by some incalculable method, my own
keen sense of the _horrible_. There they stood in the moonlight, like a vast army surrounding our
camp, shaking their innumerable silver spears defiantly, formed all
ready for an attack. The psychology of places, for some imaginations at least, is very
vivid; for the wanderer, especially, camps have their “note” either of
welcome or rejection. At first it may not always be apparent, because
the busy preparations of tent and cooking prevent, but with the first
pause—after supper usually—it comes and announces itself. And the note
of this willow-camp now became unmistakably plain to me; we were
interlopers, trespassers; we were not welcomed. The sense of
unfamiliarity grew upon me as I stood there watching. We touched the
frontier of a region where our presence was resented. For a night’s
lodging we might perhaps be tolerated; but for a prolonged and
inquisitive stay—No! by all the gods of the trees and wilderness, no! We were the first human influences upon this island, and we were not
wanted. _The willows were against us_. Strange thoughts like these, bizarre fancies, borne I know not whence,
found lodgment in my mind as I stood listening. What, I thought, if,
after all, these crouching willows proved to be alive; if suddenly they
should rise up, like a swarm of living creatures, marshaled by the gods
whose territory we had invaded, sweep towards us off the vast swamps,
booming overhead in the night—and then _settle down!_ As I looked it
was so easy to imagine they actually moved, crept nearer, retreated a
little, huddled together in masses, hostile, waiting for the great wind
that should finally start them a-running. I could have sworn their
aspect changed a little, and their ranks deepened and pressed more
closely together. The melancholy shrill cry of a night-bird sounded overhead, and
suddenly I nearly lost my balance as the piece of bank I stood upon
fell with a great splash into the river, undermined by the flood. I
stepped back just in time, and went on hunting for firewood again, half
laughing at the odd fancies that crowded so thickly into my mind and
cast their spell upon me. I recalled the Swede’s remark about moving on
next day, and I was just thinking that I fully agreed with him, when I
turned with a start and saw the subject of my thoughts standing
immediately in front of me. He was quite close. The roar of the
elements had covered his approach. “You’ve been gone so long,” he shouted above the wind, “I thought
something must have happened to you.”

But there was that in his tone, and a certain look in his face as well,
that conveyed to me more than his usual words, and in a flash I
understood the real reason for his coming. It was because the spell of
the place had entered his soul too, and he did not like being alone. “River still rising,” he cried, pointing to the flood in the moonlight,
“and the wind’s simply awful.”

He always said the same things, but it was the cry for companionship
that gave the real importance to his words. “Lucky,” I cried back, “our tent’s in the hollow. I think it’ll hold
all right.” I added something about the difficulty of finding wood, in
order to explain my absence, but the wind caught my words and flung
them across the river, so that he did not hear, but just looked at me
through the branches, nodding his head. “Lucky if we get away without disaster!” he shouted, or words to that
effect; and I remember feeling half angry with him for putting the
thought into words, for it was exactly what I felt myself. There was
disaster impending somewhere, and the sense of presentiment lay
unpleasantly upon me. We went back to the fire and made a final blaze, poking it up with our
feet. We took a last look round. But for the wind the heat would have
been unpleasant. I put this thought into words, and I remember my
friend’s reply struck me oddly: that he would rather have the heat, the
ordinary July weather, than this “diabolical wind.”

Everything was snug for the night; the canoe lying turned over beside
the tent, with both yellow paddles beneath her; the provision sack
hanging from a willow-stem, and the washed-up dishes removed to a safe
distance from the fire, all ready for the morning meal. We smothered the embers of the fire with sand, and then turned in.