# In the Dwellings of the Wilderness/Chapter V

CHAPTER V
A Touch of the Sun
day later Ibraheem reported that Moussa had taken himself off. Ibraheem was nervous, and showed it. The men were getting restless, he averred; he himself would be glad when the work in that place was finished. It was an unholy spot. Furthermore, he declared that he had seen Moussa the night before, and Moussa had behaved peculiarly, had talked of rose gardens and strange perfumes to which no man could give a name, and had said that if he saw the Woman again he was ​determined to follow her. Wherefore Moussa was undoubtedly mad, Ibraheem said with great solemnity, for Lord-God knew there were no women around that camp, neither was there any perfume save the reek of the cattle-pen. Oh, yes—Moussa was mad, most mad, there was no doubt whatever about that. In consequence of this, Merritt ordered a search made for concealed liquor, and found none. The men watched the proceedings in silence. That night there was no singing; men gathered close and slept in bunches of three and four.
Some hours later, Deane, on his way to his tent, stumbled over Holloway, who sprawled upon the ground, chin on hands.
"Look out!" Holloway said mildly, ​not offering to move. "I say, look at that moonrise."
His voice had lost some of its enthusiasm, and sounded tired. Deane, considering that the boy was homesick and perhaps needed bracing up, accepted the implied invitation, and sat down. The moon, climbing over the great Mound of the City, was turning the sky to intense blue-black; the earth to a slumbering sea of hoary light, wrapped in infinite loneliness and peace.
"It's bully," Deane assented unheedingly. Quickly it became plain to him that moonrises, usually conducive to poetic enthusiasms on Holloway's part, to-night held no attraction for him. He, generally brimming over with life and spirits, was suddenly distrait and listless. ​Deane was wondering if by any chance the boy had exposed himself to the sun, when Holloway spoke, with a certain hesitancy and constraint which had the effect of making him appear all at once more than ever boyish.
"Deane, do you know I've been wondering if there could be anything in those fellows' stories, after all? I don't mean any of that rot about a woman, but … I saw something myself to-night."
"Where?" Deane asked with equal seriousness. The darkness hid a smile of amused tolerance on his face.
"Down among the tombs." Holloway's voice was solemn.
"Perhaps a goat got loose," Deane suggested hopefully.
"Oh, you can laugh if you like!" ​Holloway said with unexpected emphasis. "Of course, you'll say next it was one of the men. It might have been, but I'll take my oath it wasn't. Why should they be sneaking 'round there at that hour, when they wouldn't go near the place after dark to save their immortal souls?"
"Why were you there?" Deane queried.
At Holloway's reply, low, and with an odd note of breathlessness in it, he straightened up in the darkness, trying to see the other's face.
"I don't know. I'm—I'm all sorts of a fool, but—I can't keep away from the place somehow. I tell you, Deane, I've been there every night for the last four nights, and I'm afraid as death of it."
​"Then, in Heaven's name, why do you go?" Deane asked amazedly.
"I tell you I can't help it!" Holloway answered with quick impatience. "Before I know it, I'm there. I say, Deane, when people have a touch of the sun, does it make 'em see things that—well, that aren't there, you know?"
"I don't know," Deane said slowly, and stopped, remembering a picture, always with him, of a dim-lit tomb, of a jewelled thing with flaming eyes that crouched upon the floor, of himself, half senseless, dizzy with the dreaded sun-sickness, digging with naked hands at the fallen earth in an agony of idiotic fear.
"Yes, it does," he said decidedly.
Holloway drew a long breath of relief. "Thank Heaven for that! If I hadn't ​that excuse I'd think I'd got 'em, sure enough … What a jolly night this is! like some of the nights we have at Home, in late spring." He stretched his muscular length comfortably, in relaxed content, staring upward at the poising moon. Deane, seeing that he was talking off, in his own way, the vague unrest which had held him, gave him his head, paying not much attention to his idle words. "There's a hill behind the old house," the boyish voice went on. "The moon comes up behind it just as it comes up behind the Mound of the City every night. And there's a big old apple-tree there, and right below is the garden where the violets grow. I've been smelling those violets all day—seems as though I could look down any minute and expect to see ​them growing in the warmth and dampness. Funny thing how a fellow can almost make himself believe he's smelling flowers when there aren't any flowers in a thousand miles, and how the mere remembrance of the perfume will bring things back to him that he'd forgotten long ago. I don't know how I got to imagining all that, but it had quite a curious effect on me; made me want that little old bull-pup of mine as I never thought I'd want anything again in this weary world. I'd give half I've got to have him here now, with his head on my knee; and I don't quite know why, because violets haven't much to do with bull-terriers."
Deane came out of his reverie, conscious only of the fact that Holloway was still speaking.
​"What's that?" he demanded.
"I was just talking about Keno, my dog," said Holloway plaintively. "This moon made me think of the old garden back home, and the violets growing there—I swear I can almost smell 'em now—and one thing and another made me think of that pup of mine. He's about the only one I've got to think of now. Go to sleep again—don't mind me. I wonder if it's one of the phases of this beastly sun-sickness. If it is, I've got a touch, sure."
"Is what one of the phases?" Deane queried sleepily, as Holloway paused, expectant of an answer.
"The—er—smelling perfumes that aren't there and that sort of thing—why, what's the matter?"
​Deane sat up and laid a hand on Holloway's arm and shook him gently.
"Have you been doing that, too?" he demanded. "See here, Bob, have you been doing that, too?"
"Yes, I have, in a sort of a way," Holloway admitted. "I didn't know there was anything to jar you in that. It's part of the regular programme, isn't it?—headache, pain in the back of the neck, red-hot iron band across the eyes, smelling things and seeing things of various sorts. Is it a—a symptom? It must be—what else in thunder could it be? I don't know that I mind it so much; it isn't unpleasant, in a way, but—oh, I don't know! It made me so damnably homesick——"
​He stopped on the word and moved uneasily in the darkness.
"I'm talking rot," he said firmly. "Guess that's a symptom, too. Well, I believe I'll turn in."
He eyed his own tent, standing farthest off, white in the moonlight.
"Better take yourself in hand and get rid of these attacks," Deane advised him kindly. "The sun is not a thing to be treated lightly in these parts, you know."
As Holloway moved away, slowly, he watched him with narrowed eyes. Then he went into his own tent and lighted his lamp. With his leather trunk for desk, he wrote up his notes, and arranged his journal and books of entry; while outside the night deepened and all the camp slumbered.
​Later he put away his papers, and prepared for bed. As he stretched out a hand to extinguish the lamp, he stopped suddenly, head bent, listening intently. On the other side of the wall, close against the canvas, was a small sound as of a heavy body which had brushed against it in rolling over. Deane removed his boots, and went noiselessly to the door. He peered through the flap into the moonlight; abruptly drew back with a quick intake of breath.
"Good Lord!" he muttered. "That boy!… Camping down here in one blanket instead of sleeping decently in his tent … Is the youngster crazy?"
An instant he thought rapidly. He drew on his boots, bestirred himself briskly a moment, making much noise; ​and listened again—then called out in natural tones:
"Hello, Holloway! Not turned in yet? Come in."
And grinned as he heard a confused movement of surprise on the other side of the tent-wall, then a step.
"Come on in," he invited heartily. "Flap's loose"; and bent over his journal assiduously.
Holloway entered, and Deane faced around, levelling a keen glance at him.
"Sure I won't disturb you?" Holloway asked; and at the tone of his voice Deane's glance became keener.
"Not at all," he answered. "Fact is, I'm glad you came. I heard—er—your step passing, and thought I'd get you to come in. Do you happen to remember ​which case the squeeze of the Library inscription was packed in?"
"I—don't believe I do," said Holloway. He dropped down on a camp-stool. "Deane, can't you give me something to make me sleep? I'm—I'm no good at all to-night. It's the sun—of course it's the sun."
Deane looked at him, frowning a little with perplexity. He sat tensely, gripping the edge of the camp-stool with both hands. His face was pale, his fair hair wildly rumpled. His jaws were set, but from time to time the corners of his mouth twitched. On one shoulder was a long smear of earth. All at once he turned restive under Deane's eyes.
"Oh, cut it off!" he cried querulously. "It's nothing but the sun, I tell you. If I ​could get one night's sleep I'd be all right."
"I'll give you a dose," Deane said, and went to the medicine chest by the head of his bed. Over his shoulder he added, watching keenly the effect of his words—"Only you'll have to camp down here with me till morning. So that I can watch its effect, you understand."
The change in the boy's face was swift and sharp, but Deane caught it; a look of utter relief, a certain quick relaxing of the tension. Holloway said with eagerness:
"Can I?" and caught himself up to add: "Oh, but I'm afraid it 'll be beastly inconvenient for you."
"Don't let that worry you," Deane returned, and went on with his ​preparations. From their net he took half a dozen limes, and into a tin cup poured cool water from the porous water-jar which hung at the tent door. He squeezed the lime-juice into this, added a scant allowance of sugar and a dash from a blue bottle, and shook the whole up in a mixing-glass.
"That wouldn't hurt an infant," he said with satisfaction. "Human companionship is all the medicine the poor devil wants this night." He turned to Holloway suddenly. "Here, old man," he said—and saw that Holloway jumped at his voice as though he had been shot—"drink it slowly. It will help things along some, I think."
Holloway took the cup, with thanks and high faith in its sleep-inducing ​properties, and sipped docilely. Deane made sundry preparations, whistling softly through his teeth. The lamplight cast grotesque shadows behind him as he moved.
"Now, get yourself to bed as quick as you know how," he ordered. "In ten minutes you'll be asleep and warranted not to dream."
"But where are you going to sleep?" his patient asked, rising.
"Never mind about me," Deane said with decision.
Still docile, Holloway got himself to bed, drawing the blanket to his chin. He gave a long sigh of comfort, as he watched Deane moving to and fro, like a child that feels itself secure against unknown terrors of the dark in the company ​of its elders. Deane rolled himself in his blanket on the floor in a position so that he could keep Holloway in view, tucked his coat under his head as pillow, and started to turn out the lamp. But Holloway sat suddenly bolt upright in the bed, and began to speak rapidly, in a high voice:
"Deane, hold on a minute! I might as well make a clean breast of it. I'll be damned if I impose on you like this. I'm not sick; there's nothing the matter with me except sheer beastly funk. I don't know how you thought you heard me passing outside. The truth of it is, I was curled up in a blanket on the other side of this wall, where I could hear you moving in here and the scratch of your pen. All I wanted was to be within range of ​somebody, where I could hear somebody moving, and know I wasn't alone with It. I knew if I stayed in my tent an hour longer I'd be off down among those tombs again. I was afraid, utterly afraid—and you can guess if it's a pleasant thing to own up to—but 'fore God I don't know what I was afraid of. I didn't intend to come in here and rout you out like this. Just let me have a blanket and a place on the floor—I don't want your bed."
He flung off the blankets and put a foot on the floor. Deane rolled out of his own blanket, sprang to his feet, and forced him back again.
"You stay right where you are, Bob. This business has got on your nerves a bit, that's all. Man alive! don't worry about the bed. Hope you don't think it's ​the first time I've slept out of one! And I'm jolly glad you came to me if you felt like that about it. It's not a good thing for a fellow to be alone when he begins to get floored this way. Now go to sleep, will you?"
Holloway subsided. Deane went back to his corner and lay down. There was a long silence. Unexpectedly Holloway said in matter-of-fact tones from the depths of his blankets:
"I say, this is a hell of a place, isn't it?"