Цвет из иных миров

           Theymightbeevenqueererifcitymenandcollegechemistscouldbeinterestedenoughtoanalysethewaterfromthatdisusedwell,orthegreydustthatnowindseemsevertodisperse.Botanists,too,oughttostudythestuntedfloraonthebordersofthatspot,fortheymightshedlightonthecountrynotionthattheblightisspreading—littlebylittle,perhapsaninchayear.Peoplesaythecolouroftheneighbouringherbageisnotquiterightinthespring,andthatwildthingsleavequeerprintsinthelightwintersnow.Snowneverseemsquitesoheavyontheblastedheathasitiselsewhere.Horses—thefewthatareleftinthismotorage—growskittishinthesilentvalley;andhunterscannotdependontheirdogstoonearthesplotchofgreyishdust.

           Theysaythementalinfluencesareverybad,too.NumberswentqueerintheyearsafterNahum’staking,andalwaystheylackedthepowertogetaway.Thenthestronger-mindedfolkalllefttheregion,andonlytheforeignerstriedtoliveinthecrumblingoldhomesteads.Theycouldnotstay,though;andonesometimeswonderswhatinsightbeyondourstheirwild,weirdstoresofwhisperedmagichavegiventhem.Theirdreamsatnight,theyprotest,areveryhorribleinthatgrotesquecountry;andsurelytheverylookofthedarkrealmisenoughtostiramorbidfancy.Notravellerhaseverescapedasenseofstrangenessinthosedeepravines,andartistsshiverastheypaintthickwoodswhosemysteryisasmuchofthespiritasoftheeye.ImyselfamcuriousaboutthesensationIderivedfrommyonelonewalkbeforeAmmitoldmehistale.