The Arabs say that, once “submerged” beneath the arenaceous “flood”, a man loses the power to extricate himself. His energies are suspended, his senses become numbed and torpid, in short, he feels as one who goes to sleep in a snow-storm. It may be true; but, whether or no, it seemed as if the four English castaways had been stricken with this inexplicable paralysis. Despite the hoarse roaring of the breakers, despite the shrieking and whistling of the wind, despite the dust constantly being deposited on their bodies, and entering ears, mouth and nostrils, despite the stifling sensation one would suppose they must have felt, and which should have awakened them, despite all, they continued to sleep. It seemed as if that sleep was to be eternal.
If they heard not the storm that raged savagely above them, if they felt not the sand that pressed heavily upon them, what was there to warn, what to arouse them from that ill-starred slumber?
Chapter Eleven.
A mysterious Nightmare.
The four castaways had been asleep for a couple of hours, that is, from the time that, following the example of the young Scotchman, they had stretched themselves along the bottom of the ravine. It was not quite an hour, however, since the commencement of the sandstorm; and yet, in this short time, the arenaceous dust had accumulated to the thickness of several inches upon their bodies; and a person passing the spot, or even stepping right over them, could not have told that four human beings were buried beneath; that is, upon the supposition that they would have lain still, and not got startled from their slumbers by the foot thus treading upon them.
Perhaps it was a fortunate circumstance for them, that by such a contingency they might be awakened; and that by such they were awakened.
Otherwise their sleep might have been protracted into that still deeper sleep from which there is no awaking.
All four had begun to feel, if any sensation while asleep can be so called, a sense of suffocation, accompanied by a heaviness of the limbs and torpidity in the joints; as if some, immense weight was pressing upon their bodies, that rendered it impossible for them to stir either toe or finger. It was a sensation similar to that so well-known, and so much dreaded, under the name of nightmare. It may have been the very same; and was, perhaps, brought on as much by the extreme weariness they all felt, as by the superincumbent weight of the sand.
Their heads, lying higher than their bodies, were not so deeply buried under the drift; which, blown lightly over their faces, still permitted the atmosphere to pass through it. Otherwise their breathing would have been stopped altogether; and death must have been the necessary consequence.
Whether it was a genuine nightmare or no, it was accompanied by all the horrors of this phenomenon. As they afterwards declared, all four felt its influence, each in his own way dreaming of some fearful fascination from which he could make no effort to escape. Strange enough, their dreams were different. Harry Blount thought he was falling over a precipice; Colin that a gigantic ogre had got hold of and was going to eat him up; while the young Hibernian fancied himself in the midst of a conflagration, a dwelling-house on fire, from which he could not get out!
Old Bill’s delusion was more in keeping with their situation, or at least with that out of which they had lately escaped. He simply supposed that he was submerged in the sea, and as he knew he could not swim, it was but natural for him to fancy that he was drowning.
Still, he could make no struggle; and, as he would have done this, whether able to swim or not, his dream did not exactly resemble the real thing.
The sailor was the first to escape from the uncomfortable incubus; though there was but an instant between the awakening of all. They were startled out of their sleep, one after another, in the order in which they lay, and inversely to that in which they had lain down.
Their awakening was as mysterious as the nightmare itself, and scarce relieved them from the horror which the latter had been occasioning.
All felt in turn, and in quick succession, a heavy crushing pressure, either on the limbs or body; which had the effect, not only to startle them from their sleep, but caused them considerable pain.
Twice was this pressure applied, almost exactly on the same spot; and with scarce a second’s interval between the applications. It could not well have been repeated a third time with like exactness, even had such been the design of whatever creature was causing it, for, after a second squeeze, each had recovered sufficient consciousness to know he was in danger of being crushed, and make a desperate effort to withdraw himself.
The exclamations, proceeding from four sets of lips, told that all were still in the land of the living; but the confused questioning that followed did nothing towards elucidating the cause of that sudden and almost simultaneous uprising.
There was too much sneezing and coughing to permit of anything like clear or coherent speech. The shumu was still blowing. There was sand in the mouths and nostrils of all four, and dust in their eyes. Their talk more resembled the jabbering of apes, who had unwisely intruded into a snuff-shop, than the conversation of four rational beings.
It was some time before anyone of them could shape his speech so as to be understood by the others; and, after all had at length succeeded in making themselves intelligible, it was found that each had the same story to tell. Each had felt two pressures on some part of his person; and had seen, though very indistinctly, some huge creature passing over him, apparently a quadruped, though what sort of quadruped none of them could tell. All they knew was that it was a gigantic, uncouth creature, with a narrow body and neck, and very long legs; and that it had feet there could be no doubt, since it was these that had pressed so heavily upon them.
But for the swirl of the sandstorm, and the dust already in their eyes, they might have been able to give a better description of the creature that had so unceremoniously stepped upon them. These impediments, however, had hindered them from obtaining a fair view of it; and some animal, grotesquely shaped, with a long neck, body, and legs, was the image which remained in the excited minds of the awakened sleepers.
Whatever it was, they were all sufficiently frightened to stand for some time trembling. Just awakening from such dreams, it was but natural they should surrender themselves to strange imaginings; and, instead of endeavouring to identify the odd-looking animal, if animal it was, they were rather inclined to set it down as some creature of a supernatural kind.
The three midshipmen were but boys; not so long from the nursery as to have altogether escaped from the weird influence which many a nursery tale had wrapped around them; and as for Old Bill, fifty years spent in “ploughing the ocean” had only confirmed him in the belief that the “black art” is not so mythical as philosophers would have us think.
So frightened were all four that, after the first ebullition of their surprise had subsided, they no longer gave utterance to speech but stood listening, and trembling as they listened. Perhaps, had they known the service which the intruder had done for them, they might have felt gratitude towards it, instead of the suspicion and dread that for some moments kept them, as if spell-bound, in their places. It did not occur to any of the party that that strange summons from sleep, more effective than the half-whispered invitation of a valet-de-chambre, or the ringing of a breakfast-bell, had, in all probability, rescued them from a silent but certain death.
They stood, as I have said, listening. There were several distinct sounds that saluted their ears. There was the “sough” of the sea, as it came swelling up the gorge; the “whish” of the wind, as it impinged upon the crests of the ridges; and the “swish” of the sand as it settled round them.
All these were voices of inanimate objects, phenomena of nature, easily understood. But, rising above them, were heard sounds of a different character; which, though