The Rainbow

As he staggered something in the water struck his legs, and

he fell. Instantly he was in the turmoil of suffocation. He

fought in a black horror of suffocation, fighting, wrestling,

but always borne down, borne inevitably down. Still he wrestled

and fought to get himself free, in the unutterable struggle of

suffocation, but he always fell again deeper. Something struck

his head, a great wonder of anguish went over him, then the

blackness covered him entirely.

In the utter darkness, the unconscious, drowning body was

rolled along, the waters pouring, washing, filling in the place.

The cattle woke up and rose to their feet, the dog began to

yelp. And the unconscious, drowning body was washed along in the

black, swirling darkness, passively.

Mrs. Brangwen woke up and listened. With preternaturally

sharp senses she heard the movement of all the darkness that

swirled outside. For a moment she lay still. Then she went to

the window. She heard the sharp rain, and the deep running of

water. She knew her husband was outside.

"Fred," she called, "Fred!"

Away in the night was a hoarse, brutal roar of a mass of

water rushing downwards.

She went downstairs. She could not understand the multiplied

running of water. Stepping down the step into the kitchen, she

put her foot into water. The kitchen was flooded. Where did it

come from? She could not understand.

Water was running in out of the scullery. She paddled through

barefoot, to see. Water was bubbling fiercely under the outer

door. She was afraid. Then something washed against her,

something twined under her foot. It was the riding whip. On the

table were the rug and the cushion and the parcel from the

gig.

He had come home.

"Tom!" she called, afraid of her own voice.

She opened the door. Water ran in with a horrid sound.

Everywhere was moving water, a sound of waters.

"Tom!" she cried, standing in her nightdress with the candle,

calling into the darkness and the flood out of the doorway.

"Tom! Tom!"

And she listened. Fred appeared behind her, in trousers and

shirt.

"Where is he?" he asked.

He looked at the flood, then at his mother. She seemed small

and uncanny, elvish, in her nightdress.

"Go upstairs," he said. "He'll be in th' stable."

"To--om! To--om!" cried the elderly woman, with a

long, unnatural, penetrating call that chilled her son to the

marrow. He quickly pulled on his boots and his coat.

"Go upstairs, mother," he said; "I'll go an' see where he

is."

"To--om! To--o--om!" rang out the shrill,

unearthly cry of the small woman. There was only the noise of

water and the mooing of uneasy cattle, and the long yelping of

the dog, clamouring in the darkness.

Fred Brangwen splashed out into the flood with a lantern. His

mother stood on a chair in the doorway, watching him go. It was

all water, water, running, flashing under the lantern.