The Paper Men by William Golding Page B

of blind terror, blind terror aware of itself and, shot through the terror, incredulity. Then the animal took over, every nerve, muscle, heart beat, at top energy and speed, bent on denial of destruction. My wits were gone. My hand, as it clutched and fell with the rail, was vitalized to the point where it might well have squeezed the wood small to its own crippling deformation but nowhere was the wit that would have made me let the thing go. My other hand struck out blindly to where there might be solidity, found it, clutched what felt like a plant and my body turned head over heels so that I landed against the cliff on the other side of the rail with a blow that knocked the breath out of me. The rail dropped away from my one hand as the shock opened it for me. That hand, without asking any permission, grabbed. I was on my back, heels dug in, hands gripped. I was sliding steeply, inch by inch.
    A hand was holding me by the collar at the back of my neck. I stopped sliding and inspected the red blotches and blurs that whirled before my eyes and were all I could see. There were, I now felt in every nerve and artery, five points of attachment and support between me and smash. Four of these points were only minimally effective, hands and heels dug into soft earth, left hand clutching a sappy stem, right hand scrabbled into wet mud. Then there was the choking grip of a fist on the suede collar at the back of my neck. The four other points of attachment might be a help, but there was no doubt that I was suspended chiefly from the fist so hard against my nape. That was what held me in this opaque and pendant space. As for the world, but just now so silent, it was noisy with the thumping of my heart, the roaring in my ears and the gasps that came as of themselves out of my chest. Terror was as much an element as space. Here was no dalliance of the mind with the worthlessness or worth of life. The animal knew beyond all question what was precious beyond everything. All that was conscious was a wish that wished itself, for the terror—like the bombing, the shooting, the soughing of shells—to stop. Behind and beyond the fist someone else was gasping too.
    I was moving down. The gasps behind me quickened. I dared to shift a heel and dig it in an inch or two higher, but the soil slid away and I felt how the effort had diminished the friction that helped to keep me from falling into the fog.
    Rick articulated.
    “Hold still.”
    I stopped moving down.
    “Root above left hand.”
    I dared to let go of the plant slowly and allowed my fingers to crawl. The root was there, thick, slimy but graspable because of its contortions.
    “Pull.”
    There was undreamed of strength in my left hand. The only limit was the strength of the root. I could have lifted myself with anvils hanging from my feet.
    “Turn over—real slow.”
    I did that, and the fist turned with me, my collar twisting but not too much. Now there was something to see. There was perhaps eighteen inches of earth, coarse grass, small stones and small roots. The slope was close to the vertical. Rick was flat on the path, his left hand hooked round the upright post that had held one end of the fallen bar. His right hand held my collar. The upright post was bowing outwards very slowly, earth and stone dropping from its base.
    “Jesus!”
    Rick articulated again.
    “I won’t let go.”
    Inch by inch. I had such hope of safety now that the mixture of hope and fear was almost more agonizing than the instant terror, for Rick was moving with the post, it was what held him, that and his weight against my weight. We were looking each other in the face, an eyeball confrontation, his beneath a frowning forehead. He seemed extraordinarily calm, as if this idiot caper played with our destruction was a small problem of tax or admin.
    Inch by inch. Heel, fingers, hand, fist— Then I had a hand on the path, then an elbow, then I lurched forward on one knee as the post fell and thumped