The Accident

We meant to go straight to the wigwam next day and talk about the secret, but just as we climbed over the stile, Terry popped up out of the ditch like a rabbit and said he'd come to spend the morning with us. We settled down on the bank to make plans.

As a matter of fact, Terry had already made all the plans, and we were just meant to follow them. He had found a high ash tree with a wood pigeon's nest at the top, and if Philip wanted to see a wood pigeon's egg he'd better come along right now because there were two beauties. It was an ash tree with a fork. Terry's plan was to collect some branches and bits of wood and make a sort of platform opposite, where we could sit and watch the eggs hatch.

We were thrilled with the idea and went scuttling off single file through the wood. The tree Terry had told us about was quite a long way away, across the stream in the valley, and some way in among the larches that grew on the farther side.

It was well off the usual track, and the brambles and nettles grew thick around there. I followed the boys as best as I could, but even so, my bare legs got dreadfully scratched and were as red as unripe blackberries when I finally caught up with them. I sat down on the tree root and began mopping up the scratches with my handkerchief.

“Sorry,” said Philip. “I forgot your legs were shorter than ours for jumping. If you keep up on the way home, I'll tread the brambles down for you.”

Terry stared at my bleeding knees. “She's a brave little kid, ain't she?” he said, and I felt as if I'd been awarded a medal. I would willingly have walked through brambles and nettles to have earned such praise.

Terry had no time to waste. He crouched like a small panther and then leapt for the nearest branch of the ash. He caught hold with one hand and dragged himself up, the muscles rippling all over his tight little body.

“Now,” he yelled, lying across the branch, “help Ruth up and I'll catch hold!”

Philip heaved me up on his shoulders, and Terry seized my wrists and pulled until I was able to clutch the branch. I gave a great wriggle, more or less turned myself inside out, and arrived panting beside him. Philip gave two great leaps, but fell backward. On the third jump he caught hold of the branch and dragged himself up, too. So we sat dangling our legs like three happy monkeys, and we shared our biscuits with Terry, who always took it for granted that my aunt put in some for him, too, and always ate much more than his share. But we didn't really mind, for we had decided long ago that Terry's mother must have starved him at home, as no one but a starving child could eat so hungrily, just like a wolf.

“Come on,” said Terry, gulping down the last mouthful. “We'll nip up and take a look at her.”

Off he went like a sailor on a rope, while Philip and I followed more slowly. The nest was on a sort of platform of twigs woven together, and as we got nearer to it we could hear the nervous murmur of the pigeon deep in her throat. Then suddenly there was a whirr of beautiful pearl-grey wings, and the bird flew up and settled on the topmost twig of the opposite fork, where she sat looking down at us and her nest.

It was such an untidy nest that I wondered how it was that the eggs didn't roll out—just a few loosely woven sticks with some moss stuffed in the holes. But the eggs were burning hot and well cared for, and the mother was very worried about them. Terry leaned back and stared at her.

“Nice spot to watch them eggs from,” he remarked coolly. “I'm going up there myself.”

“You couldn't,” protested Philip. “The branches wouldn't hold you. Why, they'll hardly hold up the pigeon.”

But Terry was a rather boastful boy. If anyone said you couldn't do anything, he immediately had to do it to show that he could. So he just said, “Go on. I'll show you,” and swung himself across to the opposite fork.

Philip and I watched in fascinated silence as the thin, agile little boy climbed higher and higher. The pigeon saw him coming, flew up softly, and landed back with half-spread wings on her nest. We could only watch Terry. We had seen him do such daring and almost impossible things before, but this beat them all. Already, the thin, grey branches were bending outward under his weight.

“Stop,” called Philip in a rather husky voice. But Terry took no notice. Instead, his laugh came ringing back to us through the leaves, and still he climbed—only he was climbing very carefully now.

“He got there,” breathed Philip, and indeed he had. He was standing right out against the sky, clinging to a weak branch. The wind that moved lazily over the treetops had caught his hair and blown it back from his face, and his dark, starry eyes were alight with laughter and triumph. When I think of Terry now, that is how I like to remember him, because it was the last time that we, or anyone else, ever saw him well and strong.

I can hardly write of what happened next. Philip and I have never spoken of it to each other, and I know we both never try to think of it, although I shall remember it all my life. We kept begging Terry to come down, but he took no notice of us and began to swing to and fro. Twice the branch bowed with him, but the third time it snapped. Terry was flung outward into space.

He gave one shrill scream that shattered the silence of the summer woods and haunted me in the night for many weeks to come. Then we heard his light body crashing through the leaves and twigs, which mercifully partly broke his fall. Then came a sickening thud—and then silence.

I don't know to this day how Philip and I escaped falling after him and breaking our necks, we swung down that tree at such a speed. Even so, Philip reached the bottom long before I did. But I got there somehow and dropped onto the ground, gasping and sobbing, and lay trembling in a heap with my face hidden in the moss. I dared not look at Terry.

Philip went down on his knees beside him and came to the conclusion that Terry was still breathing. He came over to me at last and put his arm around me.

“Ruth,” he said in a voice that was shaky and fearful, “I'm not quite sure, but I think he's alive. We can't possibly carry him. We shall have to fetch some men and a doctor, and I think I'd better go, because I can run much faster than you and I'm not crying so much. But, Ruth, we can't leave him alone, because he might wake up and be frightened and want someone. So would you mind staying with him, and I'll come back as quick as I can?”

I shuddered and shook my head violently. I couldn't be left alone. I was much too frightened. I clung to Philip sobbing, and begged him to let me go instead. But Philip wouldn't hear of it.

“You see, Ruth,” he explained urgently, “he may die very soon, and if the doctor came in time he might be able to do something to make him better. I shall get there much quicker because my legs are so much longer. You must let me go at once, and try and be brave and stop crying.”

He freed himself from my grasp, gently enough, and made off like the wind. I lay and listened to his footsteps crackling over the dead leaves and twigs until the sound died away and only the murmuring of the pigeons broke the silence of the woods.

Now that I was left alone, I realized that I must make myself look at Terry. I clenched my teeth and my fists and sat up.

What I actually saw was a great relief to me. I had never seen anyone badly hurt or unconscious before, and I had imagined that it would be a very horrible sight. But Terry, lying on his back with his arms spread wide, might have been asleep, except that his lips were too pale and he breathed so lightly. He did not look hurt or frightened, only strangely peaceful. As I sat there staring at him, I began to feel strangely peaceful myself, as though he must soon wake up refreshed by such deep sleep and we should all be happy again.

The minutes seemed like hours and Terry did not move. Still I sat watching and wondering. Perhaps Terry was already dead. The thought made me feel cold and sick, and once again my eyes filled with frightened tears. If only Philip would come back!

What was death, anyway? If Terry were dead, where had he gone? We should bury his quiet little body under the ground in the churchyard, but I knew that that was not really Terry. Terry, I supposed, had gone to heaven, like we sang about in hymns in church, but would Terry be happy? One grubby, rather naughty little boy amongst all those golden streets and white wings!

Then I suddenly remembered Jane Collins, who had gone “to be with the Lord,” and the joyful face of the child in my dream. Perhaps dying just meant going to live with the Good Shepherd—hearing Him speak with our proper ears and seeing Him with real eyes, instead of just inside our hearts. That would be lovely, I thought. No wonder the little girl had looked so happy. Perhaps that was why Terry looked so peaceful.

But Terry did not know about the Good Shepherd, so perhaps he might not be so pleased to go and live with Him. I was sure Terry had never heard anything about it. If only I'd had a chance to tell him! If he didn't die, I should tell him at once, and then Philip and he and I would all belong together. But anyhow, even if he were dead, I was sure that the Good Shepherd would see that he was happy. Because, after all, it wasn't Terry's fault that he had never asked to be found and forgiven. It was really mine, because I had kept the secret to myself instead of sharing it.

So I sat hugging my knees, with my eyes fixed on Terry's still face, torn between hope and fear. Every few minutes I thought I heard Philip coming back, but each time it turned out to be only a rabbit or a bird or a gust of wind in the trees. The sunshine streamed through the thin, bright leaves of the larch trees and rested in a bright patch on Terry's hair; almost as though God was touching him, I thought to myself. I remembered how in the gospel of Luke, which I read every morning, Jesus had touched men and women and children who were hurt or ill, and they always got well again at once.

“Oh, God,” I whispered, looking up through the branches, “please make Terry better. Don't let him die. We want him here so much. Amen.”

It was then that I heard Philip's voice through the trees and some men's voices talking, too. A moment later a little procession came into sight with Philip leading the way. Behind him came Uncle Peter, who was always at home on Saturdays, and kind Dr. Paterson who had come to see me when I had measles; behind them came two men in dark uniforms carrying a stretcher; I heard later that these were the ambulance men.

Dr. Paterson knelt down at once and put his fingers on Terry's brown wrist. He held it for a long time and then passed his hands over Terry's head, drew back his eyelids, and bent his legs and arms backward and forward very gently. Then he turned to me. “Has the boy moved since he fell?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. “He's been as though he was fast asleep all the time.” Then I gave his coat a little tug. “Is he dead?” I whispered.

Dr. Paterson put his arm around my shoulder. “No,” he answered gently, “he's not dead, but he's very badly hurt. You were a good girl to stay here and look after him. Now, we'll take him along to the hospital as soon as we can, and I'm going to see what I can do for him.”

Very gently and carefully, Terry was lifted onto the stretcher, and the men set off through the brambles with the precious burden between them. Uncle Peter, seeing how white and scared I looked, stooped down and picked me up in his arms like a baby. I snuggled up against him and laid my head on his shoulder and felt greatly comforted. I had always been good friends with Uncle Peter.

I noticed Philip's face only when he glanced toward me, for he had walked with his head turned sideways. He said nothing, but his lips were pressed tightly together and his eyes looked very upset. His cheeks high up were scarlet, but the rest of his face was quite white. I longed to run and comfort him, but knew there was nothing I could say or do. Nothing would comfort him except Terry getting well.

We all walked very slowly so as not to jolt the stretcher, for the ground was rough and uneven. When we reached the road, the ambulance was waiting there, and Dr. Paterson climbed in with Terry while the men sat in front.

“When will you tell us if he's better?” I asked, just as he was about to shut the door.

“I shall be passing your house tomorrow,” said the doctor, “and I'll drop in and let you know.”

The door was shut and the engine started up. The ambulance sped off in a cloud of white dust, and Uncle Peter, Philip, and I were left to trudge home. Uncle asked us a few questions about Terry on the way, but otherwise we were very silent. Nobody felt like talking.

It was a long, wretched day. We hung about the garden unable to settle down to anything, and with no appetite for our meals. Aunt Margaret felt sorry for us and read aloud to us after tea, but we were both glad when bedtime arrived. She came upstairs and kissed us good night, but as soon as her footsteps died away I hopped out of bed and ran over to Philip. He was lying huddled up in bed, and I think he had been crying, for his voice sounded sniffy and his pillow was damp. I got under the rug at the bottom and curled myself up in a ball like a kitten.

“Ruth,” whispered Philip rather shakily, “do you think he'll die?”

“No,” I answered firmly, “I don't.”

“Why not?” inquired Philip, rather surprised at me being so sure of myself. “Did Dr. Paterson say anything to you when I wasn't listening?”

I wriggled my bare toes up and down under the rug, as I always did when I was shy. It was difficult to explain, but I thought now was the moment to try and tell.

“Well, you see,” I answered, “when you went to get the others, I prayed to God very hard that Terry would get better again, so I expect he will.”

Philip stared at me over the top of the sheet.

“So did I,” he admitted slowly. “I said, ‘Oh, God, please don't let Terry die’ all the way home, but I don't know whether it was much use. I'm not a very good boy and I usually forget to say my prayers altogether, and nothing much happens when I do.”

“But Philip,” I said, uncurling myself and sitting up straight because I was so serious about this, “you don't have to be an especially good person to say your prayers. You just have to belong to the Good Shepherd. That's what my secret was, that I was going to tell you about today. I didn't make it up. The clergyman told me when I ran away, and it's in the Bible, too.

“When we're naughty, we're like sheep that run away and get lost and can't find the way back. But Jesus is the Shepherd. He comes to look for us, and when we ask Him He finds us. But He always waits till we ask. Then we belong to Him and He listens to everything we say, and He speaks to us back and tells us how to be good. Mr. Tandy told me that bit, and He spoke to me last night and stopped me from losing my temper with Aunt Margaret when she wouldn't let me have a chocolate biscuit.”

I could see Philip staring at me, his face pale in the moonlight. “Go on,” he said.

“There's not much more to say,” I went on, “except that when Terry was lying on the ground, the sun suddenly shone through the trees right onto his hair, and I thought perhaps it was God's way of touching him and making him better, like Jesus touched people in the Bible. After that, I was almost sure he wasn't going to die.”

There was a long silence, broken at last by Philip.

“Did you ask Him to find you?” he asked curiously. I nodded. “I did it on the way home,” I said, “in the primrose woods, under a tree. I asked Him to forgive me for being naughty and to find me and make me one of His lambs as the clergyman said. Oh, Philip, I wish you would come with me and see that clergyman, because he'd tell you about it much better than me, and I do so want you to belong to the Shepherd, too.”

“I wish I did,” said Philip in a rather serious voice. “Do you think I could?”

“I'm sure you could,” I answered very firmly. “I should think you'd be much easier to find than me because you're so much gooder. I don't think you'd take much finding at all.”

Philip shook his head. “You don't know,” he said sadly. “You only see me outside. I'm not good at all inside.”

“Well,” I argued, “it doesn't matter. I'll show you my picture and you'll see. The sheep there is nearly falling over a precipice he's got so lost, but the Shepherd is going to find him all the same.”

I tiptoed across the passageway and returned with my precious picture in my hand. We both went over to the window and could see it quite clearly because the full moon was shining right in the window. Philip went on looking at it for a long time.

“Could I ask now, Ruth?” he said at last, rather worriedly.

I nodded.

“Then you must go away,” he explained, “because I shall have to be alone. We'll talk more about it in the morning.”

So I left him, with his elbows on the windowsill, looking at the hills. I snuggled into bed and stared up at the millions of stars and thought about everything that had happened, until I fell asleep.