The English Review/Onanonanon

by Algernon Blackwood

Certain things had made a deep impression in his childhood days; among these was the incident of the barking dog.

It barked during his convalescence from something that involved scarlet and a peeling skin; his early mind associated bright colour and peeling skin with the distress of illness. The tiresome barking of a dog accompanied it. In later years this sound always brought back the childhood visualisation: across his mind would flit a streak of vivid colour, a peeling skin, a noisy dog, all set against a background of emotional discomfort and physical distress.

“It’s barking at me!” he complained to his old nurse, whose explanation that it was “Carlo with his rheumatics in the stables” brought no relief. He spoke to his mother later; “It never, never stops. It goes on and on and on on purpose⁠—onanonanon!”

How queer the words sounded! He had got them wrong somewhere⁠—onanonanon. Or was it a name, the name of the barking animal⁠—Onan Onan Onanonanon?

His mother’s words were more comforting: “Carlo’s barking because you’re ill, darling; he wants you to get well.” And she added: “Soon I’ll bring him in to see you. You shall ride on his back again.”

“Would he peel if I stroked him?” He enquired, a trifle frightened., “Is the skin shiny like mine?”

She shook her head and smiled. “I’ll explain to him,” she went on, “and then he’ll understand. He won’t bark any more.” She brought the picture-book of natural history that included all creatures in Ark and Zoo and Jungle. He picked out the brightly-coloured tiger.

“A tiger doesn’t bark, does it?” he asked, and her reply added slightly to his knowledge, but much to his imagination. “But does it ever bark?” he persisted. “That’s really what I asked.”

“Growls and snarls,” said a deep voice from the doorway. He started; but it was only his father, who then came in and amused him by imitating the sound a tiger makes, until Carlo’s naughtiness was forgotten, and the world went on turning smoothly as before.

After that the barking ceased; the rheumatic creature sniffed the air and nosed the metal biscuit tray in silence. He understood apparently. It had been rather dreadful, this noise he made. The sharp sound had broken the morning stillness for many days; no one but the boy was awake at that early hour; the boy and the dog had the dawn entirely to themselves. He used to lie in bed, counting the number of barks. They seemed endless, they jarred, they never stopped. They came singly, then in groups of three and four at a time, then in a longer series, then singly again. These single barks often had a sound of finality about them, the creature’s breath was giving out, it was tired; it was the full-stop sound. But the true full-stop, the final bark, never came⁠—and the boy had complained.

He loved old Carlo, loved riding on his burly back that wobbled from side to side, as they moved forward very slowly; in particular he loved stroking the thick curly hair; it tickled his fingers and felt nice on his palm. He was relieved to know it would not peel. Yet he wondered impatiently why the creature he loved to play with should go on making such a dreadful noise. “Doesn’t he know? Can’t he wait till I’m ready?” There were moments when he doubted if it really was Carlo, when he almost hated the beast, when he asked himself, “Is this Carlo, or is it Onanonanon⁠ ⁠… ?” The idea alarmed him rather. Onanonanon was not quite friendly, not quite safe.

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At the age of fifty he found himself serving his King during the Great War⁠—in a neutral country whose police regarded him with disfavour, and would have instantly arrested and clapped him into gaol, had he made a slip. He did not make this slip, though incessant caution had to be his watchword. He belonged to that service which runs risks yet dare claim no credit. He passed under another name than his-own, and his alias sometimes did things his true self would not do. This alter ego developed oddly. He projected temporarily, as it were, a secondary personality⁠—which he disliked, often despised, and sometimes even feared. His sense of humour, however, made light of the split involved. When he was followed, he used to chuckle: “I wonder if the sleuths know which of the two they re tracking down⁠—myself or my alias?”

It was in the melancholy season between autumn and winter, snow on the heights and fog upon the lower levels, when he was suddenly laid low by the plague that milked the world. The Spanish influenza caught him. He went to bed; he had a doctor and a nurse; no one else in the hotel came near his room; the police forgot him, and he forgot the police. His hated alias, Baker, also was forgotten, or perhaps merged back into the parent self.⁠ ⁠… Outside his quarters on the first floor the plane-trees shed rain-soaked leaves, letting them fall with an audible plop upon the gravel path; he heard the waves of the sullen lake in the distance; the crunching of passing feet he heard much closer. The heating was indifferent, the light too weak to read by. It was a lonely, dismal time. On the floor above two people died, three on the one below, the French officer next door was carried out. The hotel, like many others, became a hospital.

In due course, the fever passed, the intolerable aching ceased, he forgot the times when he had thought he was going to die. He lay, half convalescent, remembering the recent past, then the remoter past, and so slipped back to dim childhood scenes when the cross but faithful old nurse had tended him. He smelt the burning leaves in the kitchen-garden, and heard the blackbird whistle beyond the summerhouse. The odour of moist earth in the tool-house stole back, with the fragrance of sweet apples in the forbidden loft. These earliest layers of memory fluttered their ghostly pictures like a cinema before his receptive mind. There were eyes long closed, voices long silent, the touch of hands long dead and gone. The rose-garden on a sultry August afternoon was vivid, with the smell of the rain-washed petals, as the sun blazed over them after a heavy shower. The soaked lawn emitted warm little bubbles like a soft squeezed sponge, audibly; even the gravel steamed. He remembered Carlo, with his rheumatism, his awkward gambol, his squashy dog-biscuit beside the kennel and⁠—his bark.

In the state of semi-unconsciousness he lay, weary, weak, depressed and very lonely. The nurse, on her rare visits, afflicted him, the hotel guests did not ask after him. To the Service at home he was on the sick-list, useless. The morning newspaper and the hurried, perfunctory visits of the doctor were his only interest. It seemed a pity he had not died. The mental depression after influenza can be extremely devastating. He looked forward to nothing.

Then, suddenly, the dog began its barking.

He heard it first at six o’clock when, waking, hot and thirsty in a bed that had lost its comfort, he wondered vaguely if the day was going to be fine or wet. His window opened on to the lake. He watched the shadows melt across the dreary room. The late dawn came softly, its hint of beauty ever unfulfilled. Would it be gold or grey behind the mountains? The dog went on barking.

He dozed, counting the barks without being aware that he did so. He felt hot and uncomfortable, and turned over in bed, counting automatically as he did so: “fifteen, sixteen, seventeen”⁠—pause⁠—“eighteen, nineteen”⁠—another pause, then with great rapidity, “twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three⁠—” He opened his eyes wide and cursed aloud. The barking stopped.

The wind came softly off the lake, entering the room. He heard the last big leaf of the plane-trees rattle to the gravel path. As it touched the ground the barking began again, his counting⁠—now conscious counting⁠—began with it.

“Curse the brute!” he muttered, and turned over once more to try and sleep. The rasping, harsh, staccato sound reached his ears piercingly through sheets and blankets; not even the thick duvet could muffle it. Would no one stop it? Did no one care? He felt furious, but helpless, dreadfully helpless.

It barked, stopped, then barked again. There were solitary, isolated barks, followed by a rapid series, short and hurried. A shower of barks came next. Pauses were frequent, but they were worse than the actual sound. It continued, it went on, the dog barked without ceasing. It barked and barked. He had lost all count. It barked and barked and barked. It stopped.

“At last!” he groaned. “My God! Another minute, and I⁠—!”

His whole body, as he turned over, knew an immense, deep relaxation. His jangled nerves were utterly exhausted. A great sigh of relief escaped him. The silence was delicious. It was real silence. He rested at last. Sleep, warm and intoxicating, stole gently back. He dozed. Forgetfulness swam over him. He lay in down, in cotton-wool. Police, alias, nurse and loneliness were all obliterated, when, suddenly, across the blissful peace, cracked out that sharp, explosive sound again⁠—the bark.

But the dog barked differently this time; the sound was much nearer. At first this puzzled him. Then he guessed the truth; the animal had come into the hotel and up the stairs; it was outside in the passage. He opened his eyes and sat up in bed. The door, to his surprise, was being cautiously pushed ajar. He was just in time to see who pushed it with such gentle, careful pressure. Standing on the landing in the early twilight was Baker, his other self, his alias, the personality he disliked and sometimes dreaded. Baker put his head round the corner, glanced at him, nodded familiarly, and withdrew, closing the door instantly, making no slightest sound. But, before it closed, and before he had time even to feel astonishment, the dog had been let in. And the dog, he saw at once, was old Carlo!

Having expected a little stranger dog, this big, shaggy, familiar beast caused him to feel a sense of curious wonder and bewilderment.

“But were you the dog down there that barked?” he asked aloud, as the friendly creature came waddling up to the bedside. “And have you come to say you’re sorry?”

It blinked its rheumy eyes and wagged its stumpy tail. He put out his hand and stroked its familiar, wobbly back. His fingers buried themselves in the stiff crinkly hair. Its dim old eyes turned affectionately up at him. It smiled its silly, happy smile. He went on rubbing. “Carlo, good old Carlo!” he mumbled; “well, I’m blessed! I’ll get on your back in a minute and ride⁠—”

He stopped rubbing. “Why did you come in?” He asked abruptly, and repeated the question, a touch of anxiety in his voice. “How did you manage it, really? Tell me, Carlo?”

The old beast shifted its position a little, making a sideways motion that he did not like. It seemed to move its hind legs only. Its muzzle now rested on the bed. Its eyes, seen full, looked not quite so kind and friendly. They cleared a little. But its tail still wagged. Only, now that he saw it better, the tail seemed longer than it ought to have been. There was something unpleasant about the dog⁠—a faint inexplicable shade of difference. He stared a moment straight into its face. It no longer blinked in the silly, affectionate way as at first. The rheum was less. There was a light, a gleam, in the eyes, almost a flash.

“Are you⁠—Carlo?” he asked sharply, uneasily, “or are you⁠—Onanonanon?”

It rose abruptly on its hind legs, laying the front paws on the counterpane of faded yellow. The legs made dark streaks against this yellow.

He had begun stroking the old back again. He now stopped. He withdrew his hand. The hair was coming out. It came off beneath his fingers, and each stroke he made left a line of lighter skin behind it. This skin was yellowish, with a slight tinge, he thought, of scarlet.

The dog⁠—he could almost swear to it⁠—had altered; it was still altering. Before his very eyes, it grew, became curiously enlarged. It now towered over him. It was longer, thinner, leaner than before, its tail came lashing round its hollow, yellowing flanks, the eyes shone brilliantly, its tongue was a horrid red. The brute straightened its front paws. It was huge. Its open mouth grinned down at him.

He was petrified, with terror. He tried to scream, but the only sound that came were little innocent words of childhood days. He almost lisped them, simpering with horror: “I’d get on your back⁠—if I was allowed out of bed. You’d carry me. I’d ride.”

It was a desperate attempt to pacify the beast, to persuade it, even in this terrible’ moment, to be friendly, a feeble, hopeless attempt to convince himself that it was⁠—Carlo. The Monster was twelve feet from head to tail, of, dull yellow striped with black. The great jaws, wide open, dripped upon his face. He saw the pointed teeth, the stiff, quivering whiskers of white wire. He felt the hot breath upon his cheeks and lips. It was foetid. He tasted it.

He was on the point of fainting when a step sounded outside the door. Someone was coming.

“Saved!” he gasped.

The suspense and relief were almost intolerable. The touch of a hand feeling cautiously, stealthily, over the door was audible. The handle rattled faintly.

“Saved!” his heart repeated, as the great brute turned its giant head to listen.

He knew that touch. It was Baker, his hated alias, come in the nick of time to rescue him. Yet the door did not open. Instead, the monster lashed its tail, it stiffened horribly, it turned its head back from watching the door, and lowered itself appallingly. The key turned in the lock, a bolt was shot. He was locked in alone with a tiger. He closed his eyes.

His recurrent nightmare had ruined sleep again, and outside, in the dreary autumn dawn, a little dog was yapping fiendishly on and on and on and on.