final.
'He was taken short.'
With a feeling of humiliation on Simon's behalf, Ralph took back the conch, looking Simon sternly in the face as he did so.
'Well, don't do it again. Understand? Not at night. There's enough silly talk about beasts, without the littluns seeing you gliding about like a-'
The derisive laughter that rose had fear in it and condemnation. Simon opened his mouth to speak but Ralph had the conch, so he backed to his seat.
When the assembly was silent Ralph turned to Piggy.
'Well, Piggy?'
'There was another one. Him.'
The littluns pushed Percival forward, then left him by himself. He stood knee-deep in the central grass, looking at his hidden feet, trying to pretend he was in a tent. Ralph remembered another small boy who had stood like this and he flinched away from the memory. He had pushed the thought down and out of sight, where only some positive reminder like this could bring it to the surface. There had been no further numberings of the littluns, partly because there was no means of insuring that all of them were accounted for and partly because Ralph knew the answer to at least one question Piggy had asked on the mountaintop. There were little boys, fair, dark, freckled, and all dirty, but their faces were all dreadfully free of major blemishes. No one had seen the mulberry- colored birthmark again. But that time Piggy had coaxed and bullied. Tacitly admitting that he remembered the unmentionable, Ralph nodded to Piggy.
'Go on. Ask him.'
Piggy knelt, holding the conch.
'Now then. What's your name?'
The small boy twisted away into his tent. Piggy turned helplessly to Ralph, who spoke sharply.
'What's your name?'
Tormented by the silence and the refusal the assembly broke into a chant.
'What's your name? What's your name?'
'Quiet!'
Ralph peered at the child in the twilight.
'Now tell us. What's your name?'
'Percival Wemys Madison. The Vicarage, Harcourt St. Anthony, Hants, telephone, telephone, tele-'
As if this information was rooted far down in the springs of sorrow, the littlun wept. His face puckered, the tears leapt from his eyes, his mouth opened till they could see a square black hole. At first he was a silent effigy of sorrow; but then the lamentation rose out of him, loud and sustained as the conch.
'Shut up, you! Shut up!'
Percival Wemys Madison would not shut up. A spring had been tapped, far beyond the reach of authority or even physical intimidation. The crying went on, breath after breath, and seemed to sustain him upright as if he were nailed to it.
'Shut up! Shut up!'
For now the littluns were no longer silent. They were reminded of their personal sorrows; and perhaps felt themselves to share in a sorrow that was universal. They began to cry in sympathy, two of them almost as loud as Percival.
Maurice saved them. He cried out.
'Look at me!'
He pretended to fall over. He rubbed his rump and sat on the twister so that he fell in the grass. He downed badly; but Percival and the others noticed and sniffed and laughed. Presently they were all laughing so absurdly that the biguns joined in.
Jack was the first to make himself heard. He had not got the conch and thus spoke against the rules; but nobody minded.
'And what about the beast?'
Something strange was happening to Percival. He yawned and staggered, so that Jack seized and shook him.
'Where does the beast live?'
Percival sagged in Jack's grip.
'That's a clever beast,' said Piggy, jeering, 'if it can hide on this island.'
'Jack's been everywhere-'
'Where could a beast live?'
'Beast my foot!'
Percival muttered something and the assembly laughed again. Ralph leaned forward.
'What does he say?'
Jack listened to Percival's answer and then let go of him. Percival, released, surrounded by the comfortable presence of humans, fell in the long grass and went to sleep.
Jack cleared his throat, then reported casually.
'He says the beast comes out of the sea.'
The last laugh died away. Ralph turned involuntarily, a black, humped figure against the lagoon. The assembly looked with him, considered the vast stretches of water, the high sea beyond, unknown indigo of infinite possibility, heard silently the sough and whisper from the reef.
Maurice spoke, so loudly that they jumped.
'Daddy said they haven't found all the animals in the sea yet.'
Argument started again. Ralph held out the glimmering conch and Maurice took it obediently. The meeting subsided.
'I mean when Jack says you can be frightened because people are frightened anyway that's all right. But when he says there's only pigs on this island I expect he's right but he doesn't know, not really, not certainly I mean-' Maurice took a breath. 'My daddy says there's things, what d'you call'em that make ink-squids-that are hundreds of yards long and eat whales whole.' He paused again and laughed gaily. 'I don't believe in the beast of course. As Piggy says, life's scientific, but we don't know, do we? Not certainly, I mean-'
Someone shouted.
'A squid couldn't come up out of the water!'
'Could!'
'Couldn't!'
In a moment the platform was full of arguing, gesticulating shadows. To Ralph, seated, this seemed the breaking up of sanity. Fear, beasts, no general agreement that the fire was all-important: and when one tried to get the thing straight the argument sheered off, bringing up fresh, unpleasant matter.
He could see a whiteness in the gloom near him so he grabbed it from Maurice and blew as loudly as he could. The assembly was shocked into silence. Simon was close to him, laying hands on the conch. Simon felt a perilous necessity to speak; but to speak in assembly was a terrible thing to him.
'Maybe,' he said hesitantly, 'maybe there is a beast.'
The assembly cried out savagely and Ralph stood up in amazement.
'You, Simon? You believe in this?'
'I don't know,' said Simon. His heartbeats were choking him. 'But. . . .'
The storm broke.
'Sit down!'
'Shut up!'
'Take the conch!'
'Sod you!'
'Shut up!'
Ralph shouted.
'Hear him! He's got the conch!'
'What I mean is . . . maybe it's only us.'
