“Paradise,” Blacker said to himself, moving forward into the wood. “Paradise. Fairyland.”

He was a man given to exaggeration; poetic license he called it, and his friends called it “Blacker’s little flights of fancy,” or something less polite, but on this occasion he spoke nothing but the truth.

The wood stood silent about him, tall, golden, with afternoon sunlight slanting through the half-unfurled leaves of early summer. Underfoot, anemones palely carpeted the ground. A cuckoo called.

“Paradise,” Blacker repeated, closed the gate behind him, and strode down the overgrown path, looking for a spot in which to eat his ham sandwich. Hazel bushes thickened at either side until the circular blue eye of the gateway by which he had come in dwindled to a pinpoint and vanished. The taller trees over-topping the hazels were not yet in full leaf and gave little cover; it was very hot in the wood and very still.

Suddenly Blacker stopped short with an exclamation of surprise and regret: lying among the dog’s-mercury by the path was the body of a cock-pheasant in the full splendor of its spring plumage. Blacker turned the bird over with the townsman’s pity and curiosity at such evidence of nature’s unkindness; the feathers, purple-bronze, green, and gold, were smooth under his hand as a girl’s hair.

“Poor thing,” he said aloud, “what can have happened to it?”

He walked on, wondering if he could turn the incident to account. “Threnody for a Pheasant in May.” Too precious? Too sentimental? Perhaps a weekly would take it. He began choosing rhymes, staring at his feet as he walked, abandoning his conscious rapture at the beauty around him

Stricken to death... and something... leafy ride,
Before his... something... fully flaunt his pride.

Or would a shorter line be better, something utterly simple and heartfelt, limpid tears of grief like spring rain dripping off the petals of a flower?

It was odd, Blacker thought, increasing his pace, how difficult he found writing nature poetry; nature was beautiful, maybe, but it was not stimulating. And it was nature poetry that Field and Garden wanted. Still, that pheasant ought to be worth five guineas. Tread lightly past, Where he lies still, And something last...

Damn! In his absorption he had nearly trodden on another pheasant. What was happening to the birds? Blacker, who objected to occurrences with no visible explanation, walked on, frowning.

The path bore downhill to the right, and leaving the hazel coppice, crossed a tiny valley. Below him, Blacker was surprised to see a small, secretive flint cottage, surrounded on three sides by trees. In front of it was a patch of turf. A deck chair stood there, and a man was peacefully stretched out in it, enjoying the afternoon sun.

Blacker’s first impulse was to turn back; he felt as if he had walked into somebody’s garden, and was filled with mild irritation at the unexpectedness of the encounter; there ought to have been some warning signs, dash it all. The wood had seemed as deserted as Eden itself. But his turning round would have an appearance of guilt and furtiveness; on second thought, he decided to go boldly past the cottage. After all, there was no fence, and the path was not marked private in any way; he had a perfect right to be there.

“Good afternoon,” said the man pleasantly as Blacker approached. “Remarkably fine weather, is it not?’’

“I do hope I’m not trespassing.”

Studying the man, Blacker revised his first guess. This was no gamekeeper; there was distinction in every line of the thin, sculptured face. What most attracted Blacker’s attention were the hands, holding a small gilt coffee-cup; they were as white, frail, and attenuated as the pale roots of water-plants.

“Not at all,” the man said cordially. “In fact, you arrive at a most opportune moment; you are very welcome. I was just wishing for a little company. Delightful as I find this sylvan retreat, it becomes, all of a sudden, a little dull, a little banal. I do trust that you have time to sit down and share my after lunch coffee and liqueur.”

As he spoke, he reached behind him and brought out a second deck chair from the cottage porch.

“Why, thank you; I should be delighted,” said Blacker, wondering if he had the strength of character to take out the ham sandwich and eat it in front of this patrician hermit.

Before he made up his mind, the man had gone into the house and returned with another gilt cup full of black, fragrant coffee, hot as Tartarus, which he handed to Blacker. He carried also a tiny glass, and into this, from a blackcurrant-cordial bottle, he carefully poured a clear, colorless liquor.

Blacker sniffed his glassful with caution, mistrusting the bottle and its evidence of home brewing, but the scent, aromatic and powerful, was similar to that of curaçao, and the liquid moved in its glass with an oily smoothness. It certainly was not cow slip wine.

“Well,” said his host, reseating himself and gesturing slightly with his glass, “how do you do?” He sipped delicately.

“Cheers,” said Blacker, and added, “My name’s Roger Blacker.” It sounded a little lame.

The liqueur was not curaçao, but akin to it, and quite remarkably potent; Blacker, who was very hungry, felt the fumes rise up inside his head as if an orange tree had taken root there and was putting out leaves and golden glowing fruit.

“Sir Francis Deeking,” the other man said, and then Blacker understood why his hands had seemed so spectacular, so portentously out of the common.
“The surgeon? But surely you don’t live down here?”

Deeking waved a hand deprecatingly. “A weekend retreat. A hermitage, to which I can retire from the strain of my calling.”

“It certainly is very remote,” Blacker remarked. “It must be five miles from the nearest road.”
“Six. And you, my dear Mr. Blacker, what is your profession?”
“Oh, a writer,” said Blacker modestly.

The drink was having its usual effect on him; he managed to convey not that he was a journalist on a twopenny daily with literary yearnings, but that he was a philosopher and essayist of rare quality, a sort of second Bacon. All the time he spoke, while drawn out most flatteringly by the questions of Sir Francis, he was recalling journalistic scraps of information about his host: the operation on the Indian Prince; the Cabinet Minister’s appendix; the amputation performed on that unfortunate ballerina who had both feet crushed in a railway accident; the major operation which had proved so miraculously successful on the American heiress.

“You must feel like a god,” he said suddenly, noticing with surprise that his glass was empty. Sir Francis waved the remark aside.
“We all have our godlike attributes,” he said, leaning forward. “Now you, Mr Blacker, a writer, a creative artist—do you not know a power akin to godhead when you transfer your thought to paper?’’
“Well, not exactly then,” said Blacker, feeling the liqueur moving inside his head in golden and russet-colored clouds. “Not so much then, but I do have one unusual power, a power not shared by many people, of foretelling the future. For instance, as I was coming through the wood, I knew this house would be here. I knew I should find you sitting in front of it. I can look at the list of runners in a race, and the name of the winner fairly leaps out at me from the page, as if it was printed in golden ink. Forthcoming events—air disasters, train crashes—I always sense in advance. I begin to have a terrible feeling of impending doom, as if my brain was a volcano just on the point of eruption.”

What was that other item of news about Sir Francis Deeking, he wondered, a recent report, a tiny paragraph that had caught his eye in The Times? He could not recall it.

“Really?’’ Sir Francis was looking at him with the keenest interest; his eyes, hooded and fanatical under their heavy lids, held brilliant points of light. “I have always longed to know somebody with such a power. It must be a terrifying responsibility.”

“Oh, it is,” Blacker said. He contrived to look bowed under the weight of supernatural cares; noticed that his glass was full again, and drained it. “Of course, I don’t use the faculty for my own ends; something fundamental in me rises up to prevent that. It’s as basic, you know, as the instinct forbidding cannibalism or incest—”

“Quite, quite,” Sir Francis agreed. “But for another person, you would be able to give warnings, advise profitable courses of action—? My dear fellow, your glass is empty. Allow me.”
“This is marvelous stuff,” Blacker said hazily. “It’s like a wreath of orange blossom.” He gestured with his finger.
“I distill it myself; from marmalade. But do go on with what you were saying. Could you, for instance, tell me the winner of this afternoon’s Manchester Plate?”
“Bow Bells,” Blacker said unhesitatingly. It was the only name he could remember.
“You interest me enormously. And the result of today’s Aldwych by-election? Do you know that?”
“Unwin, the Liberal, will get in by a majority of two hundred and eighty-two. He won’t take his seat, though. He’ll be killed at seven this evening in a lift accident at his hotel.” Blacker was well away by now.
“Will he, indeed?” Sir Francis appeared delighted. “A pestilent fellow. I have sat on several boards with him. Do continue.”

Blacker required little encouragement He told the story of the financier whom he had warned in time of the oil company crash; the dream about the famous violinist which had resulted in the man’s cancelling his passage on the ill-fated Orion; and the tragic tale of the bullfighter who had ignored his warning.

“But I’m talking too much about myself,” he said at length, partly because he noticed an ominous clogging of his tongue, a refusal of his thoughts to marshal themselves. He cast about for an impersonal topic, something simple.
“The pheasants,” he said. “What’s happened to the pheasants? Cut down in their prime. It—it’s terrible. I found four in the wood up there, four or five.”
“Really?” Sir Francis seemed callously uninterested in the fate of the pheasants. “It’s the chemical sprays they use on the crops, I understand. Bound to upset the ecology; they never work out the probable results beforehand. Now if you were in charge, my dear Mr. Blacker—but forgive me, it is a hot afternoon, and you must be tired and footsore if you have walked from Witherstow this morning—let me suggest that you have a short sleep. . .”

His voice seemed to come from farther and farther away; a network of sun-colored leaves laced themselves in front of Blacker’s eyes. Gratefully he leaned back and stretched out his aching feet.

Some time after this Blacker roused a little—or was it only a dream?—to see Sir Francis standing by him, rubbing his hands, with a face of jubilation.

“My dear fellow, my dear Mr Blacker, what a lusus naturae you are. I can never be sufficiently grateful that you came my way. Bow Bells walked home—positively ambled. I have been listening to the commentary. What a misfortune that I had no time to place money on the horse—but never mind, never mind, that can be remedied another time.

“It is unkind of me to disturb your well-earned rest, though; drink this last thimbleful and finish your nap while the sun is on the wood.”

As Blacker’s head sank back against the deck chair again, Sir Francis leaned forward and gently took the glass from his hand.

Sweet river of dreams, thought Blacker, fancy the horse actually winning. I wish I’d had a fiver on it myself; I could do with a new pair of shoes. I should have undone these before I dozed off, they’re too tight or something. I must wake up soon, ought to be on my way in half an hour or so...

***

When Blacker finally woke, he found that he was lying on a narrow bed, indoors, covered with a couple of blankets. His head ached and throbbed with a shattering intensity, and it took a few minutes for his vision to clear; then he saw that the was in a small white cell-like room which contained nothing but the bed he was on and a chair. It was very nearly dark.

He tried to struggle up, but a strange numbness and heaviness had invaded the lower part of his body, and after hoisting himself on to his elbow he felt so sick that he abandoned the effort and lay down again.

That stuff must have the effect of a knockout drop, he thought ruefully; what a fool I was to drink it. I’ll have to apologize to Sir Francis. What time can it be?

Brisk light footsteps approached the door, and Sir Francis came in. He was carrying a portable radio which he placed on the window sill.

“Ah, my dear Blacker, I see you have come round. Allow me to offer you a drink.”

He raised Blacker skillfully, and gave him a drink of water from a cup with a rim and a spout.

“Now let me settle you down again. Excellent. We shall soon have you—well, not on your feet, but sitting up and taking nourishment.” He laughed a little. “You can have some beef tea presently.”

“I am so sorry,” Blacker said. “I really need not trespass on your hospitality any longer. I shall be quite all right in a minute.”

“No trespass, my dear friend. You are not at all in the way. I hope that you will be here for a long and pleasant stay. These surroundings, so restful, so conducive to a writer’s inspiration—what could be more suitable for you? You need not think that I shall disturb you. I am in London all week, but shall keep you company at weekends—pray, pray don’t think that you will be a nuisance or de trop. On the contrary, I am hoping that you can do me the kindness of giving me the Stock Exchange prices in advance, which will amply compensate for any small trouble I have taken. No, no, you must feel quite at home—please consider, indeed, that this is your home.”

Stock Exchange prices? It took Blacker a moment to remember, then he thought, Oh lord, my tongue has played me false as usual. He tried to recall what stupidities he had been guilty of.

“Those stories,” he said lamely, “they were all a bit exaggerated, you know. About my foretelling the future. I can’t really. That horse’s winning was a pure coincidence, I’m afraid.”

“Modesty, modesty.” Sir Francis was smiling, but he had gone rather pale, and Blacker noticed a beading of sweat along his cheekbones. “I am sure you will be invaluable. Since my retirement, I find it absolutely necessary to augment my income by judicious investment.”

All of a sudden Blacker remembered the gist of that small paragraph in The Times. Nervous breakdown. Complete rest. Retirement.

“I—I really must go now,” he said uneasily, trying to push himself upright. “I meant to be back in town by seven.”

“Oh, but Mr. Blacker, that is quite out of the question. Indeed, so as to preclude any such action, I have amputated your feet. But you need not worry; I know you will be very happy here. And I feel certain that you are wrong to doubt your own powers. Let us listen to the nine o’clock news in order to be quite satisfied that the detestable Unwin did fall down the hotel lift shaft.”

He walked over to the portable radio and switched it on.