PRIZE STORY COMPETITION.

Auckland Star, Volume LIX, Issue 213, 8 September 1928, Page 13 (Supplement)

PRIZE STORY COMPETITION.

The award is given this month to Mis* G. Hamilton Fraser (12, Remuera Road, Remuera) for her atory, "A Sailor I Remember." 1 ° r, f * ent to competition should be about 2500 words in length, and should have name and address on manuscript. It is not essential that the story should have- a New Zealand background, though writers are advised to write of the life they know about.

A SAILOR i REMEMBER.

(By G. HAMILTON FRASER.)

One of the men I met at sea stands out particularly. He was tall—6ft in his socks, I think—magnificently built, emphatic. Eyes startlingly blue, crystal clear, steel flashing in a face gipsy* burnt. Though he spoke English remarkably well, he was a Norwegian. Skipper of the Silver Dart, he had sailed the seas from far Cathay to roaring 'Frisoo. And never a man ran foul of Eric Stvenson. Slow-moving, quicktempered, with a ready fist for those who played a dirty trick. Hard and true aa any finely-tempered blade. A ruler of men. Fear-proof, you'd warrant. So thought X. So knew his crew. But it happened one night. The Silver Dart, as staunch a barque as ever rode the seas, was three weeks out from Santiago, Durban-bound. For fourteen days we'd squirmed and creaked in wind-torn, lashing sea. There was not much difference between night and day—a fretful glimmer of light through lowering cloud heaps, and thick; moonless nights—that was all. _ All that day the ship had , madly dipped, gurgling—heavily rose—bashed, buffeted, pounded by the .maddened gale. The decks were swept with flying, stinging water, icy cold. The hungry surf sucked us down, greedy, snarling. The gale screamed in the rigging, moaned, and wailing, died to savage mutteringsj then, lashed anew to fury, swept the decks with a blood-curdling roar, whistled through the topgallant sail with a brutal, fiendish shriek. i The ship had scarce advanced a league j during the long, sun-deserted, dreary J weeks. Hungry, sleepless, hazard,, weary to breaking point, officers and men were temper-short, nerve-touchy. At the wheel stood Eric*Stvenson, dogweary, bleary-eyed, muscle-sore, halistarving, but indomitable. For the thousandth time his anxious gaze swept the horizon, pierced the low-hanging, surly clouds which drove like fiends infuriate across the wicked sky. Grimly the sea and sky, returned his gaze, unrelenting, scoffing, gloating. Then, as his glance completes the circle, pounding seas crash against the ship's sides. She plunges, ploughs and shivers. The squall roars in fiendish triumph, shrieking, howling, laughing insanely. And. Eric Stvenson laughs in its face. "To hell with you shrieking devils," he shouts—exulting—as the tortured ship rolls her yardarms 'neath the surging waters. "Then—reef the rigger-topsails, and pray your God," he cries.

It is six hours later. The storm has spent itself. On sea a deathly stillness ... oily-smooth, gurgling waters . . . a storm-racked ship ... a nerveracked crew. With a curt, "Look to your •steering," Eric Stvenson had descended to the main-decks. A precious sleep. It happened a few minutes after midnight. We sat at supper—Eric Stvenson and I—in his cabin. I still felt weary, nerve-depressed. But the skipper showed never a sign of his fearful ordeaL The cabin rang with his cheerful din. We had finished our coffee. Pipes were lighted. "I say, Doc., hand us over that ruddy glass." I turned to get it. God! A piercing shriek that momentarily paralysed me rang through the cabin. I swung round. There sat Eric Stvenson—cold—stiff, eyes staring, glazed; death white, weakly blubbering, foaming at the mouth. His body curled in horror. "A cat . . a cat ... it brushed my cheek . . . furry-soft ... bo creepy . . . it is running .. . running . . . running," he shrieked. As I sprang toward him. "Doc., did you.see th&t cat? God! it has come." He huddled—blubbering. I rushed to the door. A cat, fearspurred, was scithering along the deck. Dumbfounded, I re-entered the cabin. Eric Stvenson—"the Viking"—sat. a crumpled heap . . . sobbing . . . writhing . . . in sheer terror . . . cowering . craven. Absurd! horrible! I was dreaming . . . some distorted picture ftf an over-wrought brain, of course. We were all over-tired, tense* nervy. A man'a man unmanned by a cat! Twitching . . . obviously in an agony of fear. Beastly, super-natural! gad, what a fool I was. I laughed nervously —and seized the decanter. Nerves needed steadying . . . over-wrought . . . tired » , . stupid. That was it. Of course. "A stiff one, Doc.," whispered a thick voice, broken, fear-strained. "Thanks." He drank it at a gulp. A rushing colour flushed the blanched cheeks. He looked at me straight, a level, quieter gaze. "SoiTy old man. Afraid I've given you a bit of a turn." Silence "God ... a cat . . . Eric Stvenson a beastly coward. . . cat-fearful." He laughed ... a nasty, hollow cackle. "Sit down, Doc. 11l tell you . . . damn hard . . . but, man, you've got to have it . . . you've seen a soul-naked craven." The large hands trembled, but his voice though hoarse, was steady. "My father was a sailor-man, skipper of the Roaring Kate. For five centuries an Erie Stvenson had sailed the high seas. 'For God, and King and country.' And he a worthy successor to them all. 'Eric the Bold' they dubbed him. A man fit to handle even the turbulent stuff that in those days went by name of crew. "My mother was a Norwegian—gentle, sweetly gracious, flower-beautiful. My father adored her. In her presence he was as gentle as a little babe. They were married in 1876. To appreciate the story thoroughly, you must know that my mother had a horror of cats —so great as to amount to an obsession —a mental abnormality . . . due doubtless to the fact that a cat crawled o\ her sleeping mother's face ... in bed one night ... a few hours before she was born. The babe—premature—had life. The mother lost her reason. "One stifling July evening, 1878, my mother sat on the terrace of our home in Copenhagen . . . great with child . . . softly dreaming. Dreaming perhaps of her babe, soon coming. Praying perhaps that her firstborn, life-precious, might be a daughter. A wish, a hope, heart neare§t. The sea had brought too much tragedy to her and hers—a womanchild her daily prayer. My father's ship

was expected in two days' time. Her babe lay next her heart. So all was well. ''She must have dozed. The air hung heavily still . . . the soft -breeze would scarce stir a rose petal. And then—a sudden spring—a terrified, piercing shriek—blood-curdling, heart-chilling. A cat had sprung on to her lap ... its tail had brushed her cheek. "Servants gently carried her unconscious body into the house. I was born that night. I took her life. 'A cat . . . a cat ... it brushed my cheek ... so furry-soft . . . creepy . . . it is running . . . running . . . running,' she sobbed, as death dimmed her lovely eyes. And then .. . 'my daughter ... Eric dear .. . our baby.' "My father was brokenhearted. He set his ship for foreign lands'. The one thing he loved . . . above all ... was dead and buried. His son alive ... squealing. A bitter exchange. Curse the howling brat. Let his sister mother it. "It was fifteen years before my father returned. I went to sea with him. One night he told me of my mother ... sadeyed, still grieving. He warned me . . . heredity, pre-natal influence ... and so on. But I scorned to think a cat could frighten Eric Stveneon. Oh rot! Impossible! What man or beast could frighten me—Eric, son of Eric the Bold, son of a mother hero-brave? I laughed aloud in sheer enjoyment ... a great joke ... so youthfully arrogant. Besides, you see, Doc, I had seen cats, dozens of them. There were none at home—half-a-dozen dogs—but no cats. There was never a cat on my father's ship. But I had seen them. Only . . . had never touched one, nor been touched By one . . . until to-night. "You know the rest, God ... a coward . . . Eric Stvenson afraid of a cat ... a puling craven. I've seen a sea gone mad, stark, raving mad . . . I've beat it. You know it, Doc. And now . . . beaten by a cat. Oh, God, how funny . . . how damn funny. Ha! ha! Isn't it humorous . . . Ha! ha! G'on Doc, laugh man ... a cat . . . ha! ha!" "Shut up, old chap." I mixed another whisky. "You—coward? Rot, rot. D'you hear, man ? Sheer rot. I'll tell you what you are . . . you're the victim of prenatal influence. Hear me? It's damnable . . . supernatural . . . amazing . . . but not unique Oh, Lord, no—and it can be conquered. Conquered. Hear me ? What you have to do i# to touch a cat . . . stroke it . . . hang on to it, though you writhe in a hell of anguish. Hang, hang, hug it man. And then . . . gloating, you'll break the cursed spell." "Spell? What? Spell?" His head listed weary from his chest. "Break the spell? You mean it?" A firming hand gripped mine. "Doc, you've seen a son) naked . . . naked as no one but a man'? God should see it. A_ cat-fearing freak . . . humiliating, horrible, damnable. But, Doc, you mean it? Do you mean it ? Break it ? Straight, old man V "Yes, old chap. What's more, I know it." Some-three months later I had a note from Eric Stevenson: "Doc, you bully sea-dog, you were right. Man, I've done it. D'you hear? Done it. Last night I took a cat into my arms . . . it's tail brushed my cheek. For a second I funked. God, it was so furry, soft, creepy. And then I was back in the cabin again, and heard your voice: 'Hang on to it . . . hang, hang.' And I hung —poor cat! And now I don't care one damn. I am cured . . . normal. Fear is dead. Doc, I am a man again." I often see the face of this man I met and liked full well. And one night, dream-tossed, I seemed again to hear a fear-trembling, frenzied voice: "A cat ... a cat . . . it's tail brushed my cheek ... so furry, soft . . . creepy ... it is running . . . running . . . running."