The Dark Traveler

By Josephine Johnson

The passionate man who loves with strength and lives with violence...
The silent, lonely boy who exists in a world of strange loves and longings...
The evil, terrifying creature of the night, which destroys as it clings, which consumes as it touches...
Through a nightmare world of fear and forbidden emotions, man and boy move irrevocably towards the blinding moment of confrontation with the night creature – to the shattering revelation that they are all THE DARK TRAVELER.

This gripping novel by Pulitzer Prize winning author Josephine Johnson, first published in 1963, tells the tale of a man imprisoned by a strange passions and violent fears, and of a woman who has pledged to lead him out of the darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Oct 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781448213368

Josephine Johnson

Josephine W. Johnson (1910–1990) was a novelist and nature writer who in 1935 became the youngest person to win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for her first novel, Now in November. She began her studies at Washington University and went on to write eleven books over the course of her life. When it was originally published in 1969, The Inland Island, her lyrical examination of a year on her rambling thirty-seven-acre farm in Ohio, became a beloved and critically acclaimed bestseller.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was a wild late February evening, cold and gusty, and the elm branches beat against the old, blue glass of the panes. When the door opened, as though blown in by all the cold wet birds and branches hunting shelter, they saw Paul standing there, like a wet blackbird himself, carrying an ancient suitcase in his arms. The rain from his dark hair was falling on his glasses and he held the suitcase to him as though it were a broken-up baby.

Towering behind him, Norah’s father put his hand on Paul’s shoulder and moved him forward, and, as always in her father’s presence, she felt he shed a gold light of warmth even through the cold rain around him. As a child she had expected frosty winter people to thaw and wet ones to steam on encountering that light.

Well, well! Douglass said. Here we are! Safe home at last. Here’s Paul, everybody.—Lisa—Norah—Tom—Christopher.…

The family advanced in an obedient welcoming wave to grab and shake the cold wavering hand that Paul thrust out to meet them. He seemed far younger than they had expected. He was actually twenty-eight, but he looked like a high school boy, thin and distressed and smiling. They did not know that at the moment he could not see a thing.

Have you eaten? Lisa asked. It was the first, the inevitable question. The young never think to ask it. It is a question of mothers, of the responsible, of warmth and hospitality, and also of just something to say, to fill the great hollow moments of strange meetings.

Oh yes! Oh no, Paul said. A look of unutterable confusion was on his face and he laughed nervously. "I have eaten. In the past, of course.… Of course, I would like to eat some more … if you have … if it is not.… He put the wet suitcase down at his feet, and then snatched the gummy wreck up in his arms again. If it is … or is not … I should like.…" He seemed unable either to stop talking or to say anything.

"We would like something to eat, Lisa," Douglass said. He guided Paul and the suitcase toward the kitchen.

Tom and Norah looked at each other. Tom was saying omygod with his eyes. There were tears in Lisa’s and a half-hidden look of panic, but she smiled and said she had expected them to be hungry and had made some coffee and there was crumb cake. Do you like that kind of cake, Paul? It’s good and fresh. Norah made it.

Oh yes, Paul said and then—I mean what is it, please? We never—I never.… His face, turned toward Lisa’s voice, had gone white.

It’s just bread with sugar and crumbs and stuff on top, Tom said. He spoke quickly and kindly. It’s swell—it’s good. Norey made it.

Oh, it’s something sweet! Paul said. He talked in exclamations. Yes, yes, I would like that!

Christopher, who was five and fat and shy with lively hair, stood in the middle of the kitchen with his hands behind his back and stared soberly at Paul. He had seen uncounted people pass through the kitchen, his father’s friends, farmers and scientists, rich men and derelicts, great people and foolish ones, but none like this cousin Paul with his wild young-old face and his shabby gray corduroy jacket too tight in the shoulders, and the sleeves frayed and short, as though put on when he was sixteen, and he had just gone on growing inside.

He looks like a locust, Tom was thinking, coming out of his skin and stuck halfway. And those hands like claws!

Christopher moved suddenly close to Paul at the table and asked what was in the suitcase. Presents? he asked hopefully. For me?

Paul started and trembled when the little boy’s voice came close to his ear. Oh no, child! His hands shook and he clutched the strap. "Just some old things of mine. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry I didn’t bring you anything! I would certainly have brought you something if I had known. But I came so fast—as a matter of fact, I did not know I was coming here for certain—I had expected—I had feared—another place. A terrible place. But if I had known—I would certainly.…"

Here’s your coffee, Paul, Lisa said. She put the cup down in front of him and the torrent of words stopped as though she had put her hand over a fountain. Douglass, who was watching Paul’s face warily, leaned over the table and put Paul’s hand on the cup handle, pretending to feel the heat of the coffee. It’s not too hot, Paul, he said. Take a drink. Here’s some sugar. He put a spoonful in the cup and knocked the spoon loudly on the rim.

He caught Lisa’s eye and both Norah and Tom could see he was saying, Paul can’t see, and then, don’t worry.

Paul was drinking and smiling, turning his head in the direction of sound. He had put the suitcase under his feet and his free hand felt at the tablecloth, slipping and picking, like the claw of a bird trying to get its balance.

Tom cut himself a big hunk of the warm cake, and then two more. He thrust a slice into Paul’s restless, chilly fingers. Best stuff you ever ate, he said loudly. Here, have some, Dad. He held out the second piece to Douglass. Live dangerously. Norah’s recipe for ship anchors. Keeps the men in your family from straying.

Oh hush, Norah said. She had always felt very close to her brother, but at that moment she loved him fiercely. Gratitude flowed from all of them, except the bewildered child. Christopher had retreated to his mother’s skirt and, backed up against her legs, stared longingly at the suitcase, resentfully at the dark wet man with the strange, crying smile. He was not afraid, but the warm, familiar kitchen, the yellow, encircling curtains, the bushy red geraniums and violets, the red-tiled floor had been invaded, and was no longer quite so warm, nor quite so wholly his.

Paul ate very fast, cramming the cake into his mouth and spilling the crumbs on the cloth. He felt the rain of crumbs on his hand, and his fingers kept searching nervously around on the cloth near his saucer, and, when they felt a crumb, pinched it up quickly and put it in the saucer, now pooled with spilled cold coffee.

Norah watched his face. You could not have told by his eyes that the room was dark to him, and all the people only voices. They were blue and bright, and moved back and forth and up and down, as would any stranger’s, coming for the first time into a house where he might live from that time on.

Norah watched him quietly. At twenty she had none of her mother’s dislike of the unknown, the unassimilated, which made each day of Lisa’s life so difficult. The coming of Paul was as strange as Paul himself, and being strange was exciting to Norah.

Christopher, still seeking the mysterious suitcase, which, in spite of its moldy wet binding, he apparently imagined full of red and blue polished plastic things that jumped, jerked, made noises, rolled and whistled, had moved closer and closer to Paul again, until his red curly head touched Paul’s hand as the child bent over to peer under the chair. Paul’s hand jerked back and then came to rest again on the warm curls. A look of astonishment came over his face, and the stooping child, frozen halfway over, looked up with a shy and red-faced grin. "I was jus’ looking," he apologized.

Why, it’s a little boy! Paul cried. He smiled and then looked up and around at the staring family, seeing them now for the first time, and the white coffee cups and the brown, crumbling cake.

How do we look to him? Norah wondered. How do I look to him? She stared at Paul with an almost childlike brazenness, watching his thin, ravaged and curiously handsome face turn from one to the other, until his eyes stopped at Lisa, and he got up, stumbling awkwardly from the table and made a quick nervous bow. Mrs. Moore, he said. Mrs. Moore! I am so happy to be here. And sat down looking completely exhausted.

Norah felt sad because her mother had seemed unable to speak. Lisa had nodded and smiled, but it was her father who had said the appropriate thing, the conventional thing, with all his great natural warmth. "We are happy to have you here, Paul!" Norah and Tom had both chimed in together, Oh yes, and Christopher had shouted Happy New Year! and fled thunderously to Lisa’s skirt.

Paul’s eyes followed the little boy’s flight devouringly, and suddenly he stooped over and pulled out the suitcase and hauled it up on his lap. Would you like to see inside? He spoke to the back of Christopher’s head, and the child whirled around and came galloping back. It’s only what I could gather up, Paul said. I—well, it’s not much. His hands were plucking aimlessly at the wet cord.

Open it! Open it! Christopher tugged at the knots.

I have your clothes outside in the car still, Douglass spoke loudly to Paul. "We forgot to bring in the other suitcase."

Oh, that’s good of you, Paul said gratefully. Yes, I forgot. I mean I did not know. He jerked the twine and it broke and the bruised top fell off.

Inside was a small stuffed owl with wild staring eyes, two quartz rocks, a heavy, gray ledger and a box camera.

Christopher’s mouth opened wide in silence when he saw the owl, and he put out his fat hand timidly to touch it. Paul picked up the weightless feathers lovingly and held it out. It’s a screech owl, he said. I found it dead in the woods. Someone stuffed it for me. It’s all right. It’s been fumigated. Feel how soft it is!

Christopher patted it and poked his fingers in the glass eyes. He forgot all his other bright expectations of the suitcase. Years later when they spoke of the coming of Paul he still remembered the owl with its yellow eyes. When they said Paul thought he could fly, he remembered only the wings of the owl, and wondered why they seemed so sad about it all.

I see you’ve got a camera there, Paul, Tom said blustering cheerfully. We’ll have to compare notes sometime. I’ve done some stuff myself.

Oh, thank you! Thank you! The words seemed odd coming from Paul’s terror-stricken face. "But I don’t really know much—I don’t really do much with it.… I hope to, of course. In time. Later. But thank you just the same … I…"

It was Lisa this time who came to rescue Paul from his terror. You must be tired after the long trip. Why don’t you take Paul to his room, Douglass? She spoke partly to distract Paul, partly because she believed he must be tired after two hundred miles of being with someone else—even with Douglass, and the wild disturbance into which every attention seemed to drive him.

Douglass got up before Paul could answer. His big body looked suddenly enormously tired, his tranquil patience receding like an out-tide. His last hours with Paul’s father had needed and taken all the strength he could muster in his life.

Good idea! Pack up your owl and things, Paul. Go get the suitcase in the car, Tom. He hoisted the heavy Christopher up on his shoulders, while Paul fumbled awkwardly with the box, tied and broke the twine again, and stumbled to his feet, clutching the whole confusion to his breast.

Which way? Which way? He pushed the chair back so hard it fell on its side and perspiration broke out on his forehead.

Take it easy. Take it easy, Paul. Douglass’ soothing voice was tired. Everything’s going to be all right! He was praying with all his soul that this be true.

Norah ran ahead and turned on the stairway light. She ran up the stairs toward the guest room, Paul following in an anxious stumble the blue vanishing figure with its pale gold bun on top, its odor of hyacinth talcum and the cloud of health. Behind him his uncle climbed slowly, carrying the fat and sleepy child and then came Tom two steps at a time, the other suitcase on his head. You made it, Dad! he whispered exulting. You made it!

In the kitchen, Lisa closed the door and listened to the sound of the winter wind which had risen more in the last hour, a cold and stormy sound of power, mindless and menacing, and the slash of sleet against the pane. Then she turned the key in the lock. It was not the winter storm she was locking out, but all of Paul’s past, Paul’s father Angus.

Chapter 2

When word had come of Paul’s mother’s death—a call from Angus at midnight—Douglass had wandered up and down the dark living room for an agonizing hour alone. Then he had wakened Lisa. He knew what he felt was the only right thing to do but it did not matter what the holy decision might be if Lisa did not want it. He felt no grief over the death of his brother’s wife, poor wasted Virginia—his grief was for Paul, who had lost his last defense in life against Angus.

I’m having the fellow committed. The voice, huge and exasperated, had come over the miles