This meeting must not be fun, but business.
At that he walked faster, aware all at once of urgency and the declining sun and a little wind created by his speed that breathed about his face. This wind pressed his grey shirt against his chest so that he noticed―in this new mood of comprehension―how the folds were stiff like cardboard, and unpleasant; noticed too how the frayed edges of his shorts were making an uncomfortable, pink area on the front of his thighs.
With a convulsion of the mind, Ralph discovered dirt and decay, understood how much he disliked perpetually flicking the tangled hair out of his eyes, and at last, when the sun was gone, rolling noisily to rest among dry leaves. At that he began to trot.
The beach near the bathing pool was dotted with groups of boys waiting for the assembly. They made way for him silently, conscious of his grim mood and the fault at the fire.
The place of assembly in which he stood was roughly a triangle; but irregular and sketchy, like everything they made. First there was the log on which he himself sat; a dead tree that must have been quite exceptionally big for the platform.
Perhaps one of those legendary storms of the Pacific had shifted it here. This palm trunk lay parallel to the beach, so that when Ralph sat he faced the island but to the boys was a darkish figure against the shimmer of the lagoon. The two sides of the triangle of which the log was base were less evenly defined. On the right was a log polished by restless seats along the top, but not so large as the chief’s and not so comfortable.
On the left were four small logs, one of them―the farthest―lamentably springy. Assembly after assembly had broken up in laughter when someone had leaned too far back and the log had whipped and thrown half a dozen boys backwards into the grass.
Yet now, he saw, no one had had the wit―not himself nor Jack, nor Piggy―to bring a stone and wedge the thing. So they would continue enduring the ill-balanced twister, because, because…. Again he lost himself in deep waters.
Grass was worn away in front of each trunk but grew tall and untrodden in the center of the triangle. Then, at the apex, the grass was thick again because no one sat there. All round the place of assembly the grey trunks rose, straight or leaning, and supported the low roof of leaves.
On two sides was the beach; behind, the lagoon; in front, the darkness of the island.
Ralph turned to the chief’s seat. They had never had an assembly as late before.
That was why the place looked so different. Normally the underside of the green roof was lit by a tangle of golden reflections, and their faces were lit upside down―like, thought Ralph, when you hold an electric torch in your hands. But now the sun was slanting in at one side, so that the shadows were where they ought to be.
Again he fell into that strange mood of speculation that was so foreign to him. If faces were different when lit from above or below―what was a face? What was anything?
Ralph moved impatiently. The trouble was, if you were a chief you had to think, you had to be wise. And then the occasion slipped by so that you had to grab at a decision. This made you think; because thought was a valuable thing, that got results….
Only, decided Ralph as he faced the chief’s seat, I can’t think. Not like Piggy.
Once more that evening Ralph had to adjust his values. Piggy could think. He could go step by step inside that fat head of his, only Piggy was no chief. But Piggy, for all his ludicrous body, had brains. Ralph was a specialist in thought now, and could recognize thought in another.
The sun in his eyes reminded him how time was passing, so he took the conch down from the tree and examined the surface. Exposure to the air had bleached the yellow and pink to near-white, and transparency. Ralph felt a kind of affectionate reverence for the conch, even though he had fished the thing out of the lagoon himself. He faced the place of assembly and put the conch to his lips.
The others were waiting for this and came straight away. Those who were aware that a ship had passed the island while the fire was out were subdued by the thought of Ralph’s anger; while those, including the littluns who did not know, were impressed by the general air of solemnity.
The place of assembly filled quickly; Jack, Simon, Maurice, most of the hunters, on Ralph’s right; the rest on the left, under the sun. Piggy came and stood outside the triangle. This indicated that he wished to listen, but would not speak; and Piggy intended it as a gesture of disapproval.
“The thing is: we need an assembly.”
No one said anything but the faces turned to Ralph were intent. He flourished the conch. He had learnt as a practical business that fundamental statements like this had to be said at least twice, before everyone understood them. One had to sit, attracting all eyes to the conch, and drop words like heavy round stones among the little groups that crouched or squatted.
He was searching his mind for simple words so that even the littluns would understand what the assembly was about. Later perhaps, practiced debaters―Jack, Maurice, Piggy―would use their whole art to twist the meeting: but now at the beginning the subject of the debate must be laid out clearly.
“We need an assembly. Not for fun. Not for laughing and falling off the log”―the group of littluns on the twister giggled and looked at each other―”not for making jokes, or for”―he lifted the conch in an effort to find the compelling word―”for cleverness. Not for these things. But to put things straight.”
He paused for a moment.
“I’ve been alone. By myself I went, thinking what’s what. I know what we need. An assembly to put things straight. And first of all, I’m speaking.”
He paused for a moment and automatically pushed back his hair. Piggy tiptoed to the triangle, his ineffectual protest made, and joined the others.
Ralph went on.
“We have lots of assemblies. Everybody enjoys speaking and being together. We decide things. But they don’t get done. We were going to have water brought from the stream and left in those coconut shells under fresh leaves. So it was, for a few days. Now there’s no water. The shells are dry. People drink from the river.”
There was a murmur of assent.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with drinking from the river. I mean I’d sooner have water from that place― you know, the pool where the waterfall is―than out of an old coconut shell. Only we said we’d have the water brought. And now not. There were only two full shells there this afternoon.”
He licked his lips.
“Then there’s huts. Shelters.”
The murmur swelled again and died away.
“You mostly sleep in shelters. Tonight, except for Samneric up by the fire, you’ll all sleep there. Who built the shelters?”
Clamor rose at once. Everyone had built the shelters. Ralph had to wave the conch once more.
“Wait a minute! I mean, who built all three? We all built the first one, four of us the second one, and me ‘n Simon built the last one over there. That’s why it’s so tottery. No.
Don’t laugh. That shelter might fall down if the rain comes back. We’ll need those shelters then.”
He paused and cleared his throat.
“There’s another thing. We chose those rocks right along beyond the bathing pool as a lavatory. That was sensible too. The tide cleans the place up. You littluns know about that.”
There were sniggers here and there and swift glances.
“Now people seem to use anywhere. Even near the shelters and the platform. You littluns, when you’re getting fruit; if you’re taken short―”
The assembly roared.
“I said if you’re taken short you keep away from the fruit. That’s dirty!”
Laughter rose again.
“I said that’s dirty!”
He plucked at his stiff, grey shirt.
“That’s really dirty. If you’re taken short you go right along the beach to the rocks. See?”
Piggy held out his hands for the conch but Ralph shook his head. His speech was planned, point by point.
“We’ve all got to use the rocks again. This place is getting dirty.” He paused. The assembly, sensing a crisis, was tensely expectant. “And then: about the fire.”
Ralph let out his spare breath with a little gasp that was echoed by his audience. Jack started to chip a piece of wood with his knife and whispered something to Robert, who looked away.
“The fire is the most important thing on the island. How can we ever be rescued except by luck, if we don’t keep a fire going? Is a fire too much for us to make?”
He flung out an arm.
“Look at us! How many are we? And yet we can’t keep a fire going to make smoke. Don’t you understand? Can’t you see we ought to―ought to die before we let the fire out?”
There was a self-conscious giggling among the hunters. Ralph turned on them passionately.
“You hunters! You can laugh! But I tell you the smoke is more important than the pig, however often you kill one. Do all of you see?” He spread his arms wide and turned to the whole triangle.
“We’ve got to make smoke up there―or die.”
He paused, feeling for his next point.
“And another thing.”
Someone called out.
“Too many things.”
There came a mutter of
