Burning Bright by Tracy Chevalier Page A

Abbey when I was an apprentice. That exercise taught me many things, and one of them was that once you know the surface of a thing, you need no longer dwell there, but can look deeper. That is why I don’t draw from life—it is far too limiting, and deadens the imagination. No, earlier today I was drawing what I was told to draw.”
    â€œWho told you?”
    â€œMy brother Robert.”
    â€œHe was there?” Maggie didn’t remember seeing anyone with Mr. Blake.
    â€œOh, yes indeed, he was. Now, Kate, if you’re ready, shall we go on?”
    â€œReady if you are, Mr. Blake.”
    â€œOh, but—” Maggie cast about for something to keep the Blakes with them.
    â€œDid you know about the echo in the alcoves, sir?” Jem interjected. He too wanted Mr. Blake to remain. There was something odd about him—distant yet close in his attention, an adult and yet childlike.
    â€œWhat echo is that, my boy?”
    â€œIf you stand in the opposite alcoves, facing the wall, you can hear each other,” Maggie explained.
    â€œCan you, now?” Mr. Blake turned to his wife. “Did you know that, Kate?”
    â€œThat I didn’t, Mr. Blake.”
    â€œD’you want to try it?” Maggie persisted.
    â€œShall we, Kate?”
    â€œIf you like, Mr. Blake.”
    Maggie stifled a giggle as she led Mrs. Blake into the alcove and had her stand facing the wall, while Jem led Mr. Blake to the alcove opposite. Mr. Blake spoke softly to the wall, and after a moment he and Mrs. Blake laughed. That much Jem and Maggie heard, but not the conversation—mostly one-sided, with Mrs. Blake occasionally agreeing with her husband. Their isolation left the children standing in the road on either side of the bridge, feeling a little foolish. Finally Jem wandered over to Maggie. “What do you think they be talking about?”
    â€œDunno. It won’t be about the price of fish, that’s sure. Wish they’d let us back in.”
    Did Mrs. Blake hear her? At that moment she stepped out and said, “Children, come and stand inside with me. Mr. Blake is going to sing.”
    Jem and Maggie glanced at each other, then squeezed into the alcove with Mrs. Blake. At close range she smelled of fried fish and coal dust.
    They faced the wall once again, Jem and Maggie giggling a little at being so squashed together, but not trying to move apart either.
    â€œWe’re ready, Mr. Blake,” Mrs. Blake said softly.
    â€œVery good,” they heard his disembodied voice say. After a pause he began to sing in a high, thin voice very different from his speaking voice:
    When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy
    And the dimpling stream runs laughing by,
    When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
    And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.
    When the meadows laugh with lively green
    And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene.
    When Mary and Susan and Emily
    With their sweet round mouths sing Ha, Ha, He.
    When the painted birds laugh in the shade
    Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread
    Come live and be merry and join with me,
    To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, Ha, He.
    When he finished they were silent.
    â€œHa, ha, he,” Maggie repeated then, breaking the spell. “Don’t know that song.”
    â€œIt’s his own,” Mrs. Blake explained. Jem could hear the pride in her voice.
    â€œHe makes his own songs?” he asked. He had never met anyone who wrote the songs people sang. He’d never thought about where songs came from; they were just about, to be pulled from the air and learned.
    â€œPoems, and songs, and all sorts,” Mrs. Blake replied.
    â€œDid you like that, my boy?” came Mr. Blake’s disembodied voice.
    Jem jumped; he’d forgotten that Mr. Blake could hear them. “Oh, yes.”
    â€œIt’s in a book I made.”
    â€œWhat’s it called?” Jem asked.
    Mr. Blake paused. “ Songs of