Greenwitch by Susan Cooper Page B

kept up,” she said. “And I think it’s great they wouldn’t let a foreigner watch. So many of our Indians back home, they let the white man in to watch their native dances, and before you know it the whole thing’s just a tourist trap.”
    â€œI’m glad you weren’t offended,” Jane said. “We were afraid—”
    â€œOh no no no,” said Mrs Stanton. “Why, I’ve already got enough material to give a great paper on this trip to my travel group back home. We have this club, you see, it meets once a month and at each meeting someone gives a little talk, with slides, on somewhere she’s been. This is the first time,” she added a trifle wistfully, “I shall have had anywhere unusual to talk about—except Jamaica, and everyone else has been there too.”
    Afterwards Jane said to Simon, as they scrambled down towards the harbour, “She’s rather sweet really. I’m glad she’ll have us to talk about to her club.”
    â€œThe natives and their quaint old customs,” Simon said.
    â€œCome on, you aren’t even a native. You’re one of they furriners from London.”
    â€œBut I’m not so much
outside
it all as she is. Not her fault. She just comes from such a long way away, she isn’t plugged in. Like all those people who go to the museum and look at thegrail and say, oh, how wonderful, without the least idea of what it really is.”
    â€œYou mean people who used to look at it, when it was there.”
    â€œOh lord. Yes.”
    â€œWell anyway,” said Jane, “we’d be the same as Mrs Stanton if we were in her country.”
    â€œOf course we would, that’s not the point. . . .”
    They bickered amiably as they crossed the quay and started up the hill towards the Grey House. Pausing to get her breath, Jane looked back the way they had come. All at once she clutched the wall beside her, and stood there, staring.
    â€œSimon!”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œLook!”
    Down in the harbour, in the very centre of the quay, was the painter, the man of the Dark. He sat on a folding stool before an easel, with a knapsack open on the ground beside him, and he was painting. There was no urgency in his movements; he sat there tranquil and unhurried, dabbing at the canvas. Two visitors paused behind him to watch; he paid them no attention, but went serenely on with his work.
    â€œJust
sitting
there!” Simon said, astounded.
    â€œIt’s a trick. It must be. Perhaps he has an accomplice, someone off doing things for him while he attracts our attention.”
    Simon said slowly, “There was no sign of anyone else having been in the caravan. And the farm looked as if it had been empty for years.”
    â€œLet’s go and tell the captain.”
    But there was no need to tell him. At the Grey House, they found Barney perched in a small high room overlooking the harbour, studying the painter through Captain Toms’ largest telescope. The old man himself, having let them in, remainedbelow. “This foot of mine,” he said ruefully, “isn’t too grand at climbing up and down stairs.”
    â€œBut I bet you he could see as much with his eyes shut, if he wanted to, as I can through this thing,” Barney said, squinting down the telescope with one eye closed and his face screwed up. “He’s special. You know? Just like Gumerry. They’re the same kind.”
    â€œBut what kind is that, I wonder?” Jane said thoughtfully.
    â€œWho knows?” Barney stood up, stretching. “A weird kind. A super kind. The kind that belongs to the Light.”
    â€œWhatever that is.”
    â€œYes. Whatever that is.”
    â€œHey Jane, look at this!” Simon was bending to the eyepiece of the telescope. “It’s fantastic, like being right on top of him. You can practically count his eyelashes.”
    â€œI’ve been staring at