invisible morning air. She stopped. What had she just said? You couldn’t see air. She looked again, she
could
see this air, slightly, almost, by looking out the corner of her eye. It was as if the air molecules had a golden edge, like soap bubbles. She shook her head but the effect was still there. Shrugging, she set off again up the path.
Arriving at the wooden bridge by the ash tree Isoldé stood for a moment. Mark had said they always stamped three times on the planks before they went over the bridge, calling out “Permission to cross?” just in case of hungry trolls. She smiled, remembering Billy Goat Gruff.
She put one foot on the planks and tapped out three beats on the wood. ‘Permission to cross …?’ she whispered.
An owl hooted back at her, three times. She peered, looking for it. Hidden against the grey bark and ivy she saw the tawny owl. Behind, in the trunk, she could now see the hole where it must roost up during the day. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
The owl gave a funny sort of purring croon, stepped from foot to foot and turned its head right round and back again on itsshoulders. Isoldé kept one eye on the bird all the way across the bridge.
She carried on up the path until she came to a convenient boulder where she could sit and catch her breath, watch the stream. Just below her it was shallow, limpid water flowing like silk over brown stones, rippling round larger rocks with a sort of “gollumph” noise. The birds were all quiet too, making no sound. It was as if the forest held its breath. Looking around her she guessed she was at the last stretch. The path climbed steeply above her. It must go to the rock tunnel Mark had shown her on the map. Then it would be downhill, down the steps, to the cauldron pool. And the waterfall. There was an ache within her, calling her. She got up and began to climb.
By the time she reached the rock tunnel she was out of breath. She sank into a crouch with her hands flat on the earth and hung her head down, panting. Her fingers tingled, and her feet. At first she put it down to the blood singing through them then she felt a response from the earth, a pulse, and not just the soil but the rocky bones of the planet. Her breath quieted and her eyes opened, she stayed still listening. There was a pulsing humming out of the rocks of the tunnel itself, an almost-sound she couldn’t quite make out. Something leapt across the far exit of the tunnel ahead of her and the sensation stopped.
Isoldé started, shook herself and stood up. What was that? It had gone so fast she couldn’t see. She took a breath, walked through the tunnel out onto the rocky platform and turned down through the gate to the steps.
The downward steps were just as strenuous as the upward path had been. Uneven, rough, sometimes sloping and often slippery, she was glad of the handrail pinned to the rock. Halfway down she passed a shelf-like path curving round to the left. For a moment she almost took it but something pulled her on down.
The sound was incredible now, deafening, the rocksthemselves shuddering in the roar. Reaching the bottom, she stopped a moment to loosen the tension the climb had put in her neck and to uncurl her fingers from the handrail. She knew what was round the corner, Mark had shown her pictures and there was a beautiful drawing of it in the library. She was savouring the moment of anticipation before seeing the real thing.
She walked around the cliff. There it was, the cauldron pool. Looking up she saw the thread of water, like Rapunzel’s hair, as Tristan had called it in the song. The thin strip of white water crashed down the fifty foot of cliff into the first bowl. Spray misted the dark air above it. Then it thundered out in a bright, white fall through the hole in the rock and into the main pool, the kieve. Above the hole, on the rock shelf, sat a figure. He was laughing down at her, tossing bright stones into the pool. Light, like fire, seemed to spark upwards
could
see this air, slightly, almost, by looking out the corner of her eye. It was as if the air molecules had a golden edge, like soap bubbles. She shook her head but the effect was still there. Shrugging, she set off again up the path.
Arriving at the wooden bridge by the ash tree Isoldé stood for a moment. Mark had said they always stamped three times on the planks before they went over the bridge, calling out “Permission to cross?” just in case of hungry trolls. She smiled, remembering Billy Goat Gruff.
She put one foot on the planks and tapped out three beats on the wood. ‘Permission to cross …?’ she whispered.
An owl hooted back at her, three times. She peered, looking for it. Hidden against the grey bark and ivy she saw the tawny owl. Behind, in the trunk, she could now see the hole where it must roost up during the day. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
The owl gave a funny sort of purring croon, stepped from foot to foot and turned its head right round and back again on itsshoulders. Isoldé kept one eye on the bird all the way across the bridge.
She carried on up the path until she came to a convenient boulder where she could sit and catch her breath, watch the stream. Just below her it was shallow, limpid water flowing like silk over brown stones, rippling round larger rocks with a sort of “gollumph” noise. The birds were all quiet too, making no sound. It was as if the forest held its breath. Looking around her she guessed she was at the last stretch. The path climbed steeply above her. It must go to the rock tunnel Mark had shown her on the map. Then it would be downhill, down the steps, to the cauldron pool. And the waterfall. There was an ache within her, calling her. She got up and began to climb.
By the time she reached the rock tunnel she was out of breath. She sank into a crouch with her hands flat on the earth and hung her head down, panting. Her fingers tingled, and her feet. At first she put it down to the blood singing through them then she felt a response from the earth, a pulse, and not just the soil but the rocky bones of the planet. Her breath quieted and her eyes opened, she stayed still listening. There was a pulsing humming out of the rocks of the tunnel itself, an almost-sound she couldn’t quite make out. Something leapt across the far exit of the tunnel ahead of her and the sensation stopped.
Isoldé started, shook herself and stood up. What was that? It had gone so fast she couldn’t see. She took a breath, walked through the tunnel out onto the rocky platform and turned down through the gate to the steps.
The downward steps were just as strenuous as the upward path had been. Uneven, rough, sometimes sloping and often slippery, she was glad of the handrail pinned to the rock. Halfway down she passed a shelf-like path curving round to the left. For a moment she almost took it but something pulled her on down.
The sound was incredible now, deafening, the rocksthemselves shuddering in the roar. Reaching the bottom, she stopped a moment to loosen the tension the climb had put in her neck and to uncurl her fingers from the handrail. She knew what was round the corner, Mark had shown her pictures and there was a beautiful drawing of it in the library. She was savouring the moment of anticipation before seeing the real thing.
She walked around the cliff. There it was, the cauldron pool. Looking up she saw the thread of water, like Rapunzel’s hair, as Tristan had called it in the song. The thin strip of white water crashed down the fifty foot of cliff into the first bowl. Spray misted the dark air above it. Then it thundered out in a bright, white fall through the hole in the rock and into the main pool, the kieve. Above the hole, on the rock shelf, sat a figure. He was laughing down at her, tossing bright stones into the pool. Light, like fire, seemed to spark upwards
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