Tales from the Tower, Volume 2 by Isobelle Carmody Page A
Authors: Isobelle Carmody
Tags: Young Adult Fiction
Ads: Link
gutted and extended and dry-lined. In its new incarnation it consisted of a dining hall, a huge yoga room, treatment and massage rooms and a little suite of offices. The courtyard had been rebuilt, tastefully, and held the guest accommodation and the kitchens. His brother had given up the drink and the inmates were all on detox programs, so he went on his own to the pub in the village, where he discovered his fame had travelled ahead of him. He was welcomed as a favourite son and not allowed to put his hand in his pocket all evening.
He slept in a little boxroom in the attic of the house and derived a certain sense of schadenfreude from the discovery that it was heaving with rats. It gave him an idea for a poem and he chewed on it for a while before he went to sleep, but in the morning its soul had vanished, leaving nothing but a thin, desiccated corpse.
He stayed in the house for three days, despite his brotherâs obvious discomfort. He did not belong in those incensed surroundings. His presence disturbed the hallowed atmosphere. So he made himself scarce during the hours of daylight, and if the house reawakened none of the numinous experiences of youth, then at least the land did. His brother had let it to a neighbouring farmer, with organic conditions attached in keeping with the holy principles of the spa. Clean sheep and shiny cattle grazed the parkland.
The trees in the woods were untouched. They were still as he remembered them. He got up close and down close. He felt the brown soil and the black leaf mould, ran his fingers over rough bark and smooth bark, smelled the bruised leaves underfoot. The first day was blustery and showery. Rain followed sunshine followed rain. He could stand beneath the gloom of heavy cloud and see a nearby hill or copse shining in brilliant light. He could stand in full sun and see the same places dim beneath a blue-green mist. Rainbows blazed into absurd and impossible existence, then faded and died. Across the valley he watched rain fall in silver stripes against the hill.
He remembered games: soldiers and spies and cow- boys. The Irish rebel army lying in wait for the Black and Tans. Urgent messages that had to be delivered against impossible odds. He was suddenly back there, scrambling down gullies, darting from cover to cover, leaping over rocks and streams and fallen branches. Until he turned his ankle and remembered himself, and saw himself for what he was: a revenant, plundering the imagination of a child long gone.
He walked across the fields to the village and had lunch â a sandwich â in the pub. Afterwards he returned to the farm and looked for trout to tickle in the stream. There were none, so he spent the afternoon constructing a dam instead which, as the light began to fade, he bombed with massive rocks. He returned to the house and slipped in by a side door, so as not to terrify the clientele with his happy, wet, muddy presence.
Initially, their communications were sparse, brief, cold. But over the six weeks that he stayed away, they defrosted and became longer. She kept him abreast of developments in her new enterprise, and if he never came around to the idea, he did at least learn to accept it. She was who she was and he was not going to change her. In spite of that, or maybe because of it, he loved her and missed her more with every day that passed. And in any event, he knew he couldnât go on the way he was going. He had to pull himself together. His body was rebelling against his abuse of it, and the doctorâs warnings bellowed inside his head like the voice of the Old Testament God.
Finally he bit the bullet, swore off the drink again, and returned to his home and to his love.
{1 9 }
He had never suggested that he was leaving her, but his absence had still frightened her. She rejected the advice of both her analyst and her friends, all of whom suggested that she use the time and space to stand back and take stock of herself and
He slept in a little boxroom in the attic of the house and derived a certain sense of schadenfreude from the discovery that it was heaving with rats. It gave him an idea for a poem and he chewed on it for a while before he went to sleep, but in the morning its soul had vanished, leaving nothing but a thin, desiccated corpse.
He stayed in the house for three days, despite his brotherâs obvious discomfort. He did not belong in those incensed surroundings. His presence disturbed the hallowed atmosphere. So he made himself scarce during the hours of daylight, and if the house reawakened none of the numinous experiences of youth, then at least the land did. His brother had let it to a neighbouring farmer, with organic conditions attached in keeping with the holy principles of the spa. Clean sheep and shiny cattle grazed the parkland.
The trees in the woods were untouched. They were still as he remembered them. He got up close and down close. He felt the brown soil and the black leaf mould, ran his fingers over rough bark and smooth bark, smelled the bruised leaves underfoot. The first day was blustery and showery. Rain followed sunshine followed rain. He could stand beneath the gloom of heavy cloud and see a nearby hill or copse shining in brilliant light. He could stand in full sun and see the same places dim beneath a blue-green mist. Rainbows blazed into absurd and impossible existence, then faded and died. Across the valley he watched rain fall in silver stripes against the hill.
He remembered games: soldiers and spies and cow- boys. The Irish rebel army lying in wait for the Black and Tans. Urgent messages that had to be delivered against impossible odds. He was suddenly back there, scrambling down gullies, darting from cover to cover, leaping over rocks and streams and fallen branches. Until he turned his ankle and remembered himself, and saw himself for what he was: a revenant, plundering the imagination of a child long gone.
He walked across the fields to the village and had lunch â a sandwich â in the pub. Afterwards he returned to the farm and looked for trout to tickle in the stream. There were none, so he spent the afternoon constructing a dam instead which, as the light began to fade, he bombed with massive rocks. He returned to the house and slipped in by a side door, so as not to terrify the clientele with his happy, wet, muddy presence.
Initially, their communications were sparse, brief, cold. But over the six weeks that he stayed away, they defrosted and became longer. She kept him abreast of developments in her new enterprise, and if he never came around to the idea, he did at least learn to accept it. She was who she was and he was not going to change her. In spite of that, or maybe because of it, he loved her and missed her more with every day that passed. And in any event, he knew he couldnât go on the way he was going. He had to pull himself together. His body was rebelling against his abuse of it, and the doctorâs warnings bellowed inside his head like the voice of the Old Testament God.
Finally he bit the bullet, swore off the drink again, and returned to his home and to his love.
{1 9 }
He had never suggested that he was leaving her, but his absence had still frightened her. She rejected the advice of both her analyst and her friends, all of whom suggested that she use the time and space to stand back and take stock of herself and
Similar Books
