The Dark Is Rising by Susan Cooper Page B

round behind the barn; and his hand rested briefly on Will’s shoulder with a faint pressure that told him Farmer Dawson had a good idea of what had been happening in the last few days. He thought of Maggie Barnes and searched hastily for words to frame a warning.
    â€œWhere’s your girl friend, Max?” he said, carefully loud and clear.
    â€œGirl friend?” said Max indignantly. Being deeply involved with a blonde-tressed student at his London art school, from whomenormous blue-enveloped letters arrived in the post every day, he was totally uninterested in all local girls.
    â€œHo, ho, ho,” said Will, trying hard. “
You
know.”
    Fortunately James was fond of this kind of thing, and joined in with enthusiasm. “Maggie-maggie-maggie,” he chanted gaily. “Oh, Maggie the dairymaid’s sweet on Maxie the great artist, oooh — oooh. . . . ”Max punched him in the ribs, and he lapsed into snorting giggles.
    â€œYoung Maggie’s had to leave us,” Mr Dawson said coolly. “Illness in the family. Needed at home. She packed up and went early this morning. Sorry to disappoint you, Max.”
    â€œI’m not disappointed,” said Max, turning scarlet. “It’s just these stupid little —”
    â€œOooooh — oooooh,” sang James, dancing about out of arm’s length. “Oooh poor Maxie, lost his Maggie —”
    Will said nothing. He was satisfied.
    The tall fir tree, its branches tied down with bands of hairy white string, was loaded onto the handcart, and with it the gnarled old root of a beech tree that Farmer Dawson had cut down earlier that year, split in half, and put aside to make Yule logs for himself and the Stantons. It had to be the root of a tree, not a branch, Will knew, though nobody had ever explained why. At home, they would put the log on the fire tonight in the big brick fireplace in the living room, and it would burn slowly all the evening until they went to bed. Somewhere stored away was a piece of last year’s Yule log, saved to be used as kindling for its successor.
    â€œHere,” Old George said, appearing suddenly at Will’s side as they all pushed the cart out of the gate. “You should have some of this.” He thrust forward a great bunch of holly, heavy with berries.
    â€œVery good of you, George,” said Mr Stanton. “But we do have that big holly tree by the front door, you know. If you know anyone who hasn’t —”
    â€œNo, no, you take it.” The old man wagged his finger. “Not half so many berries on that bush o’ yours. Partic’lar holly, this is.” He laid it carefully in the cart; then quickly broke off a sprig and slipped it into the top buttonhole of Will’s coat. “And a good protection against the Dark,” the old voice said low in Will’s ear, “if pinned over the window, and over the door.” Then the pink-gummed grin splithis creased brown face in a squawk of ancient laughter, and the Old One was Old George again, waving them away. “Happy Christmas!”
    â€œHappy Christmas, George!”
    When they carried the tree ceremonially through the front door, the twins seized it with cross-boards and screwdrivers, to give it a base. At the other end of the room Mary and Barbara sat in a rustling sea of coloured paper, cutting it into strips, red, yellow, blue, green, and gluing them into interlocked circles for paper-chains.
    â€œYou should have done those yesterday,” Will said. “They’ll need time to dry.”
    â€œ
You
should have done them yesterday,” Mary said resentfully, tossing back her long hair. “It’s supposed to be the youngest’s job.”
    â€œI cut up lots of strips the other day,” Will said.
    â€œWe used those up hours ago.”
    â€œI did cut them, all the same.”
    â€œBesides,” Barbara said peaceably, “he was Christmas shopping