ghost-singing youth, we can be at Old Stone Hollow in four or five hours.”
“I want to go home,” Richard said, hardly finding the breath to speak, feeling his despair rise as tears.
Lacan shook him gently, then squeezed the lobe of his left ear. “I know you do, my friend. But by this evening, fed, well-wined, and surrounded by good company, you will feel very differently. If you don’t, then I will take you home personally. That is a promise. But trust me for the moment, Richard. There is nothing to be afraid of. Truly. You’ll soon get used to what is happening. Will you trust me?”
Helpless, Richard nodded. “I’ll trust you,” he said dully.
Lacan laughed in his falsely enlarged fashion and walked to the A-frame, Richard following. “What a foolish man you are, then! But I still can’t help liking you. I must be going bosky. Come on, we must hurry, or those other drunkards will consume all the Burgundy.”
The Green Chapel: 3
The hollyjack was fat with birds, crows by the sound they made as they shifted inside her. She had extended her nest until now it was a massive structure of dead wood, yellow grasses, and thick briar, covering the whole of the double doors below the broken window where the knight challenged the half-glimpsed monster. She shrieked now, rather than chattered. Her activities were directed solely to expanding the fat sphere of the nest. Alex watched her curiously, usually from the high window where a rain gutter, stretching out over the graveyard, gave him a position to swing from. Whenever she looked up at him and bristled her smile, he called down his name.
“Alex! It’s come home to me. Alex! My name. It’s come home. I’m Alex! ”
Chatter-shriek-chirrup. (That’s a good name. Has it brought good dreams with it?)
“Yes. I dreamed I was playing in fields. I ran through long grass, full of thistles. I flew kites. I caught fish in the pond near the fallen stones. I lived in a small house, which was very dark, but it had a big fire. My mother was always writing letters. My father walked up and down a lot, and watched cricket. He seemed very sad. I made things with wood. I’m Alex. I’m going home.”
Flutter-shriek-chatterchatter-rustle. (Your father is looking for you. He’s in danger. The daurog are calm now, but the seasons are changing quickly again. Call to him to be careful.)
“He can’t hear me. I’m going home, though. He’s coming to me. My name is Alex. Alex has come home. The giggler won’t get me now.”
He swung down the ivy ladder and ran past the fat hollyjack, tugging at her leaves mischievously, to stand and stare at the figure in the window.
A name was close here, too, a certain recognition. He was waking from a long sleep. He felt his eyes open and his head expand. At first it was strange, but soon he began to grasp that a form of memory was returning. His name had come home, a bright bird that had flown through the wildwood and entered him, like an old friend. And now he knew the knight in the window, and the creature that he was killing, but the name still eluded him, even now he had become conscious of searching for it. And the faces at the edgewood were familiar too, all save the giggler, which changed so much that he could never be sure if the creature was there or not.
But the other inhabitants tickled his imagination now, suggested stories to him. They brought thoughts of sea voyages and great monsters, sword-fights and silver armour, wild rides in the night, with baying hounds, and great castles encased in rose briar and blackthorn.
He began to name things, feeling the words and the identity flow into him from the air as if they were a fine rain, drizzling through his hair and eyes and ears, into his mind. He screeched with pleasure as each name returned, “Gargoyle! Crucifix! Gravestone!” And as he remembered the faces at the edgewood, “Robin Hood … Lancelot … Jason…”
Some of these names frightened him because when they
“I want to go home,” Richard said, hardly finding the breath to speak, feeling his despair rise as tears.
Lacan shook him gently, then squeezed the lobe of his left ear. “I know you do, my friend. But by this evening, fed, well-wined, and surrounded by good company, you will feel very differently. If you don’t, then I will take you home personally. That is a promise. But trust me for the moment, Richard. There is nothing to be afraid of. Truly. You’ll soon get used to what is happening. Will you trust me?”
Helpless, Richard nodded. “I’ll trust you,” he said dully.
Lacan laughed in his falsely enlarged fashion and walked to the A-frame, Richard following. “What a foolish man you are, then! But I still can’t help liking you. I must be going bosky. Come on, we must hurry, or those other drunkards will consume all the Burgundy.”
The Green Chapel: 3
The hollyjack was fat with birds, crows by the sound they made as they shifted inside her. She had extended her nest until now it was a massive structure of dead wood, yellow grasses, and thick briar, covering the whole of the double doors below the broken window where the knight challenged the half-glimpsed monster. She shrieked now, rather than chattered. Her activities were directed solely to expanding the fat sphere of the nest. Alex watched her curiously, usually from the high window where a rain gutter, stretching out over the graveyard, gave him a position to swing from. Whenever she looked up at him and bristled her smile, he called down his name.
“Alex! It’s come home to me. Alex! My name. It’s come home. I’m Alex! ”
Chatter-shriek-chirrup. (That’s a good name. Has it brought good dreams with it?)
“Yes. I dreamed I was playing in fields. I ran through long grass, full of thistles. I flew kites. I caught fish in the pond near the fallen stones. I lived in a small house, which was very dark, but it had a big fire. My mother was always writing letters. My father walked up and down a lot, and watched cricket. He seemed very sad. I made things with wood. I’m Alex. I’m going home.”
Flutter-shriek-chatterchatter-rustle. (Your father is looking for you. He’s in danger. The daurog are calm now, but the seasons are changing quickly again. Call to him to be careful.)
“He can’t hear me. I’m going home, though. He’s coming to me. My name is Alex. Alex has come home. The giggler won’t get me now.”
He swung down the ivy ladder and ran past the fat hollyjack, tugging at her leaves mischievously, to stand and stare at the figure in the window.
A name was close here, too, a certain recognition. He was waking from a long sleep. He felt his eyes open and his head expand. At first it was strange, but soon he began to grasp that a form of memory was returning. His name had come home, a bright bird that had flown through the wildwood and entered him, like an old friend. And now he knew the knight in the window, and the creature that he was killing, but the name still eluded him, even now he had become conscious of searching for it. And the faces at the edgewood were familiar too, all save the giggler, which changed so much that he could never be sure if the creature was there or not.
But the other inhabitants tickled his imagination now, suggested stories to him. They brought thoughts of sea voyages and great monsters, sword-fights and silver armour, wild rides in the night, with baying hounds, and great castles encased in rose briar and blackthorn.
He began to name things, feeling the words and the identity flow into him from the air as if they were a fine rain, drizzling through his hair and eyes and ears, into his mind. He screeched with pleasure as each name returned, “Gargoyle! Crucifix! Gravestone!” And as he remembered the faces at the edgewood, “Robin Hood … Lancelot … Jason…”
Some of these names frightened him because when they
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