brought here on a wasted journey. After all, if it had been seriously thought on Ancient Earth that evil was breaking out in Farholme, then they wouldnât have sent out someone so young and inexperienced.
Would they?
5
N ext morning Merral awoke to the clamor of trumpets and drums. He lay in bed for some moments listening to the fanfares rolling down from Congregation Hall and echoing over the rooftops, streets, and courtyards of Ynysmant. Then, as every year, there came the answering trumpet blasts and drumrolls from the Gate House and the flag stand on the promontory. âNativity Morn,â he whispered to himself, quietly rejoicing in both the meaning and the familiarity of the day.
As the fanfares echoed and counter-echoed across the town, Merral rose, drew aside the thick insulating curtain, and opened the window. He shivered briefly in the fresh air and then leaned his head out. The winterâs sun was shining obliquely out of a clear sky over the orange-and-brown-tiled roofs, turrets, and copper green spires, leaving the narrow, winding streets below in shadow. From the highest towers and spires, flagsâmostly of scarlet and goldâfluttered gently in the breeze and, as he watched, others were raised to join them. Down beyond the roofs, Merral could see the wave-rippled dull gray waters of Ynysmere Lake, with white gulls wheeling over it and catching the sun. Far beyond, still hazy in the weak morning light, lay the grays and greens of the rolling hills that stretched northward.
Merral stared into the distance, hearing the fanfares and drumrolls rise to passionate ringing climax and then die away. After a few momentsâ silence, from down by the promontory the tolling of bells great and small began, sending pigeons flying skyward. As the sound swept through the town, other bells of different pitches and timbres joined in, until Ynysmant seemed awash with their joyful pealing. Slowly, one by one, the trumpets and percussion sounded, adding new levels and colors of sound. Intoxicated by the music, Merral just stood and immersed himself in the surging and swelling of the melody until, slowly and irresistibly, the music built itself through a series of crescendos up to a final culmination of exultant blasts of trumpets over a thunderous echoing roar of drums and tolling bells. Slowly, the music died away in ebbing ripples of sound until finally the silence was broken only by the gentle flapping of the flags in the breeze.
Merral stood savoring the dying echoes of music and the cries of the gulls as they swung over the rooftops until he was suddenly aware that, even in his night-suit, he was cold. He closed the window and returned to his bed. There he knelt and spent time in praise for all that the festival meant. The tradition of missing breakfast on Nativity Morn to spend time in private worship meant that he was in no need of haste.
Indeed it was more than half an hour later that, dressed in his best brown jacket and red trousers, Merral went downstairs. He took the stairs so silently that none of the three people in the general room heard him, and he paused on the landing to look at them. His father, looking splendid in the primrose-and-silver tunic of the neighborhood band, was polishing his trombone. His mother, dressed in an ample dress of a rich purple fabric, was pacing the room, staring at a vocal score she held and silently mouthing words. Vero, dressed in a rather drab gray suit in which he seemed ill at ease, was seated at the table running a finger under some words in the old family Bible.
As he came down, they shared Nativity greetings among each other, and his mother put her score down on a table and came over and kissed him. His father, for once with immaculately groomed hair and tidy beard, beamed affectionately. âVery nice, Merral. Very nice, you look. Are you singing this morning?â
âNot in the choir. Being up north meant that I had to miss the rehearsals; next
Would they?
5
N ext morning Merral awoke to the clamor of trumpets and drums. He lay in bed for some moments listening to the fanfares rolling down from Congregation Hall and echoing over the rooftops, streets, and courtyards of Ynysmant. Then, as every year, there came the answering trumpet blasts and drumrolls from the Gate House and the flag stand on the promontory. âNativity Morn,â he whispered to himself, quietly rejoicing in both the meaning and the familiarity of the day.
As the fanfares echoed and counter-echoed across the town, Merral rose, drew aside the thick insulating curtain, and opened the window. He shivered briefly in the fresh air and then leaned his head out. The winterâs sun was shining obliquely out of a clear sky over the orange-and-brown-tiled roofs, turrets, and copper green spires, leaving the narrow, winding streets below in shadow. From the highest towers and spires, flagsâmostly of scarlet and goldâfluttered gently in the breeze and, as he watched, others were raised to join them. Down beyond the roofs, Merral could see the wave-rippled dull gray waters of Ynysmere Lake, with white gulls wheeling over it and catching the sun. Far beyond, still hazy in the weak morning light, lay the grays and greens of the rolling hills that stretched northward.
Merral stared into the distance, hearing the fanfares and drumrolls rise to passionate ringing climax and then die away. After a few momentsâ silence, from down by the promontory the tolling of bells great and small began, sending pigeons flying skyward. As the sound swept through the town, other bells of different pitches and timbres joined in, until Ynysmant seemed awash with their joyful pealing. Slowly, one by one, the trumpets and percussion sounded, adding new levels and colors of sound. Intoxicated by the music, Merral just stood and immersed himself in the surging and swelling of the melody until, slowly and irresistibly, the music built itself through a series of crescendos up to a final culmination of exultant blasts of trumpets over a thunderous echoing roar of drums and tolling bells. Slowly, the music died away in ebbing ripples of sound until finally the silence was broken only by the gentle flapping of the flags in the breeze.
Merral stood savoring the dying echoes of music and the cries of the gulls as they swung over the rooftops until he was suddenly aware that, even in his night-suit, he was cold. He closed the window and returned to his bed. There he knelt and spent time in praise for all that the festival meant. The tradition of missing breakfast on Nativity Morn to spend time in private worship meant that he was in no need of haste.
Indeed it was more than half an hour later that, dressed in his best brown jacket and red trousers, Merral went downstairs. He took the stairs so silently that none of the three people in the general room heard him, and he paused on the landing to look at them. His father, looking splendid in the primrose-and-silver tunic of the neighborhood band, was polishing his trombone. His mother, dressed in an ample dress of a rich purple fabric, was pacing the room, staring at a vocal score she held and silently mouthing words. Vero, dressed in a rather drab gray suit in which he seemed ill at ease, was seated at the table running a finger under some words in the old family Bible.
As he came down, they shared Nativity greetings among each other, and his mother put her score down on a table and came over and kissed him. His father, for once with immaculately groomed hair and tidy beard, beamed affectionately. âVery nice, Merral. Very nice, you look. Are you singing this morning?â
âNot in the choir. Being up north meant that I had to miss the rehearsals; next
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