laugh, Meredith. You’re so never scared of anything. Like, just waking up screaming in the middle of the night.”
“Once in my life,” Merry said, referring to a dream she’d had the previous year.
“Merry, I’m so sorry, but that’s crazy,” Adam said angrily. “I’m not one of your stupid friends who think you two look oh-so-much alike that you’re the same person. I heard both of you screaming a bunch of times. Mally, too. Like scream in your sleep the way you do in a nightmare. And you were just out there talking to yourself.”
“I was repeating a poem,” Merry said. “Med-i-ta-tion. It’s peaceful.”
“You’re about as peaceful as a fire in a fireworks factory!”
“Let’s go look it up. It’s for school.” Merry had to distract him.
She stood on Adam’s knee to pull down Tim’s dusty volume of Treasures of British and American Poetry. She didn’t find the line Ben had repeated. Merry went to the computer and typed in, “Though hell should bar the way.” Immediately, this poem, pages long, sprang up.
“This old poem, Ant. Listen. There are Web sites for it. People are just crazy about it. There are about a bazillion mentions,” said Merry.
“Fascinating,” said Adam.
“Listen,” Merry said. She read to Adam about the poem. It was old, as old as ... crazy old, like from before the turn of the century. And not 2001. It was about a girl watching out the window, waiting for her sweetheart, the highwayman. Her name was Bess, the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, who tied a dark-red ribbon into her long black hair. After a brief visit and a single kiss, the highwayman set out to rob someone. Bess was captured by British soldiers who took over her father’s ... uh, hotel. They wanted to shoot her boyfriend, who, while being a highway robber, was evidently a good person in other ways, rather like Robin Hood. At least, Bess seemed to think so. The soldiers got drunk and tied Bess to a bed, with a gun under her stomach, so that she couldn’t move. It grew dark, closer to night. Only she knew that her lover was coming up the road.
She heard the hoofbeats.
The soldiers heard the hoofbeats.
Then, Bess moved her finger and pulled the trigger. Excited, Merry read the poem aloud to Adam.
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter, the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
“Can we watch TV? Can we go shovel the walk?” Adam whined.
“It didn’t snow,” Merry told him.
“I know but I can’t take anymore of this poem.”
“Adam! Listen, this is the good part.” She told her brother about how the highwayman found out about Bess and turned back. The British soldiers shot him down in the highway, “down like a dog” in the road, where he lay in his own blood.
Meredith began to cry. She could see Adam watching her curiously but couldn’t stop. The old poem, to him, must have seemed boring or creepy. It was the most beautiful thing that Merry had ever read. And when she got to the end, she thought she might cry herself sick.
“This is the end,” she told Adam. “Just a few more lines.”
“It better be,” he said.
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black
“Once in my life,” Merry said, referring to a dream she’d had the previous year.
“Merry, I’m so sorry, but that’s crazy,” Adam said angrily. “I’m not one of your stupid friends who think you two look oh-so-much alike that you’re the same person. I heard both of you screaming a bunch of times. Mally, too. Like scream in your sleep the way you do in a nightmare. And you were just out there talking to yourself.”
“I was repeating a poem,” Merry said. “Med-i-ta-tion. It’s peaceful.”
“You’re about as peaceful as a fire in a fireworks factory!”
“Let’s go look it up. It’s for school.” Merry had to distract him.
She stood on Adam’s knee to pull down Tim’s dusty volume of Treasures of British and American Poetry. She didn’t find the line Ben had repeated. Merry went to the computer and typed in, “Though hell should bar the way.” Immediately, this poem, pages long, sprang up.
“This old poem, Ant. Listen. There are Web sites for it. People are just crazy about it. There are about a bazillion mentions,” said Merry.
“Fascinating,” said Adam.
“Listen,” Merry said. She read to Adam about the poem. It was old, as old as ... crazy old, like from before the turn of the century. And not 2001. It was about a girl watching out the window, waiting for her sweetheart, the highwayman. Her name was Bess, the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, who tied a dark-red ribbon into her long black hair. After a brief visit and a single kiss, the highwayman set out to rob someone. Bess was captured by British soldiers who took over her father’s ... uh, hotel. They wanted to shoot her boyfriend, who, while being a highway robber, was evidently a good person in other ways, rather like Robin Hood. At least, Bess seemed to think so. The soldiers got drunk and tied Bess to a bed, with a gun under her stomach, so that she couldn’t move. It grew dark, closer to night. Only she knew that her lover was coming up the road.
She heard the hoofbeats.
The soldiers heard the hoofbeats.
Then, Bess moved her finger and pulled the trigger. Excited, Merry read the poem aloud to Adam.
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter, the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
“Can we watch TV? Can we go shovel the walk?” Adam whined.
“It didn’t snow,” Merry told him.
“I know but I can’t take anymore of this poem.”
“Adam! Listen, this is the good part.” She told her brother about how the highwayman found out about Bess and turned back. The British soldiers shot him down in the highway, “down like a dog” in the road, where he lay in his own blood.
Meredith began to cry. She could see Adam watching her curiously but couldn’t stop. The old poem, to him, must have seemed boring or creepy. It was the most beautiful thing that Merry had ever read. And when she got to the end, she thought she might cry herself sick.
“This is the end,” she told Adam. “Just a few more lines.”
“It better be,” he said.
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black
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