I opened my eyes wide and stared at the darkness, waiting. It didn’t come again. With only the memory, the dream memory of it, I couldn’t judge accurately which direction the sound had come from or whether it was near or distant. At times my recollection was that it was enormously loud and clear. At other times I thought that it had been distant and faint. But every time I tried to sleep again it returned to my mind, a long, hollow moan, which made my heart pound and my eyes snap open to search the darkness.
There was no doubt that the sound was the cry of a beguiler, but there was something different about it that made it far more alarming than any I had heard before. It evoked no desire in me to get up and pursue it. Instead it made me fearful; it made me want to hide from it in the way the villagers hid from the beguilers who called in the streets. As I lay there in utter loneliness, I began to believe that I hadn’t heard the sound at all but that it had come from deep within my own soul, the proof of a madness which might not have emerged yet but was beginning to awaken and give itself expression. I was no longer so enamoured of the darkness. It seemed to live and breathe all around me as though it had a will and substance of its own. At home in my parents’ house, where I never had the need to reach for them, were leaf-lanterns and butter lamps. Here there was no way to find light. None at all. There was nothing for me to do except wait.
By the time morning came I was close to hopelessness. My body was stiff and sore from the tense and restless night and my mind was exhausted, numbed by the continual passage of fearful thoughts which had flowed like hot fluid through my brain. But nocturnal terrors lose their force when daylight comes. Just as it is impossible to imagine the cold of winter while the sun is roasting your skin, so it is impossible to remember the fear of nightmares when the morning comes and the world appears before you in the same form that it always has.
I was quite high on the mountain by now, about halfway between the village and the snow-line. The altitude I had gained the previous day made a difference to the temperature and it was not uncomfortable. The woods were full of chattering and fluttering life, and I was so engrossed by the behaviour of the birds and beasts that I covered miles without realising it.
A yellow-pip grove brought me to a halt. The berries were smaller at the higher altitude, but they were firmer, too, and tasted more substantial. When I had eaten as much as I could and wrapped another meal of them in a free corner of the shawl, I carried on up the hill-side. As I got higher the vegetation began to change. The trees there were smaller and clearly had to struggle harder for existence than their cousins further down. There were no planks to be made from these crooked and stunted trunks, and if it wasn’t for the rare delicacies that were sometimes to be found at such heights, no members of our community would ever venture up so high.
As the day progressed the hard-wood trees gave way to rhododendron, not flowering yet but showing the first signs of making buds. In past years I had been up there during the season when their blossoms covered the whole mountain with pinks and purples and whites, but now the trees were dreary and dark. I kept a close look-out for snow-apples, which are quite common up there, but I didn’t find any.
I found something better, though. Pushing its perpendicular branches out strongly, so that the rhododendrons on either side had to lean away to find light, was one of the finest jub trees that I had ever seen. I was perplexed at first because the branches were laden with ripe nuts as big as my fist, and I couldn’t understand how it was that they hadn’t been harvested yet. I was debating with my conscience about whether or not I could steal a few when it began to dawn on me that the tree had no name inscribed upon it. Three times I circled
There was no doubt that the sound was the cry of a beguiler, but there was something different about it that made it far more alarming than any I had heard before. It evoked no desire in me to get up and pursue it. Instead it made me fearful; it made me want to hide from it in the way the villagers hid from the beguilers who called in the streets. As I lay there in utter loneliness, I began to believe that I hadn’t heard the sound at all but that it had come from deep within my own soul, the proof of a madness which might not have emerged yet but was beginning to awaken and give itself expression. I was no longer so enamoured of the darkness. It seemed to live and breathe all around me as though it had a will and substance of its own. At home in my parents’ house, where I never had the need to reach for them, were leaf-lanterns and butter lamps. Here there was no way to find light. None at all. There was nothing for me to do except wait.
By the time morning came I was close to hopelessness. My body was stiff and sore from the tense and restless night and my mind was exhausted, numbed by the continual passage of fearful thoughts which had flowed like hot fluid through my brain. But nocturnal terrors lose their force when daylight comes. Just as it is impossible to imagine the cold of winter while the sun is roasting your skin, so it is impossible to remember the fear of nightmares when the morning comes and the world appears before you in the same form that it always has.
I was quite high on the mountain by now, about halfway between the village and the snow-line. The altitude I had gained the previous day made a difference to the temperature and it was not uncomfortable. The woods were full of chattering and fluttering life, and I was so engrossed by the behaviour of the birds and beasts that I covered miles without realising it.
A yellow-pip grove brought me to a halt. The berries were smaller at the higher altitude, but they were firmer, too, and tasted more substantial. When I had eaten as much as I could and wrapped another meal of them in a free corner of the shawl, I carried on up the hill-side. As I got higher the vegetation began to change. The trees there were smaller and clearly had to struggle harder for existence than their cousins further down. There were no planks to be made from these crooked and stunted trunks, and if it wasn’t for the rare delicacies that were sometimes to be found at such heights, no members of our community would ever venture up so high.
As the day progressed the hard-wood trees gave way to rhododendron, not flowering yet but showing the first signs of making buds. In past years I had been up there during the season when their blossoms covered the whole mountain with pinks and purples and whites, but now the trees were dreary and dark. I kept a close look-out for snow-apples, which are quite common up there, but I didn’t find any.
I found something better, though. Pushing its perpendicular branches out strongly, so that the rhododendrons on either side had to lean away to find light, was one of the finest jub trees that I had ever seen. I was perplexed at first because the branches were laden with ripe nuts as big as my fist, and I couldn’t understand how it was that they hadn’t been harvested yet. I was debating with my conscience about whether or not I could steal a few when it began to dawn on me that the tree had no name inscribed upon it. Three times I circled
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