included the following entry:
For some details of local lore, see 'Legends of Fordrace and the Wirrim' (1894) by Harold Limmins, a local teacher and scholar. Published a hundred years ago, this remains the only work to address this subject in any detail.
That was more like it. Tom looked at his watch. He would ring Sarah soon to check on the boy. But first . . . He got up from the wicker chair and began scanning the rows hungrily. From an adjacent row, Ms Sawcroft, laden high with books, smiled over at him.
"Having any luck, Tom?" she asked.
"I'm homing in," he replied, and went on searching.
11
The Wirrim that morning was at its most beautiful. The rounded folds were splashed over with an easy sunlight, which fired the grass slopes and the stone walls' broken chain with a tint of gold. Only the steepest valleys on the southern side remained in shadow, where cold streams plummeted in thin cascades a step at a time, and each step was a hundred feet. The air blew fresh and strong, and clouds fleeced comfortably in the sky, casting teasing shadows on the bright earth.
Stephen and Michael climbed, each consumed by his own thoughts.
Stephen hardly registered the view at all. The ease with which his brother had sworn the forbidden oath had shocked him, and made him deeply ill at ease. He was prepared to follow where Michael led – he owed the oath that much. But when Michael's imagination dried up, and his lie was left exposed, Stephen had no idea what he would do. A good beating was in order, but that would probably upset Sarah even more than Michael's behaviour had in the first place. She had set a lot of store on her family's mutual support in the last few months, and Stephen and Michael had done their best to be restrained. But now – Stephen kicked out at a pebble on the path – his restraint was hanging by a thread.
Michael picked his way around the jutting stones of the steep path with unconscious skill. Almost as soon as he had made his declaration to his brother – a declaration that was both justification and challenge – he had begun to regret it. He did not regret the savagery of his oath, for his word was true; nor did he regret, exactly, showing Stephen the special place. It was more . . . well, he was not at all sure that Stephen really deserved this knowledge. As the morning wore on and they climbed higher, he felt a gnawing certainty grow in him that he should have kept his secret to himself. It was his own weakness that had done it, his weak-willed need to share; but how could he share something as strange and singular as this, even with his own brother? Stephen had no hope of understanding, he had no gift. He was just a common boy, special only for the hidden beauty of his face.
Twice, on the early stages of the trek, while they were fringing the Russet and keeping to cattle paths and easy walk-ways, Michael had lagged behind his brother and turned the sight on him behind his back. Both times the outline of a horse's head, resplendent with pulsating life, had appeared to him, and suddenly, Michael had known what he was looking at.
It was his brother's soul.
What else could it be? It was no aspect of his physical state, that was for sure, yet it seemed to coexist with his physical body. It was constantly swirling in upon itself, like magma beneath the earth, or – Michael smiled at the simplicity of the analogy – like soup in a pan just before boiling. It had a thousand colours, lit by an inner light, and what he marvelled at most of all was the fact that it reflected Stephen's emotions. The whole thing was swirling with anxiety, with streaks of red, and darker thoughts. Once, when Stephen tripped on a tree root, and Michael heard his voice curse loudly, he saw a brief swirl of angry purple burst up from inside the soul and fade away.
There was no question; it was a beautiful sight, and Michael could have gone on watching it all day and never switched back to the boring old colours of the
For some details of local lore, see 'Legends of Fordrace and the Wirrim' (1894) by Harold Limmins, a local teacher and scholar. Published a hundred years ago, this remains the only work to address this subject in any detail.
That was more like it. Tom looked at his watch. He would ring Sarah soon to check on the boy. But first . . . He got up from the wicker chair and began scanning the rows hungrily. From an adjacent row, Ms Sawcroft, laden high with books, smiled over at him.
"Having any luck, Tom?" she asked.
"I'm homing in," he replied, and went on searching.
11
The Wirrim that morning was at its most beautiful. The rounded folds were splashed over with an easy sunlight, which fired the grass slopes and the stone walls' broken chain with a tint of gold. Only the steepest valleys on the southern side remained in shadow, where cold streams plummeted in thin cascades a step at a time, and each step was a hundred feet. The air blew fresh and strong, and clouds fleeced comfortably in the sky, casting teasing shadows on the bright earth.
Stephen and Michael climbed, each consumed by his own thoughts.
Stephen hardly registered the view at all. The ease with which his brother had sworn the forbidden oath had shocked him, and made him deeply ill at ease. He was prepared to follow where Michael led – he owed the oath that much. But when Michael's imagination dried up, and his lie was left exposed, Stephen had no idea what he would do. A good beating was in order, but that would probably upset Sarah even more than Michael's behaviour had in the first place. She had set a lot of store on her family's mutual support in the last few months, and Stephen and Michael had done their best to be restrained. But now – Stephen kicked out at a pebble on the path – his restraint was hanging by a thread.
Michael picked his way around the jutting stones of the steep path with unconscious skill. Almost as soon as he had made his declaration to his brother – a declaration that was both justification and challenge – he had begun to regret it. He did not regret the savagery of his oath, for his word was true; nor did he regret, exactly, showing Stephen the special place. It was more . . . well, he was not at all sure that Stephen really deserved this knowledge. As the morning wore on and they climbed higher, he felt a gnawing certainty grow in him that he should have kept his secret to himself. It was his own weakness that had done it, his weak-willed need to share; but how could he share something as strange and singular as this, even with his own brother? Stephen had no hope of understanding, he had no gift. He was just a common boy, special only for the hidden beauty of his face.
Twice, on the early stages of the trek, while they were fringing the Russet and keeping to cattle paths and easy walk-ways, Michael had lagged behind his brother and turned the sight on him behind his back. Both times the outline of a horse's head, resplendent with pulsating life, had appeared to him, and suddenly, Michael had known what he was looking at.
It was his brother's soul.
What else could it be? It was no aspect of his physical state, that was for sure, yet it seemed to coexist with his physical body. It was constantly swirling in upon itself, like magma beneath the earth, or – Michael smiled at the simplicity of the analogy – like soup in a pan just before boiling. It had a thousand colours, lit by an inner light, and what he marvelled at most of all was the fact that it reflected Stephen's emotions. The whole thing was swirling with anxiety, with streaks of red, and darker thoughts. Once, when Stephen tripped on a tree root, and Michael heard his voice curse loudly, he saw a brief swirl of angry purple burst up from inside the soul and fade away.
There was no question; it was a beautiful sight, and Michael could have gone on watching it all day and never switched back to the boring old colours of the
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