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Authors: Michael Phillips
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ten. Everyone had long since retired.
It had been a warm day. The evening remained warm as well. Percy’s window stood open. Straight out from him, midway up into the sky, a few reminders remained of the brilliant reds, yellows, oranges, and purples of the sunset that had come and now were gone. No noticeable disturbance of the air came to his face. Yet he felt the faintest tingling of the sea somewhere about his nostrils, borne inland on breezes too light to be felt by the skin. He continued to gaze in the general direction of the ancient Green Isle of Ireland, which was supposed to be out there somewhere. Closer at hand he could just barely make out the fading dividing line between the blackening green of sea and the faint dimming goldening blue of sky.
What was on his mind, even sixteen-year-old Percival Drummond himself could not have said. He was young for introspection and unaccustomed to the exercise though its season was approaching. How far away and long ago Glasgow seemed—another world from this.
He reflected on the incident that had sent him here in the first place—the theft of the sterling mug. It was not the first such incident.
What had possessed him to do such things? So remote it now seemed in his memory.
What caused the reckless streak within him? Was his rebellion directed against his father? If so, again came the question—why? Did he resent his father’s profession? Had he been trying to discredit him, make him look foolish in the eyes of his parishioners?
For now, such questions remained unanswered.
The only sounds coming from outside were crickets, turning the darkness into their own chirping symphony. From the stables behind the house, whenever the crickets paused to rest their leggy instruments, the occasional stamp of horse’s hoof or snort of nose and lips broke the silence.
He knew his father had sent him here to change. But now the question rose, and with it an inexplicable annoyance: Did he
want
to change?
A last vestige of insurrection rose within him.
I am who I am
, Percy said to himself with mounting indignation.
I am not my father. I am no one but me. I shall do as I please! Nothing will change me!
He turned from the window and took several restless paces into the room. Realizing there was no place to go, he turned toward the window again.
He swore under his breath, hardly pausing to reflect that his father, peaceful man though he was, would whip him if he heard such from his lips.
He closed the window with a bang, angry at the crickets, angry at the tomfool of a horse who was keeping the stables awake, angry at the peaceful and fragrant air, angry at the sea, angry at the mountains, angry at his father for sentencing him to this ridiculous place.
He spun around and walked toward his bed and threw himself on his back. Mercifully sleep eventually brought an end to the tedious day.
Percy awoke the following morning, fleetingly thought himself back in his bed in Glasgow, then realized with a sinking feeling that his waking had brought a return of the bad dream.
His second morning in Wales passed much like the first. By noon he was going so mad with cabin fever that he had to get out and find
something
to do.
After lunch he left the house again, determined to find some way to pass the afternoon.
In truth, Percy was more insecure than he let on. He was not quite sure of himself here. He was out of his element and could not help feeling a little ill at ease. He fancied himself more a man of the city than he actually was. Whether he would allow that insecurity to be transformed into humility, or would encourage it to fester into smoldering bitterness against his father—the most natural, though illogical, target of youth’s imagined grievance—only he would be able to determine.
Once outside, Percy walked around one wall of the huge stone manor house. He soon found himself among hedges and roses and flowers. As yet they held little fascination for him. He was not alive
It had been a warm day. The evening remained warm as well. Percy’s window stood open. Straight out from him, midway up into the sky, a few reminders remained of the brilliant reds, yellows, oranges, and purples of the sunset that had come and now were gone. No noticeable disturbance of the air came to his face. Yet he felt the faintest tingling of the sea somewhere about his nostrils, borne inland on breezes too light to be felt by the skin. He continued to gaze in the general direction of the ancient Green Isle of Ireland, which was supposed to be out there somewhere. Closer at hand he could just barely make out the fading dividing line between the blackening green of sea and the faint dimming goldening blue of sky.
What was on his mind, even sixteen-year-old Percival Drummond himself could not have said. He was young for introspection and unaccustomed to the exercise though its season was approaching. How far away and long ago Glasgow seemed—another world from this.
He reflected on the incident that had sent him here in the first place—the theft of the sterling mug. It was not the first such incident.
What had possessed him to do such things? So remote it now seemed in his memory.
What caused the reckless streak within him? Was his rebellion directed against his father? If so, again came the question—why? Did he resent his father’s profession? Had he been trying to discredit him, make him look foolish in the eyes of his parishioners?
For now, such questions remained unanswered.
The only sounds coming from outside were crickets, turning the darkness into their own chirping symphony. From the stables behind the house, whenever the crickets paused to rest their leggy instruments, the occasional stamp of horse’s hoof or snort of nose and lips broke the silence.
He knew his father had sent him here to change. But now the question rose, and with it an inexplicable annoyance: Did he
want
to change?
A last vestige of insurrection rose within him.
I am who I am
, Percy said to himself with mounting indignation.
I am not my father. I am no one but me. I shall do as I please! Nothing will change me!
He turned from the window and took several restless paces into the room. Realizing there was no place to go, he turned toward the window again.
He swore under his breath, hardly pausing to reflect that his father, peaceful man though he was, would whip him if he heard such from his lips.
He closed the window with a bang, angry at the crickets, angry at the tomfool of a horse who was keeping the stables awake, angry at the peaceful and fragrant air, angry at the sea, angry at the mountains, angry at his father for sentencing him to this ridiculous place.
He spun around and walked toward his bed and threw himself on his back. Mercifully sleep eventually brought an end to the tedious day.
Percy awoke the following morning, fleetingly thought himself back in his bed in Glasgow, then realized with a sinking feeling that his waking had brought a return of the bad dream.
His second morning in Wales passed much like the first. By noon he was going so mad with cabin fever that he had to get out and find
something
to do.
After lunch he left the house again, determined to find some way to pass the afternoon.
In truth, Percy was more insecure than he let on. He was not quite sure of himself here. He was out of his element and could not help feeling a little ill at ease. He fancied himself more a man of the city than he actually was. Whether he would allow that insecurity to be transformed into humility, or would encourage it to fester into smoldering bitterness against his father—the most natural, though illogical, target of youth’s imagined grievance—only he would be able to determine.
Once outside, Percy walked around one wall of the huge stone manor house. He soon found himself among hedges and roses and flowers. As yet they held little fascination for him. He was not alive
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