ultimate retreat. And like any landscape from which a painting has been taken, it was subtly different, even though familiar. He paused to consider.
He judged it an hour before dawn. Either the sky was humming, or that ghost army was marching to war again. But the sky was the wrong hue to hum. It was the sullen grey colour of a dirty soapstone, and had the same slippery texture. Even the stars seemed to be inevitably losing their purchase, and slipping down and down.
It seemed to him that there were more conical shag-roofed grain ricks in the fields than he would have expected to see, and that they were clustered very close together, so that they resembled statues in grass raincoats and enormous hats.
The dog whimpered beside him, but when he started down from the rise, it gulped once and then agreed to follow, though from the way its rear legs gave from time to time, it had no wish to do so.
Though it was only the middle of July, the air seemedchoked with the acrid stench of some final autumn. The smoke of any autumn is melancholy enough. But what shall we say when smoke from the very last leaves also dissipates for the last time, as we look up, into the indifferent air? The death of a tree is more affecting than the death of a man, for a tree is nobler and more patient.
Of course there are countries without trees, but there is not much to be said for the people who live in them. Only a mountain can survive above a tree. Yet some men hate them, and would dig them up almost vindictively.
As he came closer down towards the valley road, he saw that the ricks could not be ricks, for they were moving, slowly, as quietly as they could, but moving none the less. He could hear them creak and rustle, with the sound of a moorhen in hiding. This no longer alarmed him much. He had been through too many horrors any longer to be alarmed at anything but apparent normalcy. But he was puzzled. He was used to an explicit landscape, though of course he knew that no landscape is ever explicit, for everything in it is constantly changing and therefore alive. It is merely that we do not notice that change, for rocks and trees and hedge flowers have a different metabolism from ours. Some live too fast for us, but most too slow. If our own metabolism were to change unexpectedly , we should find ourselves on a parity with things we now regard too much as our inferiors or superiors to understand either the groan of a rock, or for that matter, the bright darting mindlessness of a bird. Therefore, for a moment, he wondered if he was either vastly longer in lifespan, or unexpectedly dead.
For certainly these ricks were quivering. One or two ofthem even rumbled. And there was the impression of moving cloth. All of them were coming towards him, though none used the road. He and the dog had the road completely to themselves. Perhaps, being made for man, it was forbidden to ricks. But as he went in one direction, the ricks went in the other, groaning a little, towards the woods. He had only to stop to notice the motion.
The landscape around him had been tilled so long that it had the odour of a particularly valuable garden. He rounded a bend, where the ground unexpectedly dropped, and there the dog let out such a howl, that the ricks seemed to go faster. Muchaku stopped.
It was what was in the hollow that made the dog cringe. Before him the road extended to what in the distance looked like a lighted inn. But he did not think of going on. He stood as though warned against something he had always trusted. The idea that he was walking through a landscape by his brother, apart from filling him with a filial warmth, had lulled him into a sense of trust, despite those ricks. But now, looking down into the hollow, he had not known his brother had seen such things.
Outwardly the hollow looked peaceful, but there were two or three ricks here, too, gathered around a tree with a blind and submissive look. There were a few cottages in the distance, if they
He judged it an hour before dawn. Either the sky was humming, or that ghost army was marching to war again. But the sky was the wrong hue to hum. It was the sullen grey colour of a dirty soapstone, and had the same slippery texture. Even the stars seemed to be inevitably losing their purchase, and slipping down and down.
It seemed to him that there were more conical shag-roofed grain ricks in the fields than he would have expected to see, and that they were clustered very close together, so that they resembled statues in grass raincoats and enormous hats.
The dog whimpered beside him, but when he started down from the rise, it gulped once and then agreed to follow, though from the way its rear legs gave from time to time, it had no wish to do so.
Though it was only the middle of July, the air seemedchoked with the acrid stench of some final autumn. The smoke of any autumn is melancholy enough. But what shall we say when smoke from the very last leaves also dissipates for the last time, as we look up, into the indifferent air? The death of a tree is more affecting than the death of a man, for a tree is nobler and more patient.
Of course there are countries without trees, but there is not much to be said for the people who live in them. Only a mountain can survive above a tree. Yet some men hate them, and would dig them up almost vindictively.
As he came closer down towards the valley road, he saw that the ricks could not be ricks, for they were moving, slowly, as quietly as they could, but moving none the less. He could hear them creak and rustle, with the sound of a moorhen in hiding. This no longer alarmed him much. He had been through too many horrors any longer to be alarmed at anything but apparent normalcy. But he was puzzled. He was used to an explicit landscape, though of course he knew that no landscape is ever explicit, for everything in it is constantly changing and therefore alive. It is merely that we do not notice that change, for rocks and trees and hedge flowers have a different metabolism from ours. Some live too fast for us, but most too slow. If our own metabolism were to change unexpectedly , we should find ourselves on a parity with things we now regard too much as our inferiors or superiors to understand either the groan of a rock, or for that matter, the bright darting mindlessness of a bird. Therefore, for a moment, he wondered if he was either vastly longer in lifespan, or unexpectedly dead.
For certainly these ricks were quivering. One or two ofthem even rumbled. And there was the impression of moving cloth. All of them were coming towards him, though none used the road. He and the dog had the road completely to themselves. Perhaps, being made for man, it was forbidden to ricks. But as he went in one direction, the ricks went in the other, groaning a little, towards the woods. He had only to stop to notice the motion.
The landscape around him had been tilled so long that it had the odour of a particularly valuable garden. He rounded a bend, where the ground unexpectedly dropped, and there the dog let out such a howl, that the ricks seemed to go faster. Muchaku stopped.
It was what was in the hollow that made the dog cringe. Before him the road extended to what in the distance looked like a lighted inn. But he did not think of going on. He stood as though warned against something he had always trusted. The idea that he was walking through a landscape by his brother, apart from filling him with a filial warmth, had lulled him into a sense of trust, despite those ricks. But now, looking down into the hollow, he had not known his brother had seen such things.
Outwardly the hollow looked peaceful, but there were two or three ricks here, too, gathered around a tree with a blind and submissive look. There were a few cottages in the distance, if they
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