Read Online Some Here Among Us by Peter Walker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Walker
Ads: Link
serious test that could ever be imagined.
But nothing was said, and Morgan then turned and began climbing again and Race began to climb as well and followed him up through the highest branches to the top of the tree and even there Morgan did not stop – he just went on out into the air, and Race reached the top of the trunk which was as slender as a whip – he felt his handhold waver – and he too went on up into the air, after Morgan, who without looking back turned and flew out over the sea. They went a long way out, flying a little higher all the time it seemed – Race saw the breakers below, and the sea beyond the breakers, and then the deep blue of the ocean ahead, and they flew on, Morgan never looking back, and then Race saw a series of towers or windmills standing on the horizon. At first these were small and faint but as they grew larger he began to feel afraid. Morgan was flying on, but Race knew if he went beyond the line of towers in the sea there would be no chance of return. He looked back: he could still see the land, though it would soon be out of sight. He looked ahead. Morgan was still flying on, and he never looked back, and then Race turned and headed for the land, saw the green back-wash of the breakers below him, and then came in to land, the sun and wind beating on his face, and then he woke.
He lay staring at the ceiling. At first he felt only wonder, and then some alarm. It was the most vivid dream he had ever had, and it had left a kind of fearful livingness in the room. A sound of clanking came up from the rail-yards and a blueish light from the yards went tracking across the ceiling. Race began to feel sad and sorry for himself as well. The cottage was old; the air was musty; the bed-springs sagged. Even the old wardrobe at the end of the bed had a gloomy forbidding appearance. And he was quite alone. There had been no sign from Panos that he would ever show up. Race had a feeling that the dream had come because he was alone. It had come for that reason and then it had gone, but it had woken him first, to ensure that he remembered it. He lay there for a long time and his heart stopped pounding and he went back to sleep.
In the morning the sun was shining. He got up, dressed, ate some breakfast, then packed his bags and stepped out onto the veranda. He remembered the key and stood there for a minute wondering what to do with it. It was an old-fashioned iron key, long and thin, dank, with the faintest bloom of rust. For three days Race had carried this with him, out to his lectures in the morning and back to the cottage in the early evening. The air that met him when he came into the house in the evening was musty, heated, sad – no one had spoken in it or had thought a thought in it since he had left in the morning. He had come to dislike the weight of the key in his pocket during the day. It was a proof of the solitude waiting for him at home. Race had never spent any time alone before. He was lonely, and irritated with Panos, and embarrassed at his situation. And now an element of fear had arrived. That was one drawback to living alone, he thought: it was unsafe. Dreams, far too vivid, could come and get you, and then wake you in order to record them. He had the key in his hand and he looked at it again. Then he brought his stuff out on the veranda, locked the door, dropped the key through the letter slot and, hoisting one bag on his shoulder, walked up the street in the sunshine, and never went back there again.
1
‘A visitor for you.’
‘For me ?’
‘A visitor for you,’ said Candy, ‘in the form of – ta dah! ’
‘Granddad!’ said another voice. ‘How are you?’
A tall young man strode into the room. A very old man was sitting alone at the end of a gleaming wooden dining table. A knife, a fork, a spoon, a soup plate on a linen mat, salt and pepper shakers and a glass of red wine were in front of him. At his neck he wore a napkin rather spotted with soup. He looked at
But nothing was said, and Morgan then turned and began climbing again and Race began to climb as well and followed him up through the highest branches to the top of the tree and even there Morgan did not stop – he just went on out into the air, and Race reached the top of the trunk which was as slender as a whip – he felt his handhold waver – and he too went on up into the air, after Morgan, who without looking back turned and flew out over the sea. They went a long way out, flying a little higher all the time it seemed – Race saw the breakers below, and the sea beyond the breakers, and then the deep blue of the ocean ahead, and they flew on, Morgan never looking back, and then Race saw a series of towers or windmills standing on the horizon. At first these were small and faint but as they grew larger he began to feel afraid. Morgan was flying on, but Race knew if he went beyond the line of towers in the sea there would be no chance of return. He looked back: he could still see the land, though it would soon be out of sight. He looked ahead. Morgan was still flying on, and he never looked back, and then Race turned and headed for the land, saw the green back-wash of the breakers below him, and then came in to land, the sun and wind beating on his face, and then he woke.
He lay staring at the ceiling. At first he felt only wonder, and then some alarm. It was the most vivid dream he had ever had, and it had left a kind of fearful livingness in the room. A sound of clanking came up from the rail-yards and a blueish light from the yards went tracking across the ceiling. Race began to feel sad and sorry for himself as well. The cottage was old; the air was musty; the bed-springs sagged. Even the old wardrobe at the end of the bed had a gloomy forbidding appearance. And he was quite alone. There had been no sign from Panos that he would ever show up. Race had a feeling that the dream had come because he was alone. It had come for that reason and then it had gone, but it had woken him first, to ensure that he remembered it. He lay there for a long time and his heart stopped pounding and he went back to sleep.
In the morning the sun was shining. He got up, dressed, ate some breakfast, then packed his bags and stepped out onto the veranda. He remembered the key and stood there for a minute wondering what to do with it. It was an old-fashioned iron key, long and thin, dank, with the faintest bloom of rust. For three days Race had carried this with him, out to his lectures in the morning and back to the cottage in the early evening. The air that met him when he came into the house in the evening was musty, heated, sad – no one had spoken in it or had thought a thought in it since he had left in the morning. He had come to dislike the weight of the key in his pocket during the day. It was a proof of the solitude waiting for him at home. Race had never spent any time alone before. He was lonely, and irritated with Panos, and embarrassed at his situation. And now an element of fear had arrived. That was one drawback to living alone, he thought: it was unsafe. Dreams, far too vivid, could come and get you, and then wake you in order to record them. He had the key in his hand and he looked at it again. Then he brought his stuff out on the veranda, locked the door, dropped the key through the letter slot and, hoisting one bag on his shoulder, walked up the street in the sunshine, and never went back there again.
1
‘A visitor for you.’
‘For me ?’
‘A visitor for you,’ said Candy, ‘in the form of – ta dah! ’
‘Granddad!’ said another voice. ‘How are you?’
A tall young man strode into the room. A very old man was sitting alone at the end of a gleaming wooden dining table. A knife, a fork, a spoon, a soup plate on a linen mat, salt and pepper shakers and a glass of red wine were in front of him. At his neck he wore a napkin rather spotted with soup. He looked at
Similar Books
