us will clang our spirits to the wide world.
“How do ’ee get a big bell like the Dylan started? You climb the rope a little first, to get your body weight all the way off the ground. The rope will start down, but very slowly, don’t worry—just get a little higher. I’ll help pull from below you to get it going.”
When the bell really moved and you came down, said Dru, you took the chance to grab the rope still higher, and let its swing up carry you well off the ground. “That’s the excitement, laddo, swooshing up. And back to the ground and back up. Watch me, laddo—do as I do.” The old man looked at him queerly. “Mostly just do ,” he said. “Up you go.”
He gave Dylan a leg up on the tenor bell.
Dylan did a couple of pull-ups and clung. He was afraid of the motion. Maybe the up and down would make him sick.
After some moments he realized that the rope was barely moving. He pulled up a little farther. Then Dru gave a big heave from the bottom.
The rope dropped. Far up in the half-light of the tower, the tenor bell named Dylan swayed a little.
And it began to happen. The rope pulled him up a couple of feet. Dru heaved and he sank. The rope lifted him, lightly, airily, beautifully. Dru heaved down.
DON-N-G!
Loud! The air shimmered with something quicksilver that was unseen but left ripples in its wake.
The bell took hold of him like magically powerful currents of air, and he surged into the twilight.
DON-N-G!
The bell dropped him—he fell, heart in mouth, toward the hard stone floor. The rope almost ripped through his hands, but he clutched it desperately. For a moment, just above the floor, he hung still in space. The Druid, close to his face, looked into his eyes with a wild grin. In that still moment came DON-N-G!
Up he went, catapulted. He was flying. As in his dreams, he was flying.
Now the sound in the tower was beginning to split his ears—a din, a clangor, a great proclamation, the song of the Dylan bell to the sensate world.
The Druid was setting the other bells to ringing, sailing up and down on the ropes.
The sounds rang now, everywhere, from every angle, like powerful sunlight off the myriad waves of water. Tones and overtones glanced off the stones of the tower, twirled in the crannies, pulsated from floor to roof. It was not merely ear-splitting, it was brain-splitting, soul-splitting.
The rhythm of the Dylan bell quickened. DONG-DONG!
A desperate drop! DONG-DONG!
An exhilarating sail upward! DONG-DONG!
He had the extraordinary sensation of freedom. He laughed out loud. Everything gone! Home, family, job, money, plans, calling, future—all demolished! Mind almost gone—he could barely think. He was swooping up and down in a bell tower with a mad Welshman, his world destroyed, and he felt dizzy, he felt wild, he felt free.
He cried or laughed, or both at once, into the din. And heard nothing but the clangor. Laughed again louder, uproariously, foolishly, madly. And soundlessly.
CLON-N-NG!
A new sound. The Owain bell, the bass of the quartet—Dru had gotten it going. CLON-N-NG!
The roar now was beyond imagination. Thought was impossible. Consciousness beyond hearing was impossible. Dylan was in a world of sound, his mind was sound, his soul was sound. To resist, he knew intuitively, was to die. He gave himself up to the sound—the valiant clang of his Dylan bell, the quicker chimes of the soprano Gwynedd and the alto Mair, the thunderous bass throb of the Owain. The rope lifted and dropped like a huge, vertical ocean wave pitching him up and down, and he could only surrender.
A touch on his shoulder. Dru. The old man swung his rope like a pendulum sideways and he rode up, grabbed another rope, glided smoothly onto it, and dropped out of sight ringing a new bell.
Coming back up, the Druid pointed to the rope of the Owain bell.
Strange—Dylan could feel Dru’s lithe movements in his body, and he felt no fear—he was beyond fear, in a new world of possibility. He
“How do ’ee get a big bell like the Dylan started? You climb the rope a little first, to get your body weight all the way off the ground. The rope will start down, but very slowly, don’t worry—just get a little higher. I’ll help pull from below you to get it going.”
When the bell really moved and you came down, said Dru, you took the chance to grab the rope still higher, and let its swing up carry you well off the ground. “That’s the excitement, laddo, swooshing up. And back to the ground and back up. Watch me, laddo—do as I do.” The old man looked at him queerly. “Mostly just do ,” he said. “Up you go.”
He gave Dylan a leg up on the tenor bell.
Dylan did a couple of pull-ups and clung. He was afraid of the motion. Maybe the up and down would make him sick.
After some moments he realized that the rope was barely moving. He pulled up a little farther. Then Dru gave a big heave from the bottom.
The rope dropped. Far up in the half-light of the tower, the tenor bell named Dylan swayed a little.
And it began to happen. The rope pulled him up a couple of feet. Dru heaved and he sank. The rope lifted him, lightly, airily, beautifully. Dru heaved down.
DON-N-G!
Loud! The air shimmered with something quicksilver that was unseen but left ripples in its wake.
The bell took hold of him like magically powerful currents of air, and he surged into the twilight.
DON-N-G!
The bell dropped him—he fell, heart in mouth, toward the hard stone floor. The rope almost ripped through his hands, but he clutched it desperately. For a moment, just above the floor, he hung still in space. The Druid, close to his face, looked into his eyes with a wild grin. In that still moment came DON-N-G!
Up he went, catapulted. He was flying. As in his dreams, he was flying.
Now the sound in the tower was beginning to split his ears—a din, a clangor, a great proclamation, the song of the Dylan bell to the sensate world.
The Druid was setting the other bells to ringing, sailing up and down on the ropes.
The sounds rang now, everywhere, from every angle, like powerful sunlight off the myriad waves of water. Tones and overtones glanced off the stones of the tower, twirled in the crannies, pulsated from floor to roof. It was not merely ear-splitting, it was brain-splitting, soul-splitting.
The rhythm of the Dylan bell quickened. DONG-DONG!
A desperate drop! DONG-DONG!
An exhilarating sail upward! DONG-DONG!
He had the extraordinary sensation of freedom. He laughed out loud. Everything gone! Home, family, job, money, plans, calling, future—all demolished! Mind almost gone—he could barely think. He was swooping up and down in a bell tower with a mad Welshman, his world destroyed, and he felt dizzy, he felt wild, he felt free.
He cried or laughed, or both at once, into the din. And heard nothing but the clangor. Laughed again louder, uproariously, foolishly, madly. And soundlessly.
CLON-N-NG!
A new sound. The Owain bell, the bass of the quartet—Dru had gotten it going. CLON-N-NG!
The roar now was beyond imagination. Thought was impossible. Consciousness beyond hearing was impossible. Dylan was in a world of sound, his mind was sound, his soul was sound. To resist, he knew intuitively, was to die. He gave himself up to the sound—the valiant clang of his Dylan bell, the quicker chimes of the soprano Gwynedd and the alto Mair, the thunderous bass throb of the Owain. The rope lifted and dropped like a huge, vertical ocean wave pitching him up and down, and he could only surrender.
A touch on his shoulder. Dru. The old man swung his rope like a pendulum sideways and he rode up, grabbed another rope, glided smoothly onto it, and dropped out of sight ringing a new bell.
Coming back up, the Druid pointed to the rope of the Owain bell.
Strange—Dylan could feel Dru’s lithe movements in his body, and he felt no fear—he was beyond fear, in a new world of possibility. He
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