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Authors: Win Blevins
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rocked his rope toward the red Owain rope, grabbed it with one hand, then both, and let go his feet, grasped the red rope firmly.
He swung sideways. Miracle.
He flew up. He lost himself sailing up toward the great bell, into the soul-splitting sound. He felt the sound in the rope, in his organs, in his skull, like when he’d whanged a tuning fork once and pressed the base to his head. This was magnified a thousand times.
Down he went, up, crazily, dizzyingly. Dru touched his shoulder and pointed again. All right—sideways, up, sideways to a new rope, down, up and to a new rope, down. He danced from rope to rope, he strutted, he pranced, he soared.
He was possessed utterly by ropes and soaring and the terrific sound and most of all by vibration. A mad spirit had his soul. He was like a leaf skittering above the trees in a hurricane. By giving in, he gained freedom, and could dance on the treetops.
He danced not through air but through the dimension of sound. And danced, and danced, as he sprang from rope to rope.
And heard. Heard not with his ears but his whole body—skull, chest, fingers, feet. With his heart, his liver, his gut, his balls. They tingled, they vibrated, they resonated to the great pulse as the heavens resonate to the music of the spheres.
Time ceased. Society ceased. Religion ceased. Thought itself ceased. His whole being had become a tuning fork, and he quivered, he became vibration.
He had no idea how time passed. Later, after one or two eternities, he saw the Druid lying on the stone floor, resting. Dylan realized he was nearly exhausted. His fingers wouldn’t hold on much longer. On his next swoop down, he let go of the rope and dropped to the stone floor.
He lay still. The giant reverberations lifted him and dropped him like a stick borne by great waves. He lay still. He did not move, he did not think, he did not imagine, he did not feel emotion, he simply heard. Energy surged through him. And at last it began to ebb.
The great clangs subsided very slowly. DONG-DONG changed to a vigorous DONG, and kept that identity for a while. After a time you could tell it had faded a little—it was definite but no longer vigorous. Then the clangs spaced themselves further apart. The soprano and the alto, Gwynedd and Mair, became a tinkle, charming in the wind, and then fell silent. Dylan lost its manliness, or subsided to a more quiet manhood, and at last fell silent. Finally Owain was alone, an occasional soft, basso utterance, a calling of the end of time.
Then only soundless vibration, and then silence.
Time again flowed into Dylan. He had an extraordinarily vivid impression that he’d been dreaming, or having a vision. Yet he could feel the prickly grip of the rope in his hands, and feel that ferocious reverberation all through his body. No, he hadn’t been dreaming. Yet he had.
He blinked. He stretched. He clutched and unclutched his tired fingers. He shrugged and squiggled.
He acknowledged that thoughts were in his mind again. He sensed that he would soon want to move, to walk upon the earth. He would even be hungry again. He might indulge in small sounds like human conversation.
But not yet. He was dizzy, exhausted, his head reeled, he was disoriented. The bells had held sway, and now nothing did, not even himself.
“Sit up, laddo.”
The Druid’s voice.
Dylan rolled onto his side. Put one palm flat. Pushed up. Sat.
The world tilted, then righted itself.
He looked at Dru. Dru’s face—he saw now—was the face of a benevolent angel. Dylan smiled happily.
“Get to your knees.”
Dylan did. He felt clear-headed now. His world was balanced. It was the stone beneath his knees, the earth beneath the stone, the support of all. He felt the warmth of Dru’s hands on his shoulders. They were face-to-face, on their knees.
“Laddo, is your mind empty now? Like a cup with milk all spilled?”
“Aye, emptier than empty,” said Dylan, chuckling.
“Everything?” pressed Dru.
He swung sideways. Miracle.
He flew up. He lost himself sailing up toward the great bell, into the soul-splitting sound. He felt the sound in the rope, in his organs, in his skull, like when he’d whanged a tuning fork once and pressed the base to his head. This was magnified a thousand times.
Down he went, up, crazily, dizzyingly. Dru touched his shoulder and pointed again. All right—sideways, up, sideways to a new rope, down, up and to a new rope, down. He danced from rope to rope, he strutted, he pranced, he soared.
He was possessed utterly by ropes and soaring and the terrific sound and most of all by vibration. A mad spirit had his soul. He was like a leaf skittering above the trees in a hurricane. By giving in, he gained freedom, and could dance on the treetops.
He danced not through air but through the dimension of sound. And danced, and danced, as he sprang from rope to rope.
And heard. Heard not with his ears but his whole body—skull, chest, fingers, feet. With his heart, his liver, his gut, his balls. They tingled, they vibrated, they resonated to the great pulse as the heavens resonate to the music of the spheres.
Time ceased. Society ceased. Religion ceased. Thought itself ceased. His whole being had become a tuning fork, and he quivered, he became vibration.
He had no idea how time passed. Later, after one or two eternities, he saw the Druid lying on the stone floor, resting. Dylan realized he was nearly exhausted. His fingers wouldn’t hold on much longer. On his next swoop down, he let go of the rope and dropped to the stone floor.
He lay still. The giant reverberations lifted him and dropped him like a stick borne by great waves. He lay still. He did not move, he did not think, he did not imagine, he did not feel emotion, he simply heard. Energy surged through him. And at last it began to ebb.
The great clangs subsided very slowly. DONG-DONG changed to a vigorous DONG, and kept that identity for a while. After a time you could tell it had faded a little—it was definite but no longer vigorous. Then the clangs spaced themselves further apart. The soprano and the alto, Gwynedd and Mair, became a tinkle, charming in the wind, and then fell silent. Dylan lost its manliness, or subsided to a more quiet manhood, and at last fell silent. Finally Owain was alone, an occasional soft, basso utterance, a calling of the end of time.
Then only soundless vibration, and then silence.
Time again flowed into Dylan. He had an extraordinarily vivid impression that he’d been dreaming, or having a vision. Yet he could feel the prickly grip of the rope in his hands, and feel that ferocious reverberation all through his body. No, he hadn’t been dreaming. Yet he had.
He blinked. He stretched. He clutched and unclutched his tired fingers. He shrugged and squiggled.
He acknowledged that thoughts were in his mind again. He sensed that he would soon want to move, to walk upon the earth. He would even be hungry again. He might indulge in small sounds like human conversation.
But not yet. He was dizzy, exhausted, his head reeled, he was disoriented. The bells had held sway, and now nothing did, not even himself.
“Sit up, laddo.”
The Druid’s voice.
Dylan rolled onto his side. Put one palm flat. Pushed up. Sat.
The world tilted, then righted itself.
He looked at Dru. Dru’s face—he saw now—was the face of a benevolent angel. Dylan smiled happily.
“Get to your knees.”
Dylan did. He felt clear-headed now. His world was balanced. It was the stone beneath his knees, the earth beneath the stone, the support of all. He felt the warmth of Dru’s hands on his shoulders. They were face-to-face, on their knees.
“Laddo, is your mind empty now? Like a cup with milk all spilled?”
“Aye, emptier than empty,” said Dylan, chuckling.
“Everything?” pressed Dru.
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