Read Online The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) by Paul Kearney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Kearney
Tags: Fantasy
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the antics in the fountains. Doody was dancing a jig with an old woman who was whooping with laughter. She looked as though she had not danced in decades. Nurse Cohen joined them, along with an octogenarian who on other days would be grumbling in his bed.
The chimes began to ring out, and the dancing stopped. Glass in hand, Riven stood up.
Nine, ten, eleven...
On the last stroke he drained his glass, and raised it to the ceiling.
For you, my bonny lass. A New Year.
As he limped out of the room he saw Nurse Cohen being kissed by Doody. The patients were giving each other elderly pecks.
Shaking arms entwined, and ‘Auld Lang Syne’ began. It followed him as he made his way outside into the still air and the cold stars, out to the lawn and the quietly churning river.
The grass was wet and slippery, and his progress was slow. He stopped to place the constellations. Orion with his shining belt. The Plough, and the North Star. Venus down near the horizon, and bright Jupiter. They had guided him in times before this. They guided him now, as though the time could be taken back and he was on Skye again with a heart that was whole and in the keeping of someone who loved him.
The river flashed back starlight and brimmed under the bare limbs of the willows. He sat down and fumbled with his shoes, hands quivering with tiredness. Then his socks; and the chill dew was wet on his bare feet.
The water was so cold at first that it burned, but then it merely tingled, glittering around his calves. He stood there and let it pour around him, and stared at the high arch of the sky. It seemed to wheel in a velvet immensity. He was its hub, the pivot on which it turned. He knew his time at Beechfield was over. It was time to go. Time to return to the mountains.
FOUR
R IVEN WAS NOT going back to Camasunary to write a book. He was trying to lay a ghost to rest, to heal himself. He thought that perhaps the writing would be a part of that, but he could not be sure. Whatever was to happen, he was here, now, on a train, his belongings crumpled in a rucksack at his crooked feet, Beechfield half a dozen counties to his back, and a new year opening out like a dark flower in front of him.
A night train journey. He never bothered to get a sleeper; it was a sort of tradition that he pass as uncomfortable a time as possible getting to Skye. It seemed to make the first sight of the Cuillins across the Sound of Sleat all the more worthwhile. Mind you—he peered at the blue gloom beyond the window—if it keeps like this I’ll see nothing but the usual drizzle.
Carlisle went past, and with it England. The motion of the train lulled him into a doze. He woke hours later from his cramped sleep to feel the pains in his legs and see dawn break out over high land. It was already spotted with snow. He wondered if there would be any on the islands; and for the first time considered the difficulties of getting to the bothy. There was no alternative to hoofing it over the ridge. He could hardly get someone to carry him.
He got off the train on a grey, damp morning at Mallaig, and walked the short distance to the harbour. Around him were fishing boats, and a tangle of lobster pots and fish boxes. Gulls screamed overhead, the first time he had heard them in what seemed like years. He looked up to see the housing estate perched incongruously on the side of the mountain above the harbour. The slopes were brown with dead bracken, but he could see Skye across the sound. He was back again, back in the land of sea and stone.
He was in time for the noon ferry, and boarded the small vessel with a feeling akin to fear. To be this close again. Was it the best thing? But there was a determination in him.
He stayed on deck during the short voyage, and let the wind mock his beard. Armadale, low-lying and wooded, was approaching. From there it was a long bus journey, and then the hike over the ridge.
Speed, bonny boat... I think.
The ferry pitched and tossed
The chimes began to ring out, and the dancing stopped. Glass in hand, Riven stood up.
Nine, ten, eleven...
On the last stroke he drained his glass, and raised it to the ceiling.
For you, my bonny lass. A New Year.
As he limped out of the room he saw Nurse Cohen being kissed by Doody. The patients were giving each other elderly pecks.
Shaking arms entwined, and ‘Auld Lang Syne’ began. It followed him as he made his way outside into the still air and the cold stars, out to the lawn and the quietly churning river.
The grass was wet and slippery, and his progress was slow. He stopped to place the constellations. Orion with his shining belt. The Plough, and the North Star. Venus down near the horizon, and bright Jupiter. They had guided him in times before this. They guided him now, as though the time could be taken back and he was on Skye again with a heart that was whole and in the keeping of someone who loved him.
The river flashed back starlight and brimmed under the bare limbs of the willows. He sat down and fumbled with his shoes, hands quivering with tiredness. Then his socks; and the chill dew was wet on his bare feet.
The water was so cold at first that it burned, but then it merely tingled, glittering around his calves. He stood there and let it pour around him, and stared at the high arch of the sky. It seemed to wheel in a velvet immensity. He was its hub, the pivot on which it turned. He knew his time at Beechfield was over. It was time to go. Time to return to the mountains.
FOUR
R IVEN WAS NOT going back to Camasunary to write a book. He was trying to lay a ghost to rest, to heal himself. He thought that perhaps the writing would be a part of that, but he could not be sure. Whatever was to happen, he was here, now, on a train, his belongings crumpled in a rucksack at his crooked feet, Beechfield half a dozen counties to his back, and a new year opening out like a dark flower in front of him.
A night train journey. He never bothered to get a sleeper; it was a sort of tradition that he pass as uncomfortable a time as possible getting to Skye. It seemed to make the first sight of the Cuillins across the Sound of Sleat all the more worthwhile. Mind you—he peered at the blue gloom beyond the window—if it keeps like this I’ll see nothing but the usual drizzle.
Carlisle went past, and with it England. The motion of the train lulled him into a doze. He woke hours later from his cramped sleep to feel the pains in his legs and see dawn break out over high land. It was already spotted with snow. He wondered if there would be any on the islands; and for the first time considered the difficulties of getting to the bothy. There was no alternative to hoofing it over the ridge. He could hardly get someone to carry him.
He got off the train on a grey, damp morning at Mallaig, and walked the short distance to the harbour. Around him were fishing boats, and a tangle of lobster pots and fish boxes. Gulls screamed overhead, the first time he had heard them in what seemed like years. He looked up to see the housing estate perched incongruously on the side of the mountain above the harbour. The slopes were brown with dead bracken, but he could see Skye across the sound. He was back again, back in the land of sea and stone.
He was in time for the noon ferry, and boarded the small vessel with a feeling akin to fear. To be this close again. Was it the best thing? But there was a determination in him.
He stayed on deck during the short voyage, and let the wind mock his beard. Armadale, low-lying and wooded, was approaching. From there it was a long bus journey, and then the hike over the ridge.
Speed, bonny boat... I think.
The ferry pitched and tossed
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