Read Online The Wolf in the Attic by Paul Kearney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Kearney
Tags: Fantasy
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its own, glittering like crushed glass. And still, I hear that strange thumping beat off in the wood ahead. A drum, tapped lightly, now slow, now fast.
And I hear a woman laugh.
The sound is shocking in the moonlit wood, a noise that does not belong there. It brings me up short, breathing hard, my heart beating as fast as the drum.
And there is light, a yellow flicker of it in the deep part of the trees.
Another fire, another night of moon.
Now I am all at a stand. I want to go back. I do not want another adventure in the night, with a knife at the heart of it. But I am angry at myself for the fear I feel now. I am angry in general, at father, and Miss Hawcross, and the bloody Turks, and the memory of running across Port Meadow and wetting myself like a baby. The anger is stronger than the fear.
I start walking again, but now I leave the path, and pull father’s old cap around my head like a hood, and move at a crouch, zigzagging through the trees towards the far flickering light. The knife is cold in my pocket. It feels ugly to the touch, and there is no reassurance there.
Closer. And now I see that the fire is bright and tall, much bigger than the one that was on the Meadow. And the drum is being tapped light and fast. And the woman’s voice starts up again, but now she is singing, a rippling, soaring song in a language I do not understand, and yet it is familiar too. Her voice is beautiful, and the song is old and foreign and like nothing I have ever heard in England before, sometimes almost tuneless, sometimes as piercing and beautiful as a sunlit shard of ice.
Closer, the trees hiding me, the moonlight fading as the firelight grows, until at last I hunker down behind a mound of snapping ochre bracken, and I can take it all in.
There are perhaps a dozen people around the fire, some sat upon bedrolls, as comfortable looking as though they were lying down on sofas in a warm room. I see the shine of the flames on metal pots, on earrings – the men as well as the women – on jewellery, and there is a lovely savoury smell. A big blackened pot is hung over the edge of the fire by a single bent branch and a stout woman with a blue headscarf is stirring it.
An old man taps a little drum he holds between his knees, his big brown hands almost hiding it, and another woman with long skirts and a fringed shawl is singing the beautiful song. She is very pretty, with eyes as large and dark as a horse’s, and heavy eyebrows. She looks something like the people who come to the Committee meetings – foreign, eastern – but there is none of their defeat in her face, and her teeth are white and perfect. I feel a sudden rush of memory, as though I had seen her before somewhere, but it passes as quick as a bursting bubble.
They look so similar, all of them. Dark, lean men with sharp faces, dressed shabbily, with kerchiefs tied round their necks, their trousers out at the knee. Some of them are barefoot, despite the icy cold. The women are better clad, the older ones with bright headscarves and dangling necklaces that glitter and gleam in the firelight. They have long rings in their ears, and the one tending the pot has a jewelled chain sparking low on her forehead, hung with little coins that jingle as she moves.
Somehow, these people remind me of the long-lost city where I was born. They are exotic, out of place here in the cold northern wood. I can tell just by looking at them that they are from so far away.
As I am.
Something else, moving in the firelight. I thought it was low-hanging branches but now I see that dangling from the trees surrounding the campsite are lots of little shapes made of twigs, and as I frown and study them I see that they are all the same. They are stars, five-pointed, bound with roots – crude, but rather lovely too. And somehow disquieting here in this place. These people have ornamented the trees, hanging these symbols up like somebody decorating their drawing room. How odd.
I hear something
And I hear a woman laugh.
The sound is shocking in the moonlit wood, a noise that does not belong there. It brings me up short, breathing hard, my heart beating as fast as the drum.
And there is light, a yellow flicker of it in the deep part of the trees.
Another fire, another night of moon.
Now I am all at a stand. I want to go back. I do not want another adventure in the night, with a knife at the heart of it. But I am angry at myself for the fear I feel now. I am angry in general, at father, and Miss Hawcross, and the bloody Turks, and the memory of running across Port Meadow and wetting myself like a baby. The anger is stronger than the fear.
I start walking again, but now I leave the path, and pull father’s old cap around my head like a hood, and move at a crouch, zigzagging through the trees towards the far flickering light. The knife is cold in my pocket. It feels ugly to the touch, and there is no reassurance there.
Closer. And now I see that the fire is bright and tall, much bigger than the one that was on the Meadow. And the drum is being tapped light and fast. And the woman’s voice starts up again, but now she is singing, a rippling, soaring song in a language I do not understand, and yet it is familiar too. Her voice is beautiful, and the song is old and foreign and like nothing I have ever heard in England before, sometimes almost tuneless, sometimes as piercing and beautiful as a sunlit shard of ice.
Closer, the trees hiding me, the moonlight fading as the firelight grows, until at last I hunker down behind a mound of snapping ochre bracken, and I can take it all in.
There are perhaps a dozen people around the fire, some sat upon bedrolls, as comfortable looking as though they were lying down on sofas in a warm room. I see the shine of the flames on metal pots, on earrings – the men as well as the women – on jewellery, and there is a lovely savoury smell. A big blackened pot is hung over the edge of the fire by a single bent branch and a stout woman with a blue headscarf is stirring it.
An old man taps a little drum he holds between his knees, his big brown hands almost hiding it, and another woman with long skirts and a fringed shawl is singing the beautiful song. She is very pretty, with eyes as large and dark as a horse’s, and heavy eyebrows. She looks something like the people who come to the Committee meetings – foreign, eastern – but there is none of their defeat in her face, and her teeth are white and perfect. I feel a sudden rush of memory, as though I had seen her before somewhere, but it passes as quick as a bursting bubble.
They look so similar, all of them. Dark, lean men with sharp faces, dressed shabbily, with kerchiefs tied round their necks, their trousers out at the knee. Some of them are barefoot, despite the icy cold. The women are better clad, the older ones with bright headscarves and dangling necklaces that glitter and gleam in the firelight. They have long rings in their ears, and the one tending the pot has a jewelled chain sparking low on her forehead, hung with little coins that jingle as she moves.
Somehow, these people remind me of the long-lost city where I was born. They are exotic, out of place here in the cold northern wood. I can tell just by looking at them that they are from so far away.
As I am.
Something else, moving in the firelight. I thought it was low-hanging branches but now I see that dangling from the trees surrounding the campsite are lots of little shapes made of twigs, and as I frown and study them I see that they are all the same. They are stars, five-pointed, bound with roots – crude, but rather lovely too. And somehow disquieting here in this place. These people have ornamented the trees, hanging these symbols up like somebody decorating their drawing room. How odd.
I hear something
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