And as every positive has its negative, there was also a dark, lurking badness. But that was on the fringes, a shadow that could not be defined, a power that was dormant, having little strength. Yet it existed.
We experienced these things, but they were not sharp in our minds, and the perception was soon gone, fading swiftly with the subsiding of our physical pleasure, the sensations, the essential primal urge, which had led us to that recognition carrying the awareness away from us in its own ebbing. Only now, after so much has happened, can what occurred to us that evening be remembered and partially explained. Even so, everything is just my interpretation, and long after the event at that.
I was the first to speak—Midge was still too bewildered or exhausted, or both. "Did you lace the stroganoff with something?" It was meant as a joke, a glib aside while I got my head together, but she wasn't laughing. "Midge, you okay?"
She looked my way, but didn't quite see me; sleepy wonderment was still glowing in her eyes.
"Midge?"
She drew in a long, deep breath, her shoulders and chest rising, then let the air go just as slowly. Finally she said, "What happened?" The question was to herself as much as to me.
I smiled lazily. "We made love." The phenomenon was already leaving me, material reality asserting its steadying influence the way it does when waking from a dream.
Midge ran both hands over her eyes and when she looked up again it was as if she'd wiped away the wonderment. Then she yawned and my own jaw was quickly infected, because I yawned too. I helped her with her clothes—she was fumbling at buttons like a weary child, her mind distracted, coordination all but gone.
"I don't understand," she mumbled. "I can't think straight, Mike . . ."
My movements were slow too, and more awkward than I cared for, but I was filled with warmth, my senses now pleasurably dulled. And I couldn't stop smiling. "I think we've just passed through some kind of ecstasy barrier, Midge. I think the earth really did move for us. Jesus, I never imagined such a thing was possible." (See how the human brain works, how it tries to rationalize the irrational for its own sanity? I was putting it down to romance, for Chrissake!)
Midge wasn't that easily persuaded, though. "No, Mike, it was something more . . ."
I stopped her with a kiss. "We're both tired, Pixie. Like you said, the country air does something to you. Why don't you get yourself into bed while I lock up?"
"I need a bath . . ."
"No you don't."
"Brush my teeth . . ."
"That'll take you half a minute. I'll join you before your head hits the pillow."
"All right, Mike. Mike . . . ?"
"Yeah?"
"You love me, don't you?"
"You know it."
I lifted her to her feet and she swayed against me.
"God," she murmured. "I didn't realize how tired I was. I feel as if I'm drunk."
"How could you know? Come on, I'll take you through."
I did more than that: I picked Midge up and carried her into the bedroom, her slight weight no burden at all. Lowering her onto the bed, I remained leaning over her.
"Think you can manage the rest by yourself while I see to the doors and windows?"
She nodded, then teased, "Still nervous of the countryside, Mike?"
"It's all them wolves and bears out there."
"And the wood demons. Don't forget the wood demons." Her words were almost slurred as sleep stole in.
"I wish you hadn't mentioned the wood demons." I bent lower to kiss her forehead, then straightened. Midge's eyes had already closed when I looked down on her.
Quietly leaving the bedroom, I went out to the small hallway over the stairs and bolted the door there, then descended to the kitchen. Ridiculously, I had made myself jittery with talk of wolves and bears, not that I imagined for one moment that there were any such animals out there, but because now that the sun had sunk completely and it was pitch black outside, I had begun to appreciate how isolated the cottage was. Talk of wood demons hadn't helped either.
I bolted the downstairs door, then went to the open window, sticking my head out to feel a cool breeze against my skin. I could hardly see a thing, only the vague shapes of the nearest trees. Clouds must have hurriedly covered the stars as they'd switched on after sunset, and there was no moon to outline even the rolling edges of those clouds.
Even more uneasy, I ducked my head back inside, closing the window and setting the catch after me. I stood watching my own ghost reflection in the glass for a little while, then shivered.
"Dumb bastard," I called myself and went back upstairs whistling a less than happy tune.
I woke suddenly, as I had the night before. Only this time I was immediately alert and apprehensive. I could hear Midge breathing evenly beside me, still lost in sleep.
My whole body was tensed as I lay there wondering what had roused me, only the luminous digits of the alarm clock and dim outlines of furniture giving relief to the oppressive darkness.
I thought of nudging Midge awake, but that would have been unkind as well as cowardly. When I'd returned to the bedroom earlier that night her clothes were in a heap on the floor and she was beneath the blankets, sound asleep. There was no smell of toothpaste when I kissed her lips. The move and the frantic weeks leading up to it had caught up with a vengeance, I remember thinking.
Noises. From above. And familiar.
I nudged Midge, but she didn't stir.
I looked up at the dark mass that was the ceiling. Someone was creeping around up there!
Still craning my neck back, I raised myself onto my elbows, unsure if the room was cold or the goose-bumps on my skin were caused by something else. The sounds were muffled and I realized they were not coming from the room directly above, but were from the loft. My sigh of relief was cut off halfway. Surely birds would not be moving about in the middle of the night? Then what the hell was up there? My pernicious mind immediately suggested rats and I sank back into the bed, pulling the covers up to my chest. Maybe mice? I wished I could convince myself, but mice would never make that much noise.
Forget about the hero who leaves his bed in the dead of night to investigate mysterious noises, that guy who mounts the creaky stairs up to the attic, flashlight or candle lighting the way and, if he's a movie star, creepy music keeping him company. He's a figment of some idiot's imagination: I'm me, and I was bora with a modicum of sense.
There was no way I was going to leave that cozy bed to look in the loft. No way. It could wait until tomorrow.
The strange thing is that I didn't stay awake for much longer. I listened for a while, my heart jolting with every fresh sound—and I'd become aware of plenty of other creaks and groans around that place, although I told myself these were merely the settling of old timbers after a warm day—but soon tiredness overcame even fear.
I sank away, fingers crossed so the boogeyman wouldn't get me.
RETURN VISIT
"MIKE, COME on, wake up!"
I'm not sure how uncivil my response was, but it didn't stop the hand tugging at my shoulder. I opened my eyes and daylight trampled in.
"Mike, I want you to see," Midge persisted.
Her face was close to mine and looking considerably brighter than it had the night before. In fact, Midge fairly bristled with life and her touch must have sent volts shooting into me because I came alive in a rush. This was the second morning I'd awoken feeling vital and refreshed and, as already stated, this wasn't my usual condition at all. I was becoming a born-again early riser.
I pulled her down on top of me and she laughingly resisted.
"No, I want you to come down and see!" She pulled away and grabbed my robe draped over a chair, tossing it at me and sweeping back the bedcovers.
I swung my legs over the edge and slid my arms through the sleeves of the robe. "You mind telling me what all the excitement's about?" I groused, but faking it.
"You'll see."
She was laughing and tugging
at me, drawing me from the bed and toward the door. The white nightshirt she wore (one of my old collarless shirts with the sleeves rolled up) flapped loosely around her bare legs, a pleasing sight first thing in the morning.
"Nice day again," I observed as we passed by the window. Our friendly neighborhood birds were making their presence known.
"Every day is nice here."
I saw no gain in pointing out that we'd only been resident for two days, and allowed myself to be hauled to the stairs.
"Oh, Gudgeon, this'd better be good." The stair carpet we'd had laid before moving in was soft and springy beneath my bare feet, but the wood underneath was good and firm. O'Malley had missed nothing.
We reached the kitchen/dining area and Midge stood aside, waving me through. Hands in my robe pockets, I stood there expectantly. The room looked exactly the same to me.
I turned to say something to Midge when a fluttering of wings made me jump. The bird flew across the room and landed on top of the sideboard. It chirped a greeting or a warning, I'm not sure which.
"How did that get in here?" I'd already noted the window was still closed.
"He's the mistle thrush, stupid. He's the one who had the broken wing yesterday!"
I gaped at her, then at the bird, which was jauntily hopping along the sideboard top. It launched itself into the air again to find another perch over the window.
"That isn't possible, Midge. It can't be the same."
Midge laughed, pleased by my incredulity. "Check the box. You won't find the thrush in there."
"But it isn't possible," I repeated, actually going over to the cardboard box, which was still tucked away in a corner. The mistle thrush over the window begged to differ by flying onto the table where there was a pile of breadcrumbs, presumably put there earlier by Midge. The bird pecked at them, its appetite as healthy as its wing.
"Midge," I warned. "Are you having a sly joke with me? Is this one of your friends from outside?"
"I promise you, Mike, he's the same bird. Isn't it fantastic!"
"I don't believe it." I was shaking my head, watching the thrush and still suspecting I was being fooled. "There's no way, Midge—no way— that its wing could have mended overnight. As a matter of fact, the break was so bad I thought the bird would be dead this morning."
"You were wrong." Midge moved toward the table and our robust friend stopped pecking to watch her. She picked up a crumb and held it toward the bird who, to my amazement, beaked it from her fingers, showing no fear whatsoever.
One bird looks much the same as another if they're of a breed, so I couldn't tell if this really was our patient or not. But the question still begged, of course: If this was a different thrush where was the injured one? It was then I noticed one wing was ragged, feathers missing, and something went cold inside me. Now I was convinced. This was the original thrush all right, but its remarkable recovery made no sense. Surely we couldn't have been that wrong about its condition yesterday?
I suppose this was the point where my underlying uneasiness over several aspects of Gramarye began to move onto a more conscious level. Nothing definite, just a vague sense of disquiet over a culmination of things, none of which I could pinpoint precisely to say: "Hey, this is totally bizarre." If any of these had been bad, or at least were completely inexplicable, then I'd have been a mite anxious. You see, it was just possible that the bird's wing had been locked into a grotesque position the day before and had worked itself free overnight (again the old brain reasoning where there wasn't much reason). And the rest—well, what was the rest? Good music, glorious lovemaking (true recollection of the previous night's experience had already dimmed), a crack in the stone lintel that hadn't been a crack at all. Certainly there were good vibes from the place, particularly from the round room, but what did that mean in itself? We were in love and this was our first proper home. The curved walls of the round room caught the sun's rays so that a serene warmth literally exuded from them. There really was no more than that. And yet. And yet . . .
The mistle thrush was now perched on Midge's hand and trilling happily. Doubts were eased aside as Midge's joy touched me. Her eyes were vibrant with contained excitement as she spoke soothingly to the small creature, who answered her in kind. She slowly raised her hand so that the thrush was level with her face, then blew a soft breath toward it, ruffling feathers only slightly, causing the bird to blink.
I watched entranced as Midge smoothly walked to the door, her bare feet silent on the quarry tiles. She turned her head toward me and whispered, "Mike . . ."
Equally cautious, I went to the door and drew back the bolts, making as little noise as possible. The bird seemed oblivious to me. Twisting the key in the lock, I quietly pulled open the door and Midge moved forward to stand on the step.
Lifting her hand high, she said, "Off you go. Find your family and say hello from me."
The thrush appeared reluctant to leave, but Midge dipped her hand so that the bird's wings fluttered and it was airborne. It soared high above the garden, calling fiercely and swooping down over Midge's head. The thrush skimmed across the flowerbeds, then rose once more into the air heading back into the woods from where it had been rescued.
Midge clapped her hands in delight and I stood next to her on the step, an arm around her shoulders, wearing a grin and cheering the bird on. When it was gone I hugged Midge and mussed her hair.
"Did you really do that?" I asked.
"It was his idea to climb onto my hand."
"I meant its wing . . ."
She shook her head, eyes still full of shining. "He did that all by himself. It was his own magic."
The word "magic" again, the second time she'd unselfconsciously used it since we'd moved in. I opened my mouth to speak when the doorstep was abruptly besieged by other birds, all noisily demanding breakfast. We ducked inside, away from the squawking, Midge making for the wrapped loaf on the table and taking out a handful of slices.
"Okay, you guys," she called, returning to the doorway, "there's plenty for all, so little ones first."
They refused to form a queue, but not even the smallest sparrow was intimidated by any of the big chiefs: they rushed together in a mad mêlée of feathers and screeching, the nimblest fleeing the throng with prizes in beaks.
I left Midge to the feeding of the multitude and went upstairs to shave, my thoughts dogged by the thrush's "miraculous" recovery. The wing had to have unlocked itself, there really was no other explanation. I was back downstairs again within ten minutes, and muesli and toast with strong coffee was there on the table waiting for me, a single rose, freshly picked from the garden, in a tiny china vase brightening the breakfast setting. Brightening the room considerably more was Midge's beaming face.
There were still one or two birds loitering around the doorstep as if daring one another to venture in, but the majority had disbanded to fly off and do whatever it is birds do all day.
As I buttered toast, I said, "I still can't figure it out. That bird looked pretty sick to me yesterday."
Midge sipped coffee before replying. "What does it matter? His wing healed, that's the main thing, so why worry over how?"
And she meant it. In fact, I got the impression that she didn't want the cure questioned, that she had no wish to delve any further. I shrugged, prepared to let it go, having semi-accepted my own "unlocked bones" theory anyway. Flimsy, but it would suffice.
"Plans for today?" Midge inquired, the subject already dismissed from her mind. She looked small and childlike in my oversized converted shirt.
"Uh, some investigations first," I told her, and she raised her eybrows. "I heard noises coming from the loft last night."
"You thought there were birds nesting in the eaves."
"Yeah, that was yesterday afternoon. This was something moving around in the middle of the night when all good little birds are sound asleep."
She was slightly alarmed. "D'you have any idea what it could be?"
"Not really, but I'm s
ure as hell gonna find out this morning, in daylight. I don't want to lie in the dark with my imagination running loose again."
"You should have woken me."
"I didn't like to disturb you." I munched toast.
Midge came around to my side of the table and pushed herself onto my lap, making me scrape back the chair to accommodate her. She pecked my forehead.
"Want me to come up to the loft with you?" she asked, and I didn't miss the trace of mockery in her tone.
"And have you get hysterical if we find mice?" I shook my head and added stout-heartedly, "I'll go it alone, thank you." Things never seemed quite so threatening in daylight.
"You know mice don't frighten me. Still, there's a lot of scrubbing and cleaning to be done, so the sooner I make a start the better. I think O'Malley's men created more mess than they shifted."
"Aah, they were pretty good, considering. They certainly put the cottage back in shape, even though we've got a fair amount of painting and decorating to do ourselves. Less than I imagined on our first recce, though. Any ideas on how you'd like the round room done? That's the important one."
She frowned. "I like it exactly as it is. I don't think we should change anything."
"Up to you. It's in good condition, I'll admit that. Maybe Flora had the room redecorated just before she, uh, she passed on."
"We'll need curtains, perhaps white or beige—all the color we need comes from the sun. Have you noticed how the walls change throughout the day?"
"Yeah, from bright white-yellow in the morning to fiery gold at sunset. Then that warm red just after the sun's gone. They've got a life of their own, like that big rock in Australia that's always changing color."
"Ayers Rock. They say it has mystical qualities . . ."
"Who say?"
"The aborigines."
"The aborigines have seen the round room?"
My nose took its usual tweaking (I swear it was a different shape before I met Midge).
Magic Cottage, Das Haus auf dem Land Page 9