The Thirteenth Tale-第23章

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the　fair…haired　woman　watching　from　the　postbox　had　seen　what　had　happened。　“all　right；　tom。　let　her　take　it。”　the　girl　took　the　paper　from　my　hand　without　looking　at　me。　“say　thank　you；”　the　mother　called。　the　children　did　so　in　restrained　voices；　then　turned　their　backs　from　me　and　leaped　thankfully　away。　this　time　the　woman　lifted　her　daughter　up　to　reach　the　bin；　and　in　doing　so　looked　at　me　again；　eyeing　my　camera　with　veiled　curiosity。

angelfield　was　not　a　place　where　i　could　be　invisible。

she　offered　a　reserved　smile。　“enjoy　your　walk；”　she　said；　and　then　she　turned　to　follow　her　children；　who　were　already　running　back　along　the　street　toward　the　cottages。

i　watched　them　go。

the　children　ran；　swooping　and　diving　around　each　other；　as　though　attached　by　an　invisible　cord。　they　switched　direction　at　random；　made　unpredictable　changes　of　speed；　with　telepathic　synchronicity。　they　were　two　dancers；　moving　to　the　same　inner　music；　two　leaves　caught　up　in　the　same　breeze。　it　was　uncanny　and　perfectly　familiar。　i’d　have　liked　to　watch　them　longer；　but；　fearful　that　they　might　turn　and　catch　me　staring；　i　pulled　myself　away。

after　a　few　hundred　yards　the　lodge　gates　came　into　view。　the　gates　themselves　were　not　only　closed　but　welded　to　the　ground　and　each　other　by　writhing　twists　of　ivy　that　wove　in　and　out　of　the　elaborate　metalwork。　over　the　gates；　a　pale　stone　arch　sat　high　above　the　road；　its　sides　extending　into　two　small　single…room　buildings　with　windows。　in　one　window　a　piece　of　paper　was　displayed。　inveterate　reader　that　i　am；　i　couldn’t　resist；　i　clambered　through　the　long　wet　grass　to　read　it。　but　it　was　a　ghost　notice。　the　colored　logo　of　a　construction　pany　had　survived；　but　beneath　it；　two　pale　gray　stains　the　shape　of　paragraphs　and；　slightly　darker　but　not　much；　the　shadow　of　a　signature。　it　had　the　shape　of　writing；　but　the　meaning　had　been　bleached　out　by　months　of　sunshine。

preparing　to　walk　a　long　way　around　the　boundary　to　find　a　way　in；　i　had　taken　only　a　few　steps　when　i　came　to　a　small　wooden　gate　set　in　a　wall　with　nothing　but　a　latch　to　fasten　it。　in　an　instant　i　was　inside。

the　drive　had　once　been　graveled；　but　now　the　pebbles　underfoot　were　interspersed　with　bare　earth　and　scrubby　grass。　it　led　in　a　long　curve　to　a　small　stone　and　flint　church　with　a　lych…gate；　then　curved　the　other　way；　behind　a　sweep　of　trees　and　shrubs　that　obscured　the　view。　on　each　side　the　borders　were　overgrown；　branches　of　different　bushes　were　fighting　for　space　and　at　their　feet　grass　and　weeds　were　creeping　into　whatever　spaces　they　could　find。

i　walked　toward　the　church。　rebuilt　in　victorian　times；　it　retained　the　modesty　of　its　medieval　origins。　small　and　neat；　its　spire　indicated　the　direction　of　heaven　without　trying　to　pierce　a　hole　in　it。　the　church　was　positioned　at　the　apex　of　the　gravel　curve；　as　i　drew　closer　my　eye　veered　away　from　the　lych…gate　and　toward　the　vista　that　was　opening　up　on　the　other　side　of　me。　with　each　step；　the　view　widened　and　widened；　until　at　last　the　pale　mass　of　stone　that　was　angelfield　house　appeared　and　i　stopped　dead　in　my　tracks。

the　house　sat　at　an　awkward　angle。　arriving　from　the　drive；　you　came　upon　a　corner；　and　it　was　not　at　all　clear　which　side　of　the　house　was　the　front。　it　was　as　though　the　house　knew　it　ought　to　meet　its　arriving　visitors　face…on；　but　at　the　last　minute　couldn’t　repress　the　impulse　to　turn　back　and　gaze　upon　the　deer　park　and　the　woodlands　at　the　end　of　the　terraces。　the　visitor　was　met　not　by　a　weling　smile　but　by　a　cold　shoulder。

this　sense　of　awkwardness　was　only　increased　by　the　other　aspects　of　its　appearance。　the　house　was　of　asymmetrical　construction。　three　great　bays；　each　one　four　stories　high；　stood　out　from　the　body　of　the　house；　their　twelve　tall　and　wide　windows　offering　the　only　order　and　harmony　the　facade　could　muster。　in　the　rest　of　the　house；　the　windows　were　a　higgledy…piggledy　arrangement；　no　two　alike；　none　level　with　its　neighbor　whether　left　and　right　or　up　and　down。　above　the　third　floor；　a　balustrade　tried　to　hold　the　disparate　architecture　together　in　a　single　embrace；　but　here　and　there　a　jutting　stone；　a　partial　bay；　an　awkward　window；　were　too　much　for　it；　it　disappeared　only　to　start　up　again　the　other　side　of　the　obstacle。　above　this　balustrade　there　rose　an　uneven　roofline　of　towers；　turrets　and　chimney　stacks；　the　color　of　honey。

a　ruin？　most　of　the　golden　stone　looked　as　clean　and　as　fresh　as　the　day　it　had　been　quarried。　of　course　the　elaborate　stonework　of　the　turrets　looked　a　little　worn；　the　balustrading　was　crumbling　in　places；　but　all　the　same；　it　was　hardly　a　ruin。　to　see　it　then；　with　the　blue　sky　behind　it；　birds　flying　around　its　towers　and　the　grass　green　round　about；　i　had　no　difficulty　at　all　in　imagining　the　place　inhabited。

then　i　put　my　glasses　on；　and　realized。

the　windows　were　empty　of　glass　and　the　frames　had　rotted　or　burned　away。　what　i　had　taken　for　shadows　over　the　windows　on　the　right…hand　side　were　fire　stains。　and　the　birds　swooping　in　the　sky　above　the　house　were　not　diving　down　behind　the　building　but　inside　it。　there　was　no　roof。　it　was　not　a　house　but　only　a　shell。

i　took　my　glasses　off　again　and　the　scene　reverted　to　an　intact　elizabethan　house。　might　one　get　a　sense　of　brooding　menace　if　the　sky　were　painted　indigo　and　the　moon　suddenly　clouded　over？　perhaps。　but　against　today’s　cloudless　blue　the　scene　was　innocence　itself。

a　barrier　stretched　across　the　drive。　attached　to　it　was　a　notice。　danger。　keep　out。　noticing　a　join　in　the　fence　where　the　sections　were　just　lodged　together；　i　shifted　a　panel；　slipped　inside　and　pulled　it　to　behind　me。

skirting　the　cold　shoulder　i　came　to　the　front　of　the　house。　between　the　first　and　second　bays；　six　broad；　low　steps　led　up　to　a　paneled　double　door。　the　steps　were　flanked　by　a　pair　of　low　pedestals；　on　which　were　mounted　two　giant　cats　carved　out　of　some　dark；　polished　material。　the　undulations　of　their　anatomy　were　so　persuasively　carved　that；　running　my　fingers　over　one；　i　half　expected　fur；　was　startled　by　the　cool　hardness　of　the　stone。

it　was　the　ground…floor　window　of　the　third　bay　that　was　marked　by　the　darkest　fire…staining。　perched　on　a　chunk　of　fallen　masonry；　i　was　tall　enough　to　peer　inside。　what　i　saw　caused　a　deep　disquiet　to　bloom　in　my　chest。　there　is　something　universal；　something　familiar　to　all；　in　the　concept　of　a　room。　though　my　bedroom　over　the　shop　and　my　childhood　bedroom　at　my　parents’　house　and　my　bedroom　at　miss　winter’s　are　all　very　different；　they　nonetheless　share　certain　elements；　elements　that　remain　constant　in　all　places　and　for　all　people。　even　a　temporary　encampment　has　something　overhead　to　protect　it　from　the　elements；　space　for　a　person　to　enter；　move　about；　and　leave；　and　something　that　permits　you　to　distinguish　between　inside　and　outside。　here　there　was　none　of　that。

beams　had　fallen；　some　at　one　end　only　so　that　they　cut　the　space　diagonally；　ing　to　rest　on　the　heaps　of　masonry；　woodwork　and　other　indistinguishable　material　that　filled　the　room　to　the　level　of　the　window。　old　birds’　nests　were　wedged　in　various　nooks　and　angles。　the　birds　must　have　brought　seeds；　snow　and　rain　had　flooded　in　with　the　sunlight；　and　somehow；　in　this　wreck　of　a　place；　plants　were　growing：　i　saw　the　brown　winter　branches　of　buddleia；　and　elders　grown　spindly　reaching　for　the　light。　like　a　pattern　on　wallpaper；　ivy　scrambled　up　the　walls。　craning　my　neck；　i　looked　up；　as　into　a　dark　tunnel。　four　tall　walls　were　still　intact；　but　instead　of　seeing　a　ceiling；　i　saw　only　four　thick　beams；　irregularly　spaced；　and　beyond　them　more　empty　space　before　another　few　beams；　then　the　same　again　and　again。　at　the　end　of　the　tunnel　was　light。　the　sky。

not　even　a　ghost　could　survive　here。

it　was　almost　impossible　to　think　that　once　there　had　been　draperies；　furnishings；　paintings。　chandeliers　had　lit　up　what　was　now　illuminated　by　the　sun。　what　had　it　been；　this　room？　a　drawing　room；　a　music　room；　a　dining　room？

i　squinted　at　the　mass　of　stuff　heaped　in　the　room。　out　of　the　jumble　of　unrecognizable　stuff　that　had　once　been　a　home；　something　caught　my　eye。　i　had　taken　it　at　first　for　a　half…fallen　beam；　but　it　wasn’t　thick　enough。　and　it　appeared　to　have　been　attached　to　the　wall。　there　was　another。　then　another。　at　regular　intervals；　these　lengths　of　wood　seemed　to　have　joints　in　them；　as　if　other　pieces　of　wood　had　once　been　attached　at　right　angles。　in　fact；　there；　in　a　corner；　was　one　where　these　other　sections　were　still　present。

knowledge　tingled　in　my　spine。

these　beams　were　shelves。　this　jumble　of　nature　and　wrecked　architecture　was　a　library。

in　a　moment　i　had　clambered　through　the　glassless　window。

carefully　i　made　my　way　around；　testing　my　footing　at　every　step。　i　peered　into　corners　and　dark　crevices；　but　there　were　no　books。　not　that　i　had　expected　any—they　would　never　survive　the　conditions。　but　i　hadn’t　been　able　to　help　looking。

for　a　few　minutes　i　concentrated　on　my　photographs。　i　took　shots　of　the　glassless　window　frames；　the　timber　planks　that　used　to　hold　books；　the　heavy　oak　door　in　its　massive　frame。

trying　to　get　the　best　picture　of　the　gr