TodHackett
02-27-2006, 12:49 PM
A Comment:
The "old man" character is introduced in the chapter prior. I realize now that he sort of jumps in in the middle of this chapter; I'm not sure whether that's good or bad...
As always, suggestions, criticisms and thoughts are greatly appreciated...
Chapter VI:
“The Keep”
“Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage”
T.S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton”
If we walked through the city as if in a dreamscape, then passing through this portal makes me feel as if I were passing into a dream within a dream.
It takes some time for my weak eyes to accustom themselves to the dim interior of this place; once I have regained my vision my apprehension is confronted by the strangest, most surreal play of sensations.
First, there is the apparent size of this chamber. Surely, from the outside, this hovel looks as though it could stretch only a few paces, if that. And yet, laid out before us is the most spacious and luxurious of rooms. The space defies logic, but the evidence stretches out in front of us, and one must conclude that this room is larger inside than out. A strange trick of the brain!
It is a dining hall, of all things, with seating enough for a score or more. Its high, vaulted ceiling is partially collapsed in one place, and so the roof is shored up by a carefully designed series of props and wedges. The center of the room is dominated by a single, immense table, draped in an ornate cloth and set with fine china, goblets, candlesticks and decorative silverware. The table is cut into strips by dim light that draws my gaze upward to the western wall. Set into it are three panes of glass. They are cracked but not shattered, and the light that passes through them has a ghostly, eerie quality. It catches little particles of dust as they dance in the air; as I turn away I catch the glimpse of some form in the corner of my eye. I turn back toward the form and it is gone. Vanished into sunbeams and dust.
And now I see the wall opposite the window, and I am transfixed. It is festooned with tapestries, most of which look to be at least a dozen generations old, some even older. They are dim and worn, but I see that each tells a story—here, one depicts a battle raging across the vale just outside of town. There is another, showing a number of people gathering and crushing grapes while others gather the running juices into kegs.
The oddest thing, though, is the horn. A simple brass cornet hangs from a wooden peg on the eastern wall. The tarnish on it is so thick it has almost turned black; cobwebs have gathered on it and I’m quite sure that some manner of insect has made a nest in its bell. Still, though, one can tell that it was once a truly amazing instrument.
I just stand for a good long time. I take it in, watch my companions do the same. The sweat has gathered on my brow; I am weighed down by gear and I notice that my breath has grown heavy. And as I stand here, at the doorway to this dream-world, I can only stare, thinking: it seems like I’ve been here before, seems so familiar.
My eyes move across the faces of my companions, one to the other. I see Elwin first; he trembles slightly, much as he tries to hide it. In his eyes is a look of terror, as though passing through that doorway were intruding into God’s great kingdom. I see Ivan next; the thug’s eyes dart to and fro; he looks like a burglar casing a store-house. At the moment, his eyes have alighted on a single golden goblet that sits in the center of the table. He eyes Elwin with a sneer. Elwin has seen it too; the fair-haired warrior gives Ivan a look that says, clearly and firmly, ‘don’t touch’.
But among the other companions, there are more interesting reactions. The twins are already wholly engaged in examining the place. One to each wall, they peer over every tapestry, investigate every artifact. Eva, meanwhile, just stands in the doorway, arms folded, eyes glued to the old man. She watches him with something between curiosity and suspicion. My eyes follow hers, and now I see the old man’s face once more.
And now, here, where I can see him in the dim green light that filters in from misty panes, his face looks different. And for the first time I can see into his eyes. His eyes shine, white and full as the moon—huge, empty expanses scratched by red streaks. Behind that glare roams some terrifying, caged leviathan; I can plainly see that some demon ravages his mind even now. He opens his mouth to speak; I hear him mumble something about ghosts, and a tower.
I can take it no longer. “This tower,” I ask calmly, holding on to each tremulous breath, “where might I find it?”
His expression is something like shock. But he does not speak, not then. Instead, he motions me to follow him, which I do. He leads me into a sort of library, strewn with old volumes and curiosities. At one end, two chairs sit in front of an old fire place. One of them is caked with dust; I can’t help wondering if it has ever once been used. He asks a simple question, then: “What do you know of Skara Brae?”
I am elated, to say the least—be still my restless heart! The feeling is more than that, though; I feel a powerful spirit, a mix of indescribable and intense passions. It is surreal, being here. And exciting, and terrifying. But the old man’s face bears no emotion, and so I work to hide mine. And so I reply coolly: “Nothing, really. But I should like to know more.”
“Wait here a moment,” he says. And with that, he disappears into a dark room at the rear of the library. I am about to follow when he emerges. In his hand he holds a dusty bottle, and two glasses, their outsides coated, also, with dust. He speaks:
“You are travelers, yes? Newcomers to the town of Skara Brae?”
What an odd question! To my knowledge, every living being is a ‘newcomer’ to this strange place, save for the hermit himself. Still, I play along, so as not to upset the old man. “Yes,” I say, “we are. Why do you ask?”
“Hmm…” he replies. He uncorks the bottle and casually pours two glasses, as though the vintage in his hands is not truly ancient, as though even disturbing the dust on that flask were not a crime. And when he speaks, he speaks nonchalantly: “Well, it seems you story has flowed into mine.” He smiles at that, and sits, and motions for me to do the same. In a flash, it occurs to me that in this place, every act is a crime. It is a crime to breathe this air, to drink this wine. Here, it is a crime even to sit. We should not have come; we should not have ruined the sanctity of this place.
So be it. I am a criminal now, and in the next few moments, I will destroy that which time has taken decades to create. I clear the dust to take a seat, and drink my first sip from the ancient glass. The old man opens his mouth, and speaks…
The "old man" character is introduced in the chapter prior. I realize now that he sort of jumps in in the middle of this chapter; I'm not sure whether that's good or bad...
As always, suggestions, criticisms and thoughts are greatly appreciated...
Chapter VI:
“The Keep”
“Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage”
T.S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton”
If we walked through the city as if in a dreamscape, then passing through this portal makes me feel as if I were passing into a dream within a dream.
It takes some time for my weak eyes to accustom themselves to the dim interior of this place; once I have regained my vision my apprehension is confronted by the strangest, most surreal play of sensations.
First, there is the apparent size of this chamber. Surely, from the outside, this hovel looks as though it could stretch only a few paces, if that. And yet, laid out before us is the most spacious and luxurious of rooms. The space defies logic, but the evidence stretches out in front of us, and one must conclude that this room is larger inside than out. A strange trick of the brain!
It is a dining hall, of all things, with seating enough for a score or more. Its high, vaulted ceiling is partially collapsed in one place, and so the roof is shored up by a carefully designed series of props and wedges. The center of the room is dominated by a single, immense table, draped in an ornate cloth and set with fine china, goblets, candlesticks and decorative silverware. The table is cut into strips by dim light that draws my gaze upward to the western wall. Set into it are three panes of glass. They are cracked but not shattered, and the light that passes through them has a ghostly, eerie quality. It catches little particles of dust as they dance in the air; as I turn away I catch the glimpse of some form in the corner of my eye. I turn back toward the form and it is gone. Vanished into sunbeams and dust.
And now I see the wall opposite the window, and I am transfixed. It is festooned with tapestries, most of which look to be at least a dozen generations old, some even older. They are dim and worn, but I see that each tells a story—here, one depicts a battle raging across the vale just outside of town. There is another, showing a number of people gathering and crushing grapes while others gather the running juices into kegs.
The oddest thing, though, is the horn. A simple brass cornet hangs from a wooden peg on the eastern wall. The tarnish on it is so thick it has almost turned black; cobwebs have gathered on it and I’m quite sure that some manner of insect has made a nest in its bell. Still, though, one can tell that it was once a truly amazing instrument.
I just stand for a good long time. I take it in, watch my companions do the same. The sweat has gathered on my brow; I am weighed down by gear and I notice that my breath has grown heavy. And as I stand here, at the doorway to this dream-world, I can only stare, thinking: it seems like I’ve been here before, seems so familiar.
My eyes move across the faces of my companions, one to the other. I see Elwin first; he trembles slightly, much as he tries to hide it. In his eyes is a look of terror, as though passing through that doorway were intruding into God’s great kingdom. I see Ivan next; the thug’s eyes dart to and fro; he looks like a burglar casing a store-house. At the moment, his eyes have alighted on a single golden goblet that sits in the center of the table. He eyes Elwin with a sneer. Elwin has seen it too; the fair-haired warrior gives Ivan a look that says, clearly and firmly, ‘don’t touch’.
But among the other companions, there are more interesting reactions. The twins are already wholly engaged in examining the place. One to each wall, they peer over every tapestry, investigate every artifact. Eva, meanwhile, just stands in the doorway, arms folded, eyes glued to the old man. She watches him with something between curiosity and suspicion. My eyes follow hers, and now I see the old man’s face once more.
And now, here, where I can see him in the dim green light that filters in from misty panes, his face looks different. And for the first time I can see into his eyes. His eyes shine, white and full as the moon—huge, empty expanses scratched by red streaks. Behind that glare roams some terrifying, caged leviathan; I can plainly see that some demon ravages his mind even now. He opens his mouth to speak; I hear him mumble something about ghosts, and a tower.
I can take it no longer. “This tower,” I ask calmly, holding on to each tremulous breath, “where might I find it?”
His expression is something like shock. But he does not speak, not then. Instead, he motions me to follow him, which I do. He leads me into a sort of library, strewn with old volumes and curiosities. At one end, two chairs sit in front of an old fire place. One of them is caked with dust; I can’t help wondering if it has ever once been used. He asks a simple question, then: “What do you know of Skara Brae?”
I am elated, to say the least—be still my restless heart! The feeling is more than that, though; I feel a powerful spirit, a mix of indescribable and intense passions. It is surreal, being here. And exciting, and terrifying. But the old man’s face bears no emotion, and so I work to hide mine. And so I reply coolly: “Nothing, really. But I should like to know more.”
“Wait here a moment,” he says. And with that, he disappears into a dark room at the rear of the library. I am about to follow when he emerges. In his hand he holds a dusty bottle, and two glasses, their outsides coated, also, with dust. He speaks:
“You are travelers, yes? Newcomers to the town of Skara Brae?”
What an odd question! To my knowledge, every living being is a ‘newcomer’ to this strange place, save for the hermit himself. Still, I play along, so as not to upset the old man. “Yes,” I say, “we are. Why do you ask?”
“Hmm…” he replies. He uncorks the bottle and casually pours two glasses, as though the vintage in his hands is not truly ancient, as though even disturbing the dust on that flask were not a crime. And when he speaks, he speaks nonchalantly: “Well, it seems you story has flowed into mine.” He smiles at that, and sits, and motions for me to do the same. In a flash, it occurs to me that in this place, every act is a crime. It is a crime to breathe this air, to drink this wine. Here, it is a crime even to sit. We should not have come; we should not have ruined the sanctity of this place.
So be it. I am a criminal now, and in the next few moments, I will destroy that which time has taken decades to create. I clear the dust to take a seat, and drink my first sip from the ancient glass. The old man opens his mouth, and speaks…