A Different Kingdom(5)

He realized suddenly that she was asking how he had come to be so dirty that evening, what had happened to him. He told her he had fallen, had slipped and fallen down to the river, which was the truth and so he had not sinned. And she put him to bed with a kiss, tucked him in and told him to say his prayers. But he tumbled off to sleep forgetting them, with the fox faces grinning at him across the river, telling him he was theirs now. Their little boy.





THREE

THE SUMMER OF 1953 was long and fine; the afternoon of the year winding down to autumn and harvest. For Michael a summer was a living thing, an entity of its own which set him free of school and gave him endless hours of daylight to use. It was long and slow and benevolent. In summer the rings of trees grew widest.



The skies remained perfect, blue darkening almost to purple at the zenith, dust and shimmer hazing the horizon so that the mountains could only be guessed at much of the time. Dust hung over the roads also, kicked up by the hoofs of horses and the carts they drew or thrown about by the passage of shiny cars. Looking west to the Sperrins from the first heights of the Antrim plateau the valley would appear to be an almost unvarying patchwork of hedge-lined fields, the barley ripening in the sunlight, the woods dark and cool, the Bann a silver flash of slow-moving water in the midst of it. Here and there would be the white wall of a house, smaller than a sugar cube, but it was only at night that it would be possible to see the hamlets and villages and townlands of the counties, when they would become a confetti-glitter of lights in the darkness.

Drinking his buttermilk at the table in the morning with the crumbs of his breakfast on his chin, Michael's vision of the day before seemed less real than ever. Already it had been demoted in his memory, moving from the realm of fear into that of curiosity. His head was filled with things to do for the day, and he was eyeing his grandmother's back as she worked at the range, wondering if he could slip outside into the bird-loud morning unnoticed.

'And where do you suppose you are off to?' He could not. He turned dutifully. 'Just out.'

She nodded. 'That's fine, so long as you pump me a couple of buckets when you're out, and then bring them in again.'

He left by way of the larder, where the buckets were kept, and hauled two round to the pump which supplied their water. He actually enjoyed pumping the stuff and watching it churn clean and clear in the pails. It tasted of iron; hard water, cold and delicious, not like anything out of a tap. The spring it came from had never failed, not even in drought years.

He hauled them in and left them, spilled liquid specking the stone floor. And after that he was free, released, and left to the morning. He skipped out of the back yard like a colt, making for the fields.

He met Rose first. She was surrounded by hens and was tossing them yellow meal by the fistful, clucking softly all the while. They had pecked and scraped their paddock into a pale bowl and their nests were scattered throughout the surrounding hedges. Only Rose and her mother knew where they were. Half wild, the birds could often be seen flapping in the lower branches of the trees. They were wily fowl, and seldom fell prey to the foxes that roamed the hills at night. But thinking of foxes made Michael uneasy and his flesh prickled in the warm sun.

'Sleepyhead,' his aunt said without looking round; and she shushed the chickens who were a little alarmed by Michael's approach.

'I had the eggs to gather on my own this morning,' she went on, but he knew she was not annoyed with him. His usual contribution to egg-gathering was one or two from the most visible nests. She liked him along for the company, and to see the early morning with. He watched her throw the birds their meal and debated telling her his secret, but thought better of it. For the moment he wanted to keep it his alone.

'Fancy fishing this afternoon, then?' she enquired carelessly, and threw another fistful of meal for the hens to scrabble over. Her arms were long and slim, tawny with sun and speckled with golden hairs. She was barefoot, and the dew had wet her feet so the dust clung to them.

'Aye,' Michael piped.

She nodded to herself, still clucking occasionally to her charges. 'Down, by the bridge there are trout, young yet but worth going after. I've seen them when the light shines through the water. They keep to the deep part, where the willows are.'

'Don't let your shadow fall on the water,' Michael said automatically. It was something she had taught him, and Rose smiled as she heard it.

'Mammy finished with you for today?

'Aye.'

'What are you for doing? I'm busy till after lunchtime.'

He felt suddenly furtive. 'Don't know.' Go to the bottom meadows maybe, see the river there.'

'Mind that slope.' This time it was Rose who spoke automatically. 'You could break a leg on those hazel stumps.'