Read Between Two Ends Online

Authors: David Ward

Between Two Ends (3 page)

BOOK: Between Two Ends
5.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Yeats touched noses with the cat. “You and Mom talk at night. At least, you used to.”

“Handsome
and
intelligent.” Gran nodded approvingly.

The bell jingled again.

“Yeats.” Gran pushed the tray forward. “Will you take these to Mr. Sutcliff, please? Odysseus will show you the way.”

On cue, the cat broke free from Yeats's arms and leapt to the floor. His eyes held Yeats's momentarily before he padded for the stairs. William drew his legs back as if the cat were poison.

Yeats stared down the hallway. Taking tea to someone he had never met, someone who rang a bell for service, was a little weird. His father began
polishing his glasses again. His mother looked furious.

Yeats reached for the tray. “Love to.”

Gran didn't let go. Her grip was strong, as powerful as her smile. “Mr. Sutcliff will eat two of the cookies. Don't eat the remaining two. I will collect those tonight when I take him dinner. Later you may have as many as you like.”

“Why doesn't he eat all of them?”

Her gaze flickered to his parents. “He is waiting for someone.”

Odysseus yowled.

“My, my, Yeats.” Gran shook her head. “Flaxen hair! And just look at those eyes. They're William's! Insatiable curiosity. That will lead to adventure. Off you go! The tea is growing cold.”

utside in the garden and high up in the tallest tree, a crow bobbed on an evergreen branch. The bird spotted a grub clinging to an enormous pinecone. The crow pecked at the cone and set it spinning on its slender stem. After a second round of pecking the grub fell and landed on the ledge of a short wall far below.

The ledge formed the lip of an old well long overgrown by vines and branches. The crow cocked its head and began to shift from foot to foot, weighing what to do next. When the grub squirmed tantalizingly from the ledge, the crow made up its mind. It flew down with a raucous cry and landed on the well top.

Just as it stretched out its beak to snatch the grub, a blast of cold air suddenly shot up from the well mouth and set the crow's feathers blowing. The bird flinched and waited for the wind to stop. Several seconds passed and the wind suddenly blew itself out like a breath. There was a pause, and then, from the deepest depths, there came a low moan. The lament echoed ominously and rose upward, vibrating and shaking the foundations of the well.

The crow froze. It cocked its head first one way, then turned the other way to listen. When the next blast struck, the crow flinched and prepared to fly. The grub was bounced by the shaking stones to the edge of the well mouth and then hurled skyward the moment it hit the wind. Just as the crow made to follow, the moan transformed into an unearthly intake of breath. The wind changed direction and fled down the well.

The crow felt the pull immediately and found itself caught in the grip of a vortex at the center of the well mouth. The bird flapped its wings with all its strength. Its tail stuck out earthward, straight
as a poker, as if some unseen hand had taken hold of it.

The crow began to tire. In another moment its wings would cease to beat and it would be sucked down into darkness and to calamity. With Herculean effort the crow leaned to one side and found the wind not quite so strong as in the center. It leaned farther still and found a last burst of energy. With a final stroke the crow pulled free of the well and shot out into the brightness and safety of the garden. The ground trembled and then fell still. The moaning turned to an unhappy murmur and finally died away.

High up on a branch the crow preened itself soothingly. It hunted no more grubs for the rest of the day and settled down for a nap to sleep off the recent horror. The garden fell quiet.

Near the well was a set of tiles leading up to the remains of a fountain. Water had long since stopped flowing and all that could be seen of the basin was a single corner, peeking out from a thicket of grass. The earth around the tiles was loose and cracked. One of the tiles was broken and
dislodged from the others and shook from time to time, as if something was pushing up against it from below.

There was a scraping sound, like a metal tool working against pottery. Soon, there came a series of chipping noises, like a pickax attacking a ceramic surface. From time to time the well would shake and moan and the sounds beneath the tile would stop. As soon as the moaning ended the scraping and chipping would begin again.

High in the tree the crow raised a wary eye from beneath its wing. The tile began to rock a little on its edge. Seconds later an object—sharp, metallic, and no longer than a sewing needle—burst through a growing crack in the tile and into the garden light. It was a sword.

eats made for the hall. The fresh scent of the kitchen gave way to the odor of old books, leather, and mothballs. While the outside of the house appeared to be rotting, the inside was full of treasures. Brightly painted tribal masks stared at him as he passed through a sitting room, while opposite them, knights grimaced from a floor-to-ceiling painting. There were carvings and colored stones on every table. The floor creaked beneath his feet and he wondered if he should have removed his shoes. No one had said anything about that.

Odysseus waited at the bottom stair. A stained glass window provided kaleidoscopic illumination to the yawning darkness above. It was a narrow
passage, each step worn by countless footfalls. Natural light caught the edge of the top. Odysseus padded up.

The first stair creaked horribly. Yeats cringed and a drop of tea splashed his leg. Still warm. His steps turned into a cacophony of squeaks and squawks. “Come on, Yeats!” he scolded himself. He took a deep breath and scowled.

A resounding silence followed the last squawk at the top of the stairs and the air stopped moving. It felt as if the room had been closed for many years. An old man sat near the window with Odysseus at his feet. His hair was whiter than Gran's and came down past his shoulders. He stirred and his eyes widened.

“William!” he exclaimed. His knuckles whitened on the chair arm. “I knew it! I knew you would come back. Good boy! And where is Shaharazad? Is my granddaughter with you?”

“I'm Yeats.”

“Yeats?” Mr. Sutcliff stood stiffly. He searched Yeats's face, his disappointment obvious. “No, you're not Yeats. I did think at one time that you
should have been Auden or Milton. But your grandmother told me to mind my own poets. Your father, now
he
was Yeats.”

“That was my grandfather,” Yeats said. “Yeats William Trafford.”

The old man regarded the cat. Odysseus rubbed against his legs. Mr. Sutcliff sighed and leaned down to scratch the animal's ears again. Then he did something even more alarming.

“Is he there, Odysseus?” he asked. “Is there a boy standing, holding my tea? Or have I imagined him?”

For an answer, Odysseus trotted over and rolled his tail along Yeats's legs. Mr. Sutcliff nodded. He sighed again, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pair of spectacles. He smoothed the front of his shirt and straightened his back. “I see. So, you are Yeats and you look the spitting image of William. Well, come here, boy!”

Startled, Yeats stumbled forward, spilling more tea down his leg. He desperately wanted his arms free for protection, but they were holding the tray. The old man stood, peering into his face. Mr.
Sutcliff suddenly reached out and took his chin and Yeats stifled a gasp. His grip was as sure as Gran's. His eyebrows were horrifically bushy.

“Hmmm,” he murmured. “Intelligent. Curious. Reliable.” He shifted Yeats's chin to look at his profile. “Burgeoning courage as well.”

Yeats turned his head aside. “I brought your tea,” he said. Mr. Sutcliff did not seem to notice. Instead, he tapped his lips thoughtfully with his fingers. Yeats considered laying the tea and cookies on the floor and bolting for the stairs. He had met many quirky people at the university, but Mr. Sutcliff was rapidly rising to the top of the list.

“Is William downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“And he is a man?”

Yeats lowered the tea to the floor. “He is my father.”

The old man grunted. “I see. And your mother?”

“Her name is Faith.”

“Faith?” Mr. Sutcliff felt for a pipe on the table without releasing Yeats from his gaze. “Now
there's a good name. Plain, mind you, but solid—versatile, even. The stuff of all good poetry. Yes, indeed!” His last words were muffled as his lips took the pipe. Yeats waited for him to light it, but Mr. Sutcliff merely sucked the end comfortably. “‘Now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.'” He returned to his window. “I believe in that. I really do.”

Yeats gritted his teeth. Gran wanted the tea delivered and Yeats was determined to see it through. “Would you like your tea, sir?”

The old man motioned with his pipe. Yeats took a few hesitant steps, then hastily set down the tray. He returned to the door. He needed to get downstairs and make sure his parents weren't fighting.

“William
… is a man
,” Mr. Sutcliff murmured. He shook his head. After an uncomfortable silence he added, “Will he see me?”

“I don't know, sir,” Yeats answered. “I imagine he would.”

“Imagine?” The old man spun quickly.

Yeats readied himself against the door frame.
Mr. Sutcliff brushed long strands of hair from his eyes. “Yes,
imagine
. That's the key. Has he the courage, I wonder?” He tapped the pipe against his lips. “I don't even know if it's possible. We don't know enough, do we? Perhaps … perhaps with enough
sincerity
it might … I don't know.” He was silent for so long, Yeats thought Mr. Sutcliff had forgotten him. Then the old man tapped his temple with an idea and spryly spun around. “Can
you?
Can you, Yeats? Dare you, I wonder? Would
you
have enough courage?”

“I've got to go now,” Yeats stammered.

Mr. Sutcliff pointed his pipe. “Remember the words, my boy? Do you remember?” The old man closed his eyes:

“‘Come away, O human child!

BOOK: Between Two Ends
5.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Everybody Had A Gun by Richard Prather
Lisístrata by Aristófanes
Blade Runner by Oscar Pistorius
Happy Endings by Rhondeau, Chantel
Warrior Training by Keith Fennell
Capture The Night by Dawson, Geralyn