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From Banbury I took a bus. “Angelfield?” said the bus driver. “No, there’s no service to Angelfield. Not yet, anyhow. Might be different wheel’s built.”‘Are they building there, then?“
‘Some old ruin they’re pulling down. Going to be a fancy hotel. They might run a bus then, for the staff, but for now the best you do is get off at the Hare and Hounds on the eys Road and walk from there. ’Bout a mile, I re.“
There wasn’t mu Angelfield. A sireet whose wooden sign read, with logical simplicity, The Street. I walked past a dozen cottages, built in pairs. Here and there a distinctive feature stood out—a large yew tree, a children’s swing, a wooden bench—but for the most part each dwelling, with its ly embroidered thatch, its white gables and the restrained artistry in its brickwork, resembled its neighbor like a mirror image.
The cottage windows looked out onto fields that were ly defined with hedges and studded here and there with trees. Farther away sheep and cows were visible, and then a densely wooded area, beyond which, acc to my map, was the deer park. There was no pavement as such, but that hardly mattered for there was no traffic, either. In fact I saw no sign of human life at all until I passed the last cottage and came to a bined post offid general store.
Two children in yellow matoshes came out of the shop and ran down to the road ahead of their mother, who had stopped at the post-box. Small and fair, she was struggling to stick stamps onto envelopes without dropping the neer tucked under her arm. The older child, a boy, reached up to put his sweet er in the bin attached to a post at the roadside. He went to take his sister’s er, but she resisted. “I do it! I do it!” She stood on tiptoe and stretched up her arm, ign her brother’s protestations, then tossed the paper toward the mouth of the bin. A breeze caught it and carried it across the road.
‘I told you so!“
Both children turned and lauhemselves into a dash—then jolted to a halt when they saw me. Two blond fringes flopped down over pairs of identically shaped browwo mouths fell into the same expression of surprise. Not twins, no, but so close. I stooped to pick up the er and held it out toward them. The girl, willing to take it, went to step forward. Her brother, more cautious, stuck his arm out to bar her way and called, “Mum!”
The fair-haired woman watg 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 irained voices, then turheir 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 theuro 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 dire at random, made uable ges of speed, with telepathiicity. They were two dancers, moving to the same inner music, two leaves caught up in the same breeze. It was uny 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 windoiece of paper was displayed. Ie reader that I am, I couldn’t resist; I clambered through the lo grass to read it. But it was a ghost notice. The colored logo of a stru pany had survived, but beh 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 rown; branches of different bushes were fighting for spad at their feet grass and weeds were creeping into whatever spaces they could find.
I walked toward the church. Rebuilt in Victorian times, it retaihe modesty of its medieval ins. Small a, its spire indicated the dire of heaven without trying to pierce a hole in it. The church ositio the apex of the gravel curve; as I drew closer my eye veered away from the lych-gate and toward the vista that ening up oher side of me. With each step, the view widened and widened, until at last the pale mass of stohat 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 er, and it was not at all clear which side of the house was the front. It was as though the house k ought to meet its arriving visitors fa, but at the last minute couldn’t repress the impulse to turn b<q></q>ad 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 appearahe house was of asymmetrical stru. Three great bays, eae four stories high, stood out from the body of the house, their twelve tall and wide windows the only order and harmony the facade could muster. In the rest of the house, the windows were a higgledy-piggledy arra, 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 agaiher side of the obstacle. Above this balustrade there rose an uneven roofline of towers, turrets and ey stacks, the color of honey.
A ruin? Most of the golden stone looked as 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 plahabited.
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 shado9９liｂ?ws 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 i. There was no roof. It was not a house but only a shell.
I took my glasses off again and the se reverted to an intact Elizabethan house. Might o 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 se was innoce itself.
A barrier stretched across the drive. Attached to it was a notice. Danger. Keep Out. Notig a join in the fence where the ses 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 sed 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 mouwo 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 k 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 cept 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 heless share certais, elements that remain stant 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’ s were wedged in various nooks and ahe 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 budd..leia, and elders grown spindly reag for the light. Like a pattern on aper, ivy scrambled up the walls. ing 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 ohere had been draperies, furnishings, paintings. deliers had lit up what was now illuminated by the sun. What had it been, this room? A drawing room, a musi, a dining room?
I squi the mass of stuff heaped in the room. Out of the jumble of unreizable 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 thiough. And it appeared to have been attached to the wall. There was ahen 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 er, was one where these other ses 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 ers and dark crevices, but there were no books. Not that I had expected any—they would never survive the ditions. But I hadn’t been able to help looking.
For a few minutes I trated 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 great stone fireplace, I was bending from the waist, leaning slightly sideways, when I paused. I swallowed, noted my slightly raised heartbeat. Was it something I had heard? Or felt? Had something shifted deep in the arra of rubble beh my feet? But no. It was nothing. All the same, I picked my way carefully to the edge of the room, where there was a hole in the masonry large enough to step through.
I was in the main hallway. Here were the high double doors I had seen from outside. The staircase, being made of stone, had survived the fire intact. A broad sweep upward, the handrail and balustrades now ivy clad, the solid lines of its a<dfn>.9９lib?</dfn>rchitecture were heless clear: a graceful curve widening into a shell-like curl at its base. A kind of fancy upside-doostrophe.
The staircase led to a gallery that must once have ruire width of the entrance hall. To one side there was only a jagged edge of floorboards and a drop to the stone floor below. The other side was almost plete. The vestiges of a handrail along the gallery, and then a corridor. A ceiling, stained but intact; a floor; doors even. It was the first part of the house I had seen that appeared to have escaped the general destru. It looked like somewhere you could live.
I took a few quick pictures and theing eaew board beh my feet before shifting my weight, moved warily into the corridor.
The handle of the first door opened onto a sheer drop, branches and blue sky. No walls, no ceiling, no floor, just fresh outdoors air.
I pulled the door closed again and edged along the corridor, determined not to be unnerved by the dangers of the place. Watg my feet all the time, I came to the sed door.
I turhe handle ahe door swing open.
There was movement!
My sister!
Almost I took a step toward her.
Almost.
Then I realized. A mirror. Shadowy with dirt and tarnished with dark spots that looked like ink.
I looked down to the floor I had been about to step onto. There were no boards, only a drop of twenty feet onto hard stone flags.
I knehat I had seeill my heart tis frenzy. I raised my eyes again, and there she was. A white-faced waif with dark eyes, a hazy, uain figure trembling ihe old frame.
She had seen me. She stood, hand raised toward me longingly, as though all I had to do was step forward to take it. And would it not be the simplest solution, all told, to do that and at last rejoin her?
How long did I stand there, watg her wait for me?
‘No,“ I whispered, but still her arm beed me. ”I’m sorry.“ Her arm slowly fell.
Then she raised a camera and took a photograph of me.
I was sorry for her. Pictures through glass never e out. I know. I’ve tried.
I stood with my hand on the handle of the third door. The rule of three, Miss Winter had said. But I wasn’t in the mood for her story anymore. Her dangerous house <q></q>with its indoor rain and trick mirror had lost its i for me.
I would go. To take photographs of the churot even that. I would go to the village store. I would telephoaxi. Go to the station and from there home.
All this I would do, in a minute. For the time being, I wao stay like this, head leaning against the door, fingers on the handle, indifferent to whatever was beyond, and waiting for the tears to pass and my heart to calm itself.
I waited.
Theh my fingers, the hao the third room began to turn of its own accord.
百度搜索 The Thirteenth Tale 天涯 或 The Thirteenth Tale 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.