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Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder;
Dylan Thomas
Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder;
animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I
remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon
to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large
house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid,
each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The
wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted
men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give
them? Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began
to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the
house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark
door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry
voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our
singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice
through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the
front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas;
everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.
Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang
"Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little
house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about
Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking
through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored
snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear
the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I
got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I
remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon
to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large
house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid,
each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The
wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted
men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give
them? Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began
to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the
house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark
door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry
voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our
singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice
through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the
front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas;
everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.
Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang
"Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little
house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about
Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking
through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored
snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear
the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I
got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.