cracked and useless.
“The old sexton, my friend Gabriel, God rest his soul, he loved the bells. He cherished them, took care of them, loved them like children—he replaced the ropes so often the sodding priest complained about the cost.
“And he made music on them, there is a truth there is. You should have heard him ring for a wedding, especially. He considered a wedding mankind’s most glorious event—he never married—and he made the bells merry and full of sentiment, a great, sonorous rejoicing.”
They stopped at the foot of the bell tower. “There are only four bells, you say—there are just four, you’ll see. But for a special occasion Gabriel could make them sound like a thousand. He had the magic.”
Dru looked far away, reminiscing.
Why do I feel drawn to this old man? Danger, danger.
“He loved doing it. He’d dash from rope to rope madly, heaving with his whole weight, riding the ropes into the air, his eyes flashing fire, his lungs blowing like bellows. Sometimes he would swing from one rope to another, to bring forth the next note more quickly. And he sang as he made them ring—he sang at the top of his voice, a majestic vocal music I know in my heart.” Dru smiled sideways at Dylan. “But I never knew with my ears, because no one ever heard his singing above the tremendous clanging of the bells, not even him.
“That’s what a man can do when he loves something.”
Dru eyed Dylan with bemusement. “You know, that Frenchman Blanchard thinks he bloody invented flight. You know, the bugger that took his balloon up in Philadelphia with old George Washington watching? But Blanchard didn’t invent naught. Bell ringers invented flight—you’ll see.
“Anyway, Gabriel and I had a tradition, we did. Every year on St. David’s day we rang the bells together. Your father won’t have kept you ignorant of St. David’s day?”
Dylan answered, “Our old housekeeper told me it’s the celebration of the patron saint of Wales. My father never told me anything, even the date.”
Dru regarded him. “Little enough to know,” he said, and continued. “A year or so after I lost your mother, I quit drinking. It was going to be the death of me. But I still wanted to get drunk on St. David’s day. It was Gabriel who came up with the idea of getting drunk on the bells instead of brandy. He taught me to ring them with him. Just on that one day. Laddo, did we make music? And did we get drunk? You’ll see.
“All that’s left of the old days is, when I’m in town, this oaf lets me ring the angelus on St. David’s day. That’s March first. When I’m late, like this year, I ring them on a day we pretend is St. David’s. Like today.”
It surprised Dylan—the bell tower was open to the weather on the sides near the top, and the inside roof was full of bird’s nests. As a result, the four bells were streaked thick with white droppings. “The birds are jealous, you see,” the Druid said with a wry smile. Where they weren’t white, the bells were an antique, coppery green. They were mounted on huge beams, above and below each other in the tower, and varied from the size of a big package to the size of a carriage.
Dru showed him how they worked. When you pulled on the rope, which attached to a wheel where the bell was mounted on the beam, the bell swung toward the hanging clapper. “At that point the clapper makes a DONG!” said Dru. When you let go of the rope, the bell swung the other way—and thwacked the clapper, making another big noise. Dru raised one expressive eyebrow. “It makes an impression,” he said dryly.
In the half-light the bells looked great and mysterious, humped beasts among mists. Dylan could see them only imperfectly. The bell tower let in only shafts of light, and it was nearly sunset, time for the evening angelus.
“They have names, ones I chose. Later Gabriel claimed it was ridiculous sentimentality. He was drunk when we did it, celebrating, but I think he liked
“The old sexton, my friend Gabriel, God rest his soul, he loved the bells. He cherished them, took care of them, loved them like children—he replaced the ropes so often the sodding priest complained about the cost.
“And he made music on them, there is a truth there is. You should have heard him ring for a wedding, especially. He considered a wedding mankind’s most glorious event—he never married—and he made the bells merry and full of sentiment, a great, sonorous rejoicing.”
They stopped at the foot of the bell tower. “There are only four bells, you say—there are just four, you’ll see. But for a special occasion Gabriel could make them sound like a thousand. He had the magic.”
Dru looked far away, reminiscing.
Why do I feel drawn to this old man? Danger, danger.
“He loved doing it. He’d dash from rope to rope madly, heaving with his whole weight, riding the ropes into the air, his eyes flashing fire, his lungs blowing like bellows. Sometimes he would swing from one rope to another, to bring forth the next note more quickly. And he sang as he made them ring—he sang at the top of his voice, a majestic vocal music I know in my heart.” Dru smiled sideways at Dylan. “But I never knew with my ears, because no one ever heard his singing above the tremendous clanging of the bells, not even him.
“That’s what a man can do when he loves something.”
Dru eyed Dylan with bemusement. “You know, that Frenchman Blanchard thinks he bloody invented flight. You know, the bugger that took his balloon up in Philadelphia with old George Washington watching? But Blanchard didn’t invent naught. Bell ringers invented flight—you’ll see.
“Anyway, Gabriel and I had a tradition, we did. Every year on St. David’s day we rang the bells together. Your father won’t have kept you ignorant of St. David’s day?”
Dylan answered, “Our old housekeeper told me it’s the celebration of the patron saint of Wales. My father never told me anything, even the date.”
Dru regarded him. “Little enough to know,” he said, and continued. “A year or so after I lost your mother, I quit drinking. It was going to be the death of me. But I still wanted to get drunk on St. David’s day. It was Gabriel who came up with the idea of getting drunk on the bells instead of brandy. He taught me to ring them with him. Just on that one day. Laddo, did we make music? And did we get drunk? You’ll see.
“All that’s left of the old days is, when I’m in town, this oaf lets me ring the angelus on St. David’s day. That’s March first. When I’m late, like this year, I ring them on a day we pretend is St. David’s. Like today.”
It surprised Dylan—the bell tower was open to the weather on the sides near the top, and the inside roof was full of bird’s nests. As a result, the four bells were streaked thick with white droppings. “The birds are jealous, you see,” the Druid said with a wry smile. Where they weren’t white, the bells were an antique, coppery green. They were mounted on huge beams, above and below each other in the tower, and varied from the size of a big package to the size of a carriage.
Dru showed him how they worked. When you pulled on the rope, which attached to a wheel where the bell was mounted on the beam, the bell swung toward the hanging clapper. “At that point the clapper makes a DONG!” said Dru. When you let go of the rope, the bell swung the other way—and thwacked the clapper, making another big noise. Dru raised one expressive eyebrow. “It makes an impression,” he said dryly.
In the half-light the bells looked great and mysterious, humped beasts among mists. Dylan could see them only imperfectly. The bell tower let in only shafts of light, and it was nearly sunset, time for the evening angelus.
“They have names, ones I chose. Later Gabriel claimed it was ridiculous sentimentality. He was drunk when we did it, celebrating, but I think he liked
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