the names too.
“You must get to know them.” He grabbed a thick beam and hoisted himself up, then up onto the highest beam. “Come on,” he cried to Dylan, “you can’t make real music with a bell you’ve never touched.”
Dylan looked down. How far was it to the bottom of the dusky shaft? His knees were queasy.
“It’s the distance from life to death,” called the Druid, “and you’d be lucky to die in the service of the bells. Come on!”
Dylan climbed slowly. Soon he pulled up beside Dru, on the beam that supported the smallest bell.
“This is Gwyneth,” Dru said, stroking the bell. GWYNEDD was painted on the bell in blue in an elegant hand. “Spelled the old Welsh way, you see.” He brushed the letters with his fingertips. “Yes, after your sweet mam. She’s a soprano, surprisingly delicate, as you’ll hear, and utterly lovely.”
Dylan touched the small bell with both hands. She was cold, spookily cold.
Dru slipped off the beam, hung from his hands and glided to the next beam, oblivious of the hundred-foot drop. Dylan descended more cautiously, and Dru grinned at him. “This is Mair, the alto, named after me granmer.” Again the name was painted on the bell, this time in yellow.
He grabbed the beam, swung down and dropped. Now he kept going, dropped again to the biggest bell. He waited for Dylan to catch up in his cautious way.
“The big one here I named after Owain Glendower.” OWAIN was red-lettered on the bell. “You’ll be needing to learn more about Owain, laddo, the last true king of Wales. It is he, not Arthur the King, who waits on the isle of Avalon, one day to return and restore Wales to her glory.”
He jumped up one beam like a cat. “The best for last.” He pointed to the second-largest bell. “Dylan.” Dylan clambered awkwardly up behind him. In that fancy script, just above the lip, was lettered DYLAN in green. “It’s not every laddo that has a bell named after him, is it?” He looked Dylan in the eyes. “Yes, for you, the son I might have had.”
He went on quickly, with a lightness that was not quite true. “He’s a heroic tenor, and I do mean heroic—he peals mightily.” Dru fixed his one good eye on Dylan. “He gives you something to live up to, laddo.
“Come.” Dru leaned out and put both hands on the upper part of the Dylan bell. It didn’t budge. “Let me show you—it’s a thrill.”
Dylan leaned his weight on the bell the same way. It still didn’t budge. “He’s heavy as a great stone, lad, and going nowhere. Now reach up and grab where the bell is mounted.” Dylan could barely reach. He grabbed hard, thinking he was going to lose his foothold.
“Now wrap your legs around the bell, son. Go ahead—you must do this yourself.”
Dylan had never been so scared. Half in panic, he jumped his feet off the beam and gripped the bell with his legs.
Dru reached beneath the bell and did something, Dylan couldn’t see what.
DON-N-NG!
The great bell sounded its heroic tenor. It shuddered, and Dylan would have sworn it swung a little. He held on desperately. He could feel the bell vibrating in his fingers, in his thighs, in his forehead, in his chest, in his bones, in his teeth, in his soul.
They waited. They waited. The sound subsided very, very slowly, for long minutes. Dylan felt it vibrate through his body until the very end, and then perhaps a moment longer.
“Now may be you’re ready,” said the Druid.
Dru gave him a choice of bells to start. Dylan chose his own, the tenor named Dylan.
In the kind of ringing he knew, Dru explained, called change ringing, you rang certain memorized patterns, which did not repeat. Dylan would mostly ring the tenor Dylan bell, faster or slower as Dru would motion to him, but would sometimes have to ring another. So Dru would point to the ropes—painted blue for Gwynedd, yellow for Mair, green for Dylan, red for Owain—so Dylan would know which one to clang next. “It’s a duet, laddo. The two of
“You must get to know them.” He grabbed a thick beam and hoisted himself up, then up onto the highest beam. “Come on,” he cried to Dylan, “you can’t make real music with a bell you’ve never touched.”
Dylan looked down. How far was it to the bottom of the dusky shaft? His knees were queasy.
“It’s the distance from life to death,” called the Druid, “and you’d be lucky to die in the service of the bells. Come on!”
Dylan climbed slowly. Soon he pulled up beside Dru, on the beam that supported the smallest bell.
“This is Gwyneth,” Dru said, stroking the bell. GWYNEDD was painted on the bell in blue in an elegant hand. “Spelled the old Welsh way, you see.” He brushed the letters with his fingertips. “Yes, after your sweet mam. She’s a soprano, surprisingly delicate, as you’ll hear, and utterly lovely.”
Dylan touched the small bell with both hands. She was cold, spookily cold.
Dru slipped off the beam, hung from his hands and glided to the next beam, oblivious of the hundred-foot drop. Dylan descended more cautiously, and Dru grinned at him. “This is Mair, the alto, named after me granmer.” Again the name was painted on the bell, this time in yellow.
He grabbed the beam, swung down and dropped. Now he kept going, dropped again to the biggest bell. He waited for Dylan to catch up in his cautious way.
“The big one here I named after Owain Glendower.” OWAIN was red-lettered on the bell. “You’ll be needing to learn more about Owain, laddo, the last true king of Wales. It is he, not Arthur the King, who waits on the isle of Avalon, one day to return and restore Wales to her glory.”
He jumped up one beam like a cat. “The best for last.” He pointed to the second-largest bell. “Dylan.” Dylan clambered awkwardly up behind him. In that fancy script, just above the lip, was lettered DYLAN in green. “It’s not every laddo that has a bell named after him, is it?” He looked Dylan in the eyes. “Yes, for you, the son I might have had.”
He went on quickly, with a lightness that was not quite true. “He’s a heroic tenor, and I do mean heroic—he peals mightily.” Dru fixed his one good eye on Dylan. “He gives you something to live up to, laddo.
“Come.” Dru leaned out and put both hands on the upper part of the Dylan bell. It didn’t budge. “Let me show you—it’s a thrill.”
Dylan leaned his weight on the bell the same way. It still didn’t budge. “He’s heavy as a great stone, lad, and going nowhere. Now reach up and grab where the bell is mounted.” Dylan could barely reach. He grabbed hard, thinking he was going to lose his foothold.
“Now wrap your legs around the bell, son. Go ahead—you must do this yourself.”
Dylan had never been so scared. Half in panic, he jumped his feet off the beam and gripped the bell with his legs.
Dru reached beneath the bell and did something, Dylan couldn’t see what.
DON-N-NG!
The great bell sounded its heroic tenor. It shuddered, and Dylan would have sworn it swung a little. He held on desperately. He could feel the bell vibrating in his fingers, in his thighs, in his forehead, in his chest, in his bones, in his teeth, in his soul.
They waited. They waited. The sound subsided very, very slowly, for long minutes. Dylan felt it vibrate through his body until the very end, and then perhaps a moment longer.
“Now may be you’re ready,” said the Druid.
Dru gave him a choice of bells to start. Dylan chose his own, the tenor named Dylan.
In the kind of ringing he knew, Dru explained, called change ringing, you rang certain memorized patterns, which did not repeat. Dylan would mostly ring the tenor Dylan bell, faster or slower as Dru would motion to him, but would sometimes have to ring another. So Dru would point to the ropes—painted blue for Gwynedd, yellow for Mair, green for Dylan, red for Owain—so Dylan would know which one to clang next. “It’s a duet, laddo. The two of
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