pour his story into him? He must have been a young man when he set out on his voyage, but now he is ancient. How many years has he lived, I wonder? Perhaps he cannot die. That may be part of the curse on him.
He killed an albatross. It seems petty to me. But the albatross I suppose was not only an albatross. It was the thing without which you can continue to live, but no longer be human.
Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I see?
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
Is this mine own countree?
But how can it be? If you kill the albatross, you can never come back to your own country. You’ll be happier if you stop hoping for it. Like a fool I turn and look back across the bay to the town. There is the lighthouse, standing sheer on its black rock. Nothing has changed. The white stub of it looks far from shore, but really it’s quite close. When you climb up to Devil’s Mouth and look back, the channel that separates lighthouse from land is narrow. Beyond it the land folds and humps its way northward. The foam creeps around the lighthouse, beating up against it silently, retreating, climbing again. I watch it for a while, until my breathing steadies. My heart beats solidly again, in thick, slow strokes. There is the huddle of the town, where Felicia is.
‘. . . And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread . . .’
There is nothing. No tread. Not a footfall within a mile. Only the wind sifting over the flowers, and a faint smell of coconut from the furze. A bumblebee has got itself in among the thorns and it dips and falls, feeling for a gap. Now it’s in, and fumbling at the yellow mouth of the flower.
A movement catches my eye. I drop down a little, to the level of the bushes. Two figures have appeared, close to the horizon. As I watch they bend, rise and bend again. I think they are leasing stones. Do boys still lease stones, as I used to do? That was before Mulla House. I’d get a day’s work, and miss school. I remember the smell of my hand after I gave the ninepence I’d earned to my mother. Dirty coppers, and a joey. I was proud of giving her every halfpenny and keeping nothing for myself.
I walk on a way. Beyond here the land rises, and the cliffs are sheer. I won’t go that far. Just here there is turf, and then a rough scramble down rock and boulders to a promontory that’s good for fishing. I let myself down backwards, feeling for footholds. There must have been a fall of rock since I was last here, because the familiar ledge has gone. But I wedge my right foot into a cleft and find a spur for my left foot, and then another. There’s a rhythm I’ve almost forgotten, but it’s there, waiting to be discovered. Frederick had it always. You climb best if you never pause long enough for your weight to test the strength of the foothold.
I am down. The sea sucks and drags, but the tide is on its way out. I make my way out on to the promontory, jumping from rock to rock, the sea on both sides now. I go to the very end. Pulses of swell travel in diagonally, hitting the rocks with a shock of spray. It is stupid to stand here. We always used to stand here as long as we dared. Every hundredth wave the swell would gather itself. You would see it coming from far off, a dark hump like a monster travelling underwater. It would wash right over the rock when it came, and would snatch you away. We would watch it, judging the last possible moment. We took turns to be the one who screamed out: NOW! and the cry freed us to scramble back to high ground where the swell could only lick our heels. But the one who ran before the other gave the word had lost.
Once Frederick left it too late to shout, and the wave went right over me. I clung to the rock like a monkey but it picked me off then threw me back again. Water rushed over my eyes and I choked but the second time I dragged myself up and got away. Lucky it was calm. On a wilder day the sea
He killed an albatross. It seems petty to me. But the albatross I suppose was not only an albatross. It was the thing without which you can continue to live, but no longer be human.
Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I see?
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
Is this mine own countree?
But how can it be? If you kill the albatross, you can never come back to your own country. You’ll be happier if you stop hoping for it. Like a fool I turn and look back across the bay to the town. There is the lighthouse, standing sheer on its black rock. Nothing has changed. The white stub of it looks far from shore, but really it’s quite close. When you climb up to Devil’s Mouth and look back, the channel that separates lighthouse from land is narrow. Beyond it the land folds and humps its way northward. The foam creeps around the lighthouse, beating up against it silently, retreating, climbing again. I watch it for a while, until my breathing steadies. My heart beats solidly again, in thick, slow strokes. There is the huddle of the town, where Felicia is.
‘. . . And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread . . .’
There is nothing. No tread. Not a footfall within a mile. Only the wind sifting over the flowers, and a faint smell of coconut from the furze. A bumblebee has got itself in among the thorns and it dips and falls, feeling for a gap. Now it’s in, and fumbling at the yellow mouth of the flower.
A movement catches my eye. I drop down a little, to the level of the bushes. Two figures have appeared, close to the horizon. As I watch they bend, rise and bend again. I think they are leasing stones. Do boys still lease stones, as I used to do? That was before Mulla House. I’d get a day’s work, and miss school. I remember the smell of my hand after I gave the ninepence I’d earned to my mother. Dirty coppers, and a joey. I was proud of giving her every halfpenny and keeping nothing for myself.
I walk on a way. Beyond here the land rises, and the cliffs are sheer. I won’t go that far. Just here there is turf, and then a rough scramble down rock and boulders to a promontory that’s good for fishing. I let myself down backwards, feeling for footholds. There must have been a fall of rock since I was last here, because the familiar ledge has gone. But I wedge my right foot into a cleft and find a spur for my left foot, and then another. There’s a rhythm I’ve almost forgotten, but it’s there, waiting to be discovered. Frederick had it always. You climb best if you never pause long enough for your weight to test the strength of the foothold.
I am down. The sea sucks and drags, but the tide is on its way out. I make my way out on to the promontory, jumping from rock to rock, the sea on both sides now. I go to the very end. Pulses of swell travel in diagonally, hitting the rocks with a shock of spray. It is stupid to stand here. We always used to stand here as long as we dared. Every hundredth wave the swell would gather itself. You would see it coming from far off, a dark hump like a monster travelling underwater. It would wash right over the rock when it came, and would snatch you away. We would watch it, judging the last possible moment. We took turns to be the one who screamed out: NOW! and the cry freed us to scramble back to high ground where the swell could only lick our heels. But the one who ran before the other gave the word had lost.
Once Frederick left it too late to shout, and the wave went right over me. I clung to the rock like a monkey but it picked me off then threw me back again. Water rushed over my eyes and I choked but the second time I dragged myself up and got away. Lucky it was calm. On a wilder day the sea
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