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Two weeks ago, after the Tower
Dec. 7th, 2004 12:44 amOwen Davies does not comment the first day, when he comes home to find Bran scrubbing the bathroom, nor on the second, when Bran polishes silverware that may not have been cleaned in fifteen years. On the fourth day when Bran has not left the house except to go to school or to walk Lluchddu (short walks only, and nowhere too isolated), Owen casts Bran a look that might be piercing or might just be earnest. He says only, “Chapel meeting tonight. Mrs. Evans will feed you.”
Bran looks up from the counter he’s been dusting, and takes a breath. “No. No, actually, I think I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind.”
“You’ll have to change your clothes, then, and call Mrs. Evans.” Although his voice is still colorless, what crosses Owen Davies’ face is almost a smile.
**
Perhaps a dozen people stand inside the door of the chapel; most are older than fifty, gray-haired and drab-faced. Owen leads Bran into the building with a firm hand on his shoulder, expressing more pride than Owen’s words ever could: This is my son, who has chosen to join us.
Bran tries to stand erect and accept the grasp. This is my father. He is my only father. This is my only world. When Owen’s grip releases him, Bran shakes hands with the minister and the other deacons, bearing up under their curious stares. He knows them all, of course, after fifteen years of going to church twice a Sunday, but coming on a weekday is different.
After a few quiet words about cattle prices in Clwyd and Ieuan Morgan’s sick uncle, the people scatter to the pews and the minister moves to the altar, to read something about sin, sin and salvation. Bran never really thought about sin before; it was Owen’s my father’s preoccupation, not his.
The hunter’s call, icy, merciless, clear. That was sin.
The minister is still speaking, but Bran hears only barking hounds and smells only foxes and blood. God forgive me.
The congregants stand to discuss the text. Bran tries to listen to them --this is my only world -- but he hears knives and screams, and the harp under his hands, crying out for death.
“I will lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help,” someone says.
The hills do not help. The hills sing of that horrible joy. Bran hears the psalm, though, now.
“The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul.”
Preserve my soul. O God, preserve my soul.
At last the minister begins the hymn. “Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah.” The music is clean and pure, and Bran lets it fill his mind. By the second verse, he feels calm enough to sing. Owen looks at him, shrewdly approving, as Bran’s tenor rises.
Open now the crystal fountain,
Whence the healing stream doth flow;
Let the fire and cloudy pillar
Lead me all my journey through.
Strong Deliverer, strong Deliverer,
Be Thou still my Strength and Shield;
Be Thou still my Strength and Shield.
Bran looks up from the counter he’s been dusting, and takes a breath. “No. No, actually, I think I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind.”
“You’ll have to change your clothes, then, and call Mrs. Evans.” Although his voice is still colorless, what crosses Owen Davies’ face is almost a smile.
**
Perhaps a dozen people stand inside the door of the chapel; most are older than fifty, gray-haired and drab-faced. Owen leads Bran into the building with a firm hand on his shoulder, expressing more pride than Owen’s words ever could: This is my son, who has chosen to join us.
Bran tries to stand erect and accept the grasp. This is my father. He is my only father. This is my only world. When Owen’s grip releases him, Bran shakes hands with the minister and the other deacons, bearing up under their curious stares. He knows them all, of course, after fifteen years of going to church twice a Sunday, but coming on a weekday is different.
After a few quiet words about cattle prices in Clwyd and Ieuan Morgan’s sick uncle, the people scatter to the pews and the minister moves to the altar, to read something about sin, sin and salvation. Bran never really thought about sin before; it was Owen’s my father’s preoccupation, not his.
The hunter’s call, icy, merciless, clear. That was sin.
The minister is still speaking, but Bran hears only barking hounds and smells only foxes and blood. God forgive me.
The congregants stand to discuss the text. Bran tries to listen to them --this is my only world -- but he hears knives and screams, and the harp under his hands, crying out for death.
“I will lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help,” someone says.
The hills do not help. The hills sing of that horrible joy. Bran hears the psalm, though, now.
“The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul.”
Preserve my soul. O God, preserve my soul.
At last the minister begins the hymn. “Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah.” The music is clean and pure, and Bran lets it fill his mind. By the second verse, he feels calm enough to sing. Owen looks at him, shrewdly approving, as Bran’s tenor rises.
Open now the crystal fountain,
Whence the healing stream doth flow;
Let the fire and cloudy pillar
Lead me all my journey through.
Strong Deliverer, strong Deliverer,
Be Thou still my Strength and Shield;
Be Thou still my Strength and Shield.
