The High Missouri (6 page)

The Druid stared down at the ground now. “My other thought was, I’m kidding myself. A girl like your mam, above the rest of us, really, wouldn’t consort with the likes of me. She wants a family—she’s eager for children. She wants a proper home for them, respectability—she’ll marry a merchant.

“Come April, I headed upstream in a canoe. She came to see me off—a merry scene, that always is. I told her I’d be back in the fall. I told her I loved her and ran like a coward for the boats. She said naught, save perhaps with her eyes.

“When I did come back, she was married to your father. Her mother told me, in a superior way—‘Ian Campbell the fur trader,’ she said haughtily. Not a
voyageur
like me with no prospects, but the owner of a fur company, even if it was a small one.

“Just before I left the next spring, she died.”

For a moment he stared at the ground.

“I’ve always wondered, if I stayed in Montreal that summer, if my life would have been different. And hers.”

He looked into Dylan’s eyes. “I look at you,” he said, “and think I might have been your father.”

He studied Dylan. “You’re a good laddo.” He grinned. “I’d be proud to be your father. But I found something grand out there in the wilds too.” A flash of something gleeful in his eyes. “They call it life.”

What will I do? No matter what, I’ll never go back to my father.

“To appreciate this treat,” said the Druid confidentially, “you have to understand some things.”

They were walking back to Notre Dame ahead of the sexton, who was snacking again, nibbling chocolate with a sensual pleasure that made Dylan feel like a Peeping Tom.

The Druid pointed up at the bell tower. “This sexton understands nothing,” Dru went on. “He has no feeling for the bells. He rings them mechanically, as a monkey plays the barrel organ. If he’s here another ten years, the bells will be all 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 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 us will clang our spirits to the wide world.

“How do ’ee get a big bell like the Dylan started? You climb the rope a little first, to get your body weight all the way off the ground. The rope will start down, but very slowly, don’t worry—just get a little higher. I’ll help pull from below you to get it going.”

When the bell really moved and you came down, said Dru, you took the chance to grab the rope still higher, and let its swing up carry you well off the ground. “That’s the excitement, laddo, swooshing up. And back to the ground and back up. Watch me, laddo—do as I do.” The old man looked at him queerly. “Mostly just
do
,” he said. “Up you go.”

He gave Dylan a leg up on the tenor bell.

Dylan did a couple of pull-ups and clung. He was afraid of the motion. Maybe the up and down would make him sick.

After some moments he realized that the rope was barely moving. He pulled up a little farther. Then Dru gave a big heave from the bottom.

The rope dropped. Far up in the half-light of the tower, the tenor bell named Dylan swayed a little.

And it began to happen. The rope pulled him up a couple of feet. Dru heaved and he sank. The rope lifted him, lightly, airily, beautifully. Dru heaved down.

DON-N-G!

Loud! The air shimmered with something quicksilver that was unseen but left ripples in its wake.

The bell took hold of him like magically powerful currents of air, and he surged into the twilight.

DON-N-G!

The bell dropped him—he fell, heart in mouth, toward the hard stone floor. The rope almost ripped through his hands, but he clutched it desperately. For a moment, just above the floor, he hung still in space. The Druid, close to his face, looked into his eyes with a wild grin. In that still moment came DON-N-G!

Up he went, catapulted. He was flying. As in his dreams, he was flying.

Now the sound in the tower was beginning to split his ears—a din, a clangor, a great proclamation, the song of the Dylan bell to the sensate world.

The Druid was setting the other bells to ringing, sailing up and down on the ropes.

The sounds rang now, everywhere, from every angle, like powerful sunlight off the myriad waves of water. Tones and overtones glanced off the stones of the tower, twirled in the crannies, pulsated from floor to roof. It was not merely ear-splitting, it was brain-splitting, soul-splitting.

The rhythm of the Dylan bell quickened. DONG-DONG!

A desperate drop! DONG-DONG!

An exhilarating sail upward! DONG-DONG!

He had the extraordinary sensation of freedom. He laughed out loud. Everything gone! Home, family, job, money, plans, calling, future—all demolished! Mind almost gone—he could barely think. He was swooping up and down in a bell tower with a mad Welshman, his world destroyed, and he felt dizzy, he felt wild, he felt free.

He cried or laughed, or both at once, into the din. And heard nothing but the clangor. Laughed again louder, uproariously, foolishly, madly. And soundlessly.

CLON-N-NG!

A new sound. The Owain bell, the bass of the quartet—Dru had gotten it going. CLON-N-NG!

The roar now was beyond imagination. Thought was impossible. Consciousness beyond hearing was impossible. Dylan was in a world of sound, his mind was sound, his soul was sound. To resist, he knew intuitively, was to die. He gave himself up to the sound—the valiant clang of his Dylan bell, the quicker chimes of the soprano Gwynedd and the alto Mair, the thunderous bass throb of the Owain. The rope lifted and dropped like a huge, vertical ocean wave pitching him up and down, and he could only surrender.

A touch on his shoulder. Dru. The old man swung his rope like a pendulum sideways and he rode up, grabbed another rope, glided smoothly onto it, and dropped out of sight ringing a new bell.

Coming back up, the Druid pointed to the rope of the Owain bell.

Strange—Dylan could feel Dru’s lithe movements in his body, and he felt no fear—he was beyond fear, in a new world of possibility. He rocked his rope toward the red Owain rope, grabbed it with one hand, then both, and let go his feet, grasped the red rope firmly.

He swung sideways. Miracle.

He flew up. He lost himself sailing up toward the great bell, into the soul-splitting sound. He felt the sound in the rope, in his organs, in his skull, like when he’d whanged a tuning fork once and pressed the base to his head. This was magnified a thousand times.

Down he went, up, crazily, dizzyingly. Dru touched his shoulder and pointed again. All right—sideways, up, sideways to a new rope, down, up and to a new rope, down. He danced from rope to rope, he strutted, he pranced, he soared.