英语阅读美文-The Homecoming

The Homecoming

them

over the

Islands, some

over

South

America!

said

Cecy,

her eyes closed, the lashes long, brown, and quivering.

Timothy

came

forward

upon

the

bare

plankings

of

the

upstairs room.

Einar

and

Uncle

Fry,

and

there's

Cousin

William,

and

I

see

Frulda

and

Helgar

and

Aunt

Morgiana

and

Cousin

Vivian, and I see Uncle Johann! They're all coming fast!

flashing.

Standing

by

the

bed,

he

looked

no

more

than

his

fourteen years. The wind blew outside, the house was dark and

lit only by starlight.

coming

through

the

air

and

traveling

along

the

ground, in many forms,

move on the bed; she thought inward on herself and told what

she saw.

shallows

-

just

above

a

waterfall,

the

starlight

shining

up

his

pelt. I see a brown oak leaf blowing far up in the sky. I see a

small bat flying. I see many other things, running through the

forest

trees

and

slipping

through

the

highest

branches;

and

they're

all

coming this way!

the

bedclothes.

The

spider

on

his

lapel

swung

like

a

black

pendulum,

excitedly

dancing.

He

leaned

over

his

sister.

they all be here in time for the Homecoming?

yes,

Timothy,

yes,

sighed

Cecy.

She

stiffened.

no more of me. Go away now. Let me travel in the places I like

best.

He

hurriedly

made

his

bed.

He

had

just

awakened

a

few

minutes ago, at sunset, and as the first stars had risen, he had

gone to let his excitement about the party run with Cecy. Now

she slept so quietly there was not a sound. The spider hung on

a silvery lasso about Timothy's slender neck as he washed his

face.

He lifted his face and looked into the mirror. His was the

only

mirror

allowed

in

the

house.

It

was

his

mother's

concession

to

his

illness.

Oh,

if

only

he

were

not

so

afflicted!

He

opened

his

mouth,

surveyed

the

poor,

inadequate

teeth

nature

had

given

him.

No

more

than

so

many

corn

kernels

-

round, soft and pale in his jaws. Some of the high spirit died in

him.

It was now totally dark and he lit a candle to see by. He felt

exhausted.

This

past

week

the

whole

family

had

lived

in

the

fashion of the old country. Sleeping by day, rousing at sunset

to move about. There were blue hollows under his eyes.

I'm

no

good,

he

said,

quietly,

to

the

little

creature.

can't

even get used to sleeping days like the others.

He

took

up

the

candleholder.

Oh,

to

have

strong

teeth,

with

incisors

like

steel

spikes.

Or

strong

hands,

even,

or

a

strong mind. Even to have the power to send one's mind out,

free,

as

Cecy

did.

But,

no,

he

was

the

imperfect

one,

the

sick

one.

He

was

even

-

he

shivered

and

drew

the

candle

flame

closer afraid of the dark. His brothers snorted at him. Bion and

Leonard and Sam. They laughed at him because he slept in a

bed.

With

Cecy

it

was

different;

her

bed

was

part

of

her

comfort for the composure necessary to send her mind abroad

to

hunt.

But

Timothy,

did

he

sleep

in

the

wonderful polished

boxes like the others'? He did not! Mother let him have his own

bed,

his

own

room,

his

own

mirror.

No

wonder

the

family

skirted him like a holy man's crucifix. If only the wings would

sprout from his shoulder blades. He bared his back, stared at it.

And sighed again. No chance. Never.

Downstairs

were

exciting

and

mysterious

sounds,

the

slithering

black

crape

going

up

in

all

the

halls

and

on

the

ceilings and doors. The sputter of burning black tapers in the

banistered

stair

well.

Mother's

voice,

high

and

firm.

Father's

voice,

echoing

from

the

damp

cellar.

Bion

walking

from

outside the old country house lugging vast two-gallon jugs.

just

got

to

go

to

the party,

Spid,

said

Timothy.

The

spider whirled at the end of its silk, and Timothy felt alone. He

would

polish

cases,

fetch

toadstools

and

spiders,

hang

crape,

but

when

the

party

started

he'd

be

ignored.

The

less

seen

or

said of the imperfect son the better.

All through the house below, Laura ran.

Homecoming!

she

shouted

gaily.

Homecoming!

Timothy

passed

Cecy's

room

again,

and

she

was

sleeping

quietly. Once a month she went belowstairs. Always she stayed

in

bed.

Lovely

Cecy.

He

felt

like

asking

her,

are

you

now,

Cecy?

And

in

who?

And

what's

happening?

Are

you

beyond the hills? And what goes on there?

Ellen's room instead.

Ellen sat at her desk, sorting out many kinds of blond, red

and black hair and little scimitars of fingernail gathered from

her

manicurist

job

at

the

Mellin

Village

beauty

parlor

fifteen

miles over. A sturdy mahogany case lay in one corner with her

name on it.

with you gawking.

Eve,

Ellen;

just

think!

he

said,

trying

to

be

friendly.

sack,

labeled

them.

can

it

mean

to

you?

What

do

you

know of it? It'll scare the hell out of you. Go back to bed.

His

cheeks

burned.

needed

to

polish

and

work

and

help serve.

tomorrow,

In his anger, rushing downstairs, he bumped into Laura.

where

you're

going!

she

shrieked

from

clenched

teeth.

She

swept

away.

He

ran

to

the

open

cellar

door,

smelled

the channel of moist earthy air rising from below.

about

time,

Father

shouted

up

the

steps.

down, or they'll be here before we're ready!

Timothy

hesitated

only

long

enough

to

hear

the

million

other sounds in the house. Brothers came and went like trains

in a station, talking and arguing. If you stood in one spot long

enough the entire household passed with their pale hands full

of

things.

Leonard

with

his

little

black

medical

case,

Samuel

with his large, dusty ebony-bound book under his arm, bearing

more black crape, and Bion excursioning to the car outside and

bringing in many more gallons of liquid.

Father stopped polishing to give Timothy a rag and a scowl.

He thumped the huge mahogany box.

so we can start on another. Sleep your life away.

While waxing the surface. Timothy looked inside.

About

nine

o'clock

Timothy

went

out

into

the

October

weather.

For

two

hours

in

the

now-warm,

now-cold

wind

he

walked

the

meadows

collecting

toadstools

and

spiders.

His

heart

began

to

beat

with

anticipation

again.

How

many

relatives had Mother said would come? Seventy? One hundred?

He passed a farmhouse. If only you knew what was happening

at our house, he said to the glowing windows. He climbed a hill

and

looked

at

the

town,

miles

away,

settling

into

sleep,

the

townhall clock high and round white in the distance. The town

did not know, either. He brought home many jars of toadstools

and spiders.

In

the

little

chapel

belowstairs

a

brief

ceremony

was

celebrated. It was like all the other rituals over the years, with

Father chanting the dark lines, mother's beautiful white ivory

hands

moving

in

the

reverse

blessings,

and

all

the

children

gathered

except

Cecy,

who

lay

upstairs

in

bed.

But

Cecy

was

present.

You

saw

her

peering,

.now

from

Bion's

eyes,

now

Samuel's, now Mother's, and you felt a movement and now she

was in you, fleetingly and gone.

Timothy prayed to the Dark One with a tightened stomach.

please,

help

me

grow

up,

help

me

be

like

my

sisters

and brothers. Don't let me be different. If only I could put the

hair in the plastic images as Ellen does, or make people fall in

love with me as Laura does with people, or read strange books

as Sam does, or work in a respected job like Leonard and Bion

do. Or even raise a family one day, as mother and father have

done....

At

midnight

a

storm

hammered

the

house.

Lightning

struck

outside

in

amazing,

snow-white

bolts.

There

was

a

sound of an approaching, probing, sucking tornado, funneling

and

nuzzling

the

moist

night

earth.

Then

the

front

door,

blasted

half

off

its

hinges,

hung

stiff

and

discarded,

and

in

trooped Grandmama and Grandpapa, all the way from the old

country!

From then on people arrived each hour. There was a flutter

at

the

side

window,

a

rap

on

the

front

porch,

a

knock

at

the

back.

There

were

fey

noises

from

the

cellar,

autumn

wind

piped

down

the

chimney

throat,

chanting.

Mother

filled

the

large

crystal

punch

bowl

with

a

scarlet

fluid

poured

tram

the

jugs Bion had carried home. Father swept from room to room

lighting

more

tapers.

Laura

and

Ellen

hammered

up

more

wolfsbane. And Timothy stood amidst this wild excitement, no

expression to his face, his hands trembling at his sides, gazing

now here, now there. Banging or doors, laughter, the sound of

liquid pouring, darkness, sound or wind, the webbed thunder

of

wings, the

padding

of

feet,

the

welcoming

bursts

of

talk

at

the

entrances,

the

transparent

rattlings

of

casements,

the

shadows passing, coming, going, wavering.

this

must be Timothy!

A chilly hand took his hand. A long hairy face leaned down

over him.

Jason

peered

back

at

Timothy

over

his

caped

shoulder,

and

winked.

Timothy stood alone.

From

off

a

thousand

miles

in

the

candled

darkness,

he

heard

a

high

fluting

voice,

that

was

Ellen.

my

brothers,

they

are

clever.

Can

you

guess

their

occupations,

Aunt

Morgiana?

Timothy stood very still.

A pause in the laughter.

Mama,

Papa

and

all

of

us,

said

Laura.

of

course,

Timothy....

An uneasy silence. Uncle

Jason's

voice

demanded.

come now. What about Timothy?

Laura

went

on

with

it.

Timothy

shut

his

eyes.

doesn't-well- doesn't

like

blood. He's deli cate.

learn,

said

mother.

learn,

she

said

very

firmly.

passing from one room on into another. The wind played the

trees

outside

like

harps.

A

little

rain

spatted

on

the

windows

Timothy bit his lips and opened his eyes.

the kitchen now.

you

only make

them

sick,

and

then

they

never get

a

taste

for

things. Look at Bion, now, he was thirteen before he....

unders tand,

murmured

Uncle

Jason.

will

come around.

Candle flames quivered as shadows crossed and recrossed

the dozen musty rooms. Timothy was cold. He smelled the hot

tallow in

his nostrils and

instinctively he grabbed

at

a

candle

and walked with it around and about the house, pretending to

straighten the crape.

Timothy

,

s omeone

whisped

behind

a

patterned

wall,

hissing and sizzling and sighing the words,

Timothy is afraid

of the dark

.

Leonard's voice. Hateful Leonard!

whisper.

More

lightning,

more

thunder.

Cascades

of

roaring

laughter.

Bangings

and

clickings

and

shouts

and

rustles

of

clothing. Clammy fog swept through the front door. Out of the

fog, settling his wings, stalked a tall man.

Timothy

propelled

himself

on

his

thin

legs,

straight

through the fog, under the green webbing shadows. He threw

himself across Einar's arms. Einar lifted him.

wings,

Timothy!

He

tossed

the

boy

light

as

thistles.

rotated.

The

house

blew

away.

Timothy

felt

breezelike.

He

flapped

his

arms.

Einar's

fingers

caught

and

threw

him

once

more

to

the

ceiling.

The

ceiling

rushed

down

like

a

charred

wall.

wings! Wings!

He

felt

an

exquisite

ecstasy

in

his

shoulder

blades,

as

if

roots

grew,

burst

to

explode

and

blossom

into

new,

moist

membrane.

He

babbled

wild

stuff;

again

Einar

hurled

him

high.

The

autumn

wind

broke

in

a

tide

on

the

house,

rain

crashed

down,

shaking

the

beams,

causing

chandeliers

to

tilt

their

enraged

candle

lights.

And

the

one

hundred

relatives

peered out from every black, enchanted room, circling inward,

all

shapes

and

sizes,

to

where

Einar balanced

the

child

like

a

baton in the roaring spaces.