'They're fastening on to everything ... look!' whispered Cousin Henry,
kicking up a shower of sparks with his foot. 'The Pattern's being made
before your eyes! Don't you see the guy ropes?'
And they saw it actually happen. From the summits of the distant Alps
ran filmy lines of ebony that knotted themselves on to the crests of
the pines beside them. There were so many no eye could follow them.
They flew and darted everywhere, dropping like needles from the sky
itself, sewing the tent of darkness on to the main supports, and
threading the starlight as they came. Night slowly brought her beauty
and her mystery upon the world. The filmy pattern opened. There was a
tautness in the lines that made one feel they would twang with
delicate music if the wind swept its hand more rapidly across them.
And now and again all vibrated, each line making an ellipse between
its fastened ends, then gradually settling back to its thin, almost
invisible bed. Cables of thick, elastic darkness steadied them.
How much of it all the children realised themselves, or how much
flashed into them from their cousin's mind, is of course a thing not
even a bat can tell.
'Is that why bats fly in such a muddle? Like a puzzle?'
'Of course,' he said. The bats were at last explained.
They built their little pictures for themselves.
Pages:
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346