Chapter 6

10 1 1
                                    


Sand, Bell, Sand, Bell, Thimble


The first wonder I ever beheld: the High Street at midday. Second: my aunts' kitchen-maid washing at a rain-barrel. That first glimpse of bustling city-street dazzled brain and heart. These organs understood exactly what eyes beheld. Whereas the vision of the maid bathing shot between my legs as revelation only for the organ therein. Mind and heart gaped puzzled. They didn't know what to think.

I understood city streets my first step upon cobble-stone. I darted between carts, dodged farmers and bakers, leaped fences, watched a hanging, bought a muffin, laughed at a drunk trying to mount a horse. I was born for the glory and riot of the High Street. The life it declared, the sounds it shouted and stamped and screamed and bellowed, the smells and tastes and feel of crowd and market and barrows and quarreling cats, crows, chickens, children and stamping horses... it all rushed and flowed between the grand buildings as one great river of life. I the happy fish, darted immediately within, uncatchable. King of the cobbles, confidant to alley-shadows, advisor to stray dogs, prince of the roof tiles.

But Mirabilis Secundus: the kitchen-maid naked? Not a thing for comprehending. Called Swan for her bodily grace, her fierce temper and the fact she possessed a head full of feathers. Mindless; but gracefully mindless. She splashed barrel-water onto her glorious undressed person, shivering not for cold but for joy; delighting in each diamond drop shaking upon breasts and tummy and thigh.

She eyed me, a boy of ten, gawkish thin with feet and hands man-size. A comic creature of incompatible parts. She tossed head back to say come closer an' I thump you. Then went on with her splashing, indifferent to my mere gaze.

I do not think the thrill I felt was only a virgin's first clear vision of where girls' legs joined, how breasts waggled when free of binding, how nipples poked if caressed by cold. My shiver lay closer to what shook Dealer as he described some painting that astonished his soul. Swan possessed naked beauty; that is to say: grace of form unspoiled by clothes, propriety, fear or lust. I observed her weekly baths as my only true religious service. Whenever my aunts caught me at it they beat at my devotion with the scullery broom.

Swan paid no mind to my worshiping stares nor howls of martyrdom. I do not think she had coin of mind to pay. She could speak, but incoherently. When she felt the social need she breathed out a jabber of random words in imitation of conversation. Perhaps she supposed everyone did the same. Perhaps they do.

I dared touch her once only, at thirteen and feeling a hollowing madness within whenever I considered girls' lips, tongues, cheeks, crotches, asses, ribs, calves, tummies, shoulders, knees, elbows, toes, napes, ankles, breasts, thighs, buttocks. Arms. Mere sight of a girl's bare arm grabbed and twisted my head at a hundred yards. The treasure need not be revealed. The shadow of a curve of a breast beneath five layers of shawl, would bugle-call: soldier arise! While heart-beat drummed double-time.

The Dared Touch: Swan splashed, I watched. Found my foot rising, moving forwards. She eyed me, splashing again, shaking her torso to send drops flying. I stepped again, hand held out as one would approach a growling dog. She straightened, frowning, jutting breasts forwards, setting legs apart to show the glorious, furred, cleft center of my fascination. I edged yet closer, hand trembling... at last my forefinger reached her pale wet shoulder. I trembled. She tilted head, eyes narrowed, allowing for one eternal breath that finger-tip communion. Then struck me side-of-the-head, sending me toppling down.

"Cats dogs hats plates on the table now!" she chattered angrily. "Hair combs singing in the sea great waves your best stones bells ringing sand, sand, thimble, bell, sand, thimble. Powder on coats? Cats, thimble the sand bell sand, bell boyo bell!" I lay stunned, head ringing like a sand-bell. Yet appreciating the view of her body from this new angle. She grabbed the Scullery Broom of Inquisition. I wriggled up and ran for my life. Proud, despite sounding retreat.

Quest of the Five Clans: the Harlequin TartanWhere stories live. Discover now