Once Read Online Free PDF Page B

any other time since the stroke, including when he had received the good news that, if he was careful - cut out the smokes, easy on the booze - and if he obeyed and worked with the therapist, then there should be no recurrence, he would be just fine. Thom felt oddly unburdened, as free as he had been as a boy, chasing through this same meadow, clapping his hands and giggling at butterflies or startled rabbits, his mother’s caring eyes on him at all times. Perhaps he sensed that same protection now; maybe he was reminded of a glorious era when he was cherished and guarded, when he was invincible against the bad things; a time when his soul was light and his mind untroubled, his young body bothered neither by weakness nor pain.
    It stayed with him for a while, this dreamy glow; stayed with him until he approached the woods and his leg began to ache.
    It was as if he were entering another world, a hushed world, a world that was shaded and cool, shafts of sunlight angling through its twilight in long, shimmering beams, the silence only occasionally interrupted by a falling branch somewhere out of sight, or a rustle of undergrowth as some hidden animal, aware of his presence, broke for home. Thom followed the path he and Bethan and all past visitors to Little Bracken, from one century to the next, had taken. There were other paths running through the woods, not as obvious as this one, and as a boy he had explored most of them; he wondered now how many such tracks had been lost to time and neglect, untrodden and so reclaimed by the forest. Did any one walk these woods anymore? Who would bother unless they knew of its ‘magic’, the serenity within? But then, who would have access anyway? Eric Pimlet, of course; it was part of his job. But Thom could not imagine old Bones venturing into such wilderness. Nor Hugo - certainly not Hugo. No nature-lover he, nor one to enjoy strenuous exercise - any exercise, for that matter. And Sir Russell had been too frail for years and was now too ill.
    It was a waste and a shame; but he was glad, for it meant that the little kingdom belonged to him alone. Thom was aware that this was a fancy, but the notion was not new to him, it was something in which he had always indulged since the early days of running through the trees, surrounding himself with imaginary friends, invisible beings who were never too tired or too busy to play.
    Even then he was aware that he was considered an odd,
    solitary child, whose only real companion was Hugo Bleeth. But Hugo was older and under Bethan’s tutelage; he was also the boss’s son and Thom had constantly been reminded he was to be treated as such (though never by Hugo, himself). But Thom - and his mother - knew better. He had never been lonely here, not when imagination and fantasy were his true friends. Or perhaps, his mentors. It was they who had given him a Me that was far from empty, a time when his thoughts were boundless, his imageries true. And the woodland, itself, had invoked its own treasures, mind treasures, which could be explored and experienced, and relished and owned. For an instant - and only an instant -the childhood memories became a reality, became now, and he felt the same excitement, the same soaring blissfulness that could only come from a special kind of innocence and a willingness to believe.
    A nightingale, singing somewhere deep within the woods, diverted his attention for a moment and the sweet call was not an interruption to his thoughts but somehow an endorsement of the remembered happiness. Thom listened a while, then pressed on, even keener to reach his old home.
    He passed by shade-loving flowers along the side of the trail, sanicle, archangel, yellow pimpernel, flora that usually waited for late summer to bloom, but here - as ever - they had arrived early. He heard the low pitch of warblers singing to each other, while a blackcap swooped down into a glade off to his right, disappearing briefly into a tangle of hawthorn and