Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1)


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Why not? How do we know what agency carries pollen of human life from planet to planet? Milton, smiling at it all, withdrew. He sat down and wrote a long-deferred letter to Mrs. I have asked John Berber if he would care to revisit his old home. It seemed never to have occurred to him that he had a home! When I suggested the thing he followed it up eagerly, as he does every new idea, asking me many keen questions as to his relatives, who had paid for his education, etc.

Of the actual facts of his cure he knows little except that there was special functioning out of gear, and that now the wheels have been greased. Doctor Mach is desperately proud of him, especially of the way in which he responds to normal diversion-environments and friendships. You must instruct his mother very carefully as to references to his former condition.

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It is best that he should not dwell upon the former condition. Your young friend, Gargoyle, sees no more spooks. He is rapidly developing into a very remarkable and unconceited horticulturist! The first few days at Mockwood were spent at the little gardener's cottage, from which the other youngsters had flown.

Berber, quietly moving about the tiny rooms, sitting buried in a scientific book or taking long trips afield, was the recipient of much maternal flattery. He accepted it all very gently; the young culturist had an air of quiet consideration for every one and absolutely no consciousness of himself.

He presumed upon no special prerogatives, but set immediately to work to make himself useful. It was while he was weeding the box borders leading to the herb-gardens of Heartholm that Mrs. Strang first came upon him. Her eyes, suddenly confronted with his as he got to his feet, dropped almost guiltily, but when they sought his face a second time, Evelyn Strang experienced a disappointment that was half relief. The sunburnt youth, in khaki trousers and brown-flannel shirt, who knelt by the border before her was John Strang Berber, Doctor Mach's human masterpiece; this was not "Gargoyle. White teeth flashed, deep eyes kindled.

Berber rose and, going to a garden seat, took up some bits of glass and a folded paper. He showed her fragments of weed pressed upon glass plates, envelopes of seeds preserved for special analyzation.

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She began sorting out her embroidery silks as Berber, the bits of glass still in his hand, stood before her. He was smiling. A feeling as powerful and associative as the scent of a strong perfume stole over Evelyn Strang. Before she could speak Berber had resumed his weeding. He was very busy this morning. I have no credentials, but my mother seems to think I am a born gardener. This lack of conceit, this unassuming practicality, the sort of thing with which Gargoyle's mind had been carefully inoculated for a long time, baffled, while it reassured Mrs.


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Also the sense of sacred trust placed in her hands made her refrain from any psychic probing. For a long while she found it easy to exert this self-control. The lonely woman, impressed by the marvelous "cure" of John Berber, magnetized by his youth and sunny enthusiasms back to the old dreaming pleasure in the Heartholm gardens, might in the absorbed days to come have forgotten—only there was a man's photograph in her bedroom, placed where her eyes always rested on it, her hand could bring it to her lips; the face looking out at her seemed to say but one thing:.

What we knew and were to each other had not only to do with our bodies. Men call me 'dead' but you know that I am not. Why do you not study and work and pray to learn what I am become, that you may turn to me, that I may reach to you? Mockwooders, dropping in at Heartholm for afternoon tea, began to accustom themselves to finding Mrs. Strang sitting near some flower-bed where John Berber worked, or going with him over his great books of specimens. The smirk the fashionable world reserves for anything not usual in its experience was less marked in this case than it might have been in others.

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Even those who live in "residential parks" are sometimes forced albeit with a curious sense of personal injury to accept the idea that they who have greatly suffered find relief in "queer" ways. Mockwooders, assisting at the Heartholm tea-hour, and noting Berber among other casual guests, merely felt aggrieved and connoted "queerness.

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For almost a year, with the talking over of plans for John Strang's long-cherished idea of a forest garden at Heartholm, there had been no allusion between mistress and gardener to that far-off fantasy, the life of little Gargoyle. During the autumn the two drew plans together for those spots which next spring were to blossom in the beech glade. They sent to far-off countries for bulbs, experimented in the Heartholm greenhouses with special soils and fertilizers, and differences of heat and light; they transplanted, grafted, and redeveloped this and that woodland native.

Unconsciously all formal strangeness wore away, unconsciously the old bond between Gargoyle and his mistress was renewed. Thus it was, without the slightest realization as to what it might lead, that Evelyn Strang one afternoon made some trifling allusion to Berber's association with the famous Doctor Mach. As soon as she had done so, fearing from habit for some possible disastrous result, she tried immediately to draw away from the subject.

But the forbidden spring had been touched—a door that had long been closed between them swung open. Young Berber, sorting dahlia bulbs into numbered boxes, looked up; he met her eyes unsuspiciously. The mistress of Heartholm did not reply. In spite of her tranquil air, Evelyn Strang was gripped with a sudden apprehension. How much, how little, did Berber know? She glanced swiftly at him, then bent her head over her embroidery. The colored stream of Indian summer flowed around them. A late bird poured out his little cup of song. I was thought to be an idiot until I was twelve years old—born deaf and dumb?

It was asked so naturally, with a scientific interest as impersonal as if he were speaking of one of the malformed bulbs in his pocket, that at first his mistress felt no confusion. Her eyes and hands busying themselves with the vivid silks, she answered. Strang and I were attracted to your mysterious plays No, you never spoke, but we were not sure you could not hear—and"—drawing a swift little breath—"we were always interested in what—in what—you seemed—to see!


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There was a pause. He knelt there, busily sorting the bulbs. Suddenly to the woman sitting on the garden bench the sun-bathed October gardens seemed alive with the myriad questioning faces of the fall flowers; wheels and disks like aureoled heads leaned toward her, mystical fire in their eyes, the colored flames of their being blown by passionate desire of revelation. But that she might not yet speak out her heart to John Berber his mistress was sure. She was reminded of what Strang had so often said, referring to their lonely quest—that actual existence was like a forlorn shipwreck of some other life, a mere raft upon which, like grave buffoons, the ragged survivors went on handing one another watersoaked bread of faith, glassless binoculars of belief, oblivious of what radiant coasts or awful headlands might lie beyond the enveloping mists.

Soon, the wistful woman knew, she would be making some casual observations about the garden, the condition of the soil. Yet, if ever the moment had come to question him who had once been "Gargoyle," that moment was come now! Berber lifted on high a mass of thickly welded bulbs clinging to a single dahlia stalk.

He met her gaze triumphantly. See what increase. It was said calmly, with almost maternal encouragement, but the fingers absorbed in the bright silks fumbled and erred. But young Berber leaned upon his garden fork, looking past her. Over the youth's face crept a curious expression of wrapt contemplation, of super-occupation, whether induced by her words or not she could not tell.

Furtively Mrs. Strang studied him How soon would he drop that mystical look and turn to her with the casual "educated" expression she had come to know so well? How very grateful you must be to Doctor Mach.

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She heard her own words helplessly, as if in a dream, and, if the unwisdom of this kind of conversation had impressed the mistress of Heartholm before, now she could have bitten off her tongue with that needless speech on it. Young Berber, however, seemed hardly to have heard her; he stood there, the "Gargoyle" look still in his eyes, gazing past his mistress into some surrounding mystery of air element.

It was to her, watching him, as if those brooding, dilated pupils might behold, besides infinitesimal mystery of chemical atoms, other mysteries—colorless pools of air where swam, like sea anemones, radiant forms of released spirit; invisible life-trees trembling with luminous fruit of occult being! When Berber turned this look, naked as a sword, back to Evelyn Strang, she involuntarily shivered.

But the boy's face was unconscious. His expression changed only to the old casual regard as he said, very simply:. The confession came with inevitable shock. If she received it with apparent lightness, it was that she might, with all the powers a woman understands, rise to meet what she felt was coming.

The barrier down, it was comparatively easy to stand in the breach, making her soft note of deprecation, acknowledging playfully that the stress of so-called "normal" life must indeed seem a burden to one who had hitherto talked with flowers, played with shadows. Berber, however, seemed hardly to hear her; there was no tenseness in the youth's bearing; he merely gazed thoughtfully past her efforts, repeating:. I have not really gained knowledge by being taught.

Strang was genuinely puzzled. Yet she understood; it was merely theories about life that he had gained. Again she called to mind a sentence in Doctor Milton's letter: "I know that you have followed the case in such a way as to understand what would be your responsibility toward this newly made human soul. Could it be actually harmful to him to go on? And yet was it not her only chance, after years of faithful waiting? The young fellow seemed not to get her meaning.

Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1) Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1)
Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1) Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1)
Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1) Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1)
Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1) Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1)
Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1) Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1)
Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1) Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1)
Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1) Miracle Belle A Horse with a Secret (Twisted Vine: An Anthology of Short Stories & Poems Book 1)

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