The melody turned and climbed and
twisted, rose to a climax, and re-commenced again the same phrase.
Arithelli listened, hypnotised and bewitched, as she always was by
music.
Something wild and primitive in her responded to the shrill, sweet,
insistent call. She had felt like that before, listening to the
Tziganes on the Rambla, and it was as if the heart were being dragged
out of her body. She thought of the childish story of the Piper of
Hamelin. She could understand now what had made the children follow
him with dancing footsteps, through street to street, on, on from dawn
till dusk.
The guitar-player glanced up in passing and mocked her with laughing
eyes. An orange-coloured scarf left his brown throat exposed, and
there were gold rings in his ears. She kissed her hand and called down
greetings in Spanish, and stood at the window, watching and listening
and longing to run out into the street and follow as the children
followed through the town of Hamelin.
All the joy of life was in those oft-repeated and alluring phrases, the
fall of water, the hum of bees, the shiver of aspen leaves, the slow
music of a breaking wave.
Pages:
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249