The Thirteenth Tale- 第41部分

everything　was　quiet　indoors；　only　the　crack　of　the　fire　every　so　often；　and　the　click…click　of　the　knitting　needles；　and　my　sighs。　my　sighs；　you　say？　well；　yes；　my　sighs。　because　i　wasn’t　happy。　i’d　fallen　into　remembering；　and　that’s　a　bad　habit　for　a　woman　of　fifty。　i’d　got　a　warm　fire；　a　roof　over　my　head　and　a　cooked　dinner　inside　me；　but　was　i　content？　not　i。　so　there　i　sat　sighing　over　my　gray　sock；　while　the　rain　kept　ing。　after　a　time　i　got　up　to　fetch　a　slice　of　plum　cake　from　the　pantry；　nice　and　mature；　fed　with　brandy。　cheered　me　up　no　end。　but　when　i　came　back　and　picked　up　my　knitting；　my　heart　quite　turned　over。　do　you　know　why？　i’d　turned　the　heel　of　that　sock　twice！

now　that　bothered　me。　it　really　bothered　me；　because　i’m　a　careful　knitter；　not　slapdash　like　my　sister　kitty　used　to　be；　nor　half　blind　like　my　poor　old　mother　when　she　got　near　the　end。　i’d　only　made　that　mistake　twice　in　my　life。

the　first　time　i　turned　a　heel　too　often　was　when　i　was　a　young　thing。　a　sunny　afternoon。　i　was　sitting　by　an　open　window；　enjoying　the　smell　of　everything　blooming　in　the　garden。　it　was　a　blue　sock　then。　for…　well；　for　a　young　man。　my　young　man。　i　won’t　tell　you　his　name；　there’s　no　need。　well；　i’d　been　daydreaming。　silly。　white　dresses　and　white　cakes　and　a　lot　of　nonsense　like　that。　and　all　of　a　sudden　i　looked　down　and　saw　that　i’d　turned　the　heel　twice。　there　it　was；　plain　as　day。　a　ribbed　leg　part；　a　heel；　more　ribbing　for　the　foot　and　then—　another　heel。　i　laughed　out　loud。　it　didn’t　matter。　easy　enough　to　undo　it　and　put　it　right。

i’d　already　drawn　the　needles　out　when　kitty　came　running　up　the　garden　path。　what’s　up　with　her？　i　thought；　all　of　a　hurry。　i　saw　her　face　was　greenish　white；　and　then　she　stopped　dead　the　minute　she　saw　me　through　the　window。　that’s　when　i　knew　it　wasn’t　a　trouble　for　her　but　for　me。　she　opened　her　mouth　but　she　couldn’t　even　say　my　name。　she　was　crying。　and　then　out　she　came　with　it。

there’d　been　an　accident。　he’d　been　out　with　his　brother；　my　young　man。　after　some　grouse。　where　they　didn’t　ought　to　have　been。　someone　saw　them　and　they　took　fright。　ran　off。　daniel；　the　brother；　he　got　to　the　stile　first　and　hopped　over。　my　young　man；　he　was　too　hasty。　his　gun　got　caught　in　the　stile。　he　should　have　slowed　down；　taken　his　time。　he　heard　footsteps　ing　after　them　and　panicked；　yanked　at　the　gun。　i　don’t　need　to　spell　it　out；　do　i？　you　can　guess　what　happened。

i　undid　my　knitting。　all　those　little　knots　that　you　make　one　after　mother；　row　by　row；　to　knit　a　sock；　i　undid　them。　it’s　easy。　take　the　needles　out；　a　little　tug　and　they　just　fall　apart。　one　after　another；　row　by　row。　i　undid　the　extra　heel　and　then　i　just　kept　going。　the　foot；　the　first　heel；　the　ribbing　of　the　leg。　all　those　loops　unraveling　themselves　as　you　pull　the　wool。　then　there　was　nothing　left　to　unravel；　only　a　pile　of　crinkled　blue　wool　in　my　lap。

it　doesn’t　take　long　to　knit　a　sock　and　it　takes　a　lot　less　to　undo　it。

i　expect　i　wound　the　blue　wool　into　a　ball　to　make　something　else。　but　i　don’t　remember　that。

the　second　time　i　turned　a　heel　twice；　i　was　beginning　to　get　old。　kitty　and　me　were　sitting　by　the　fireside　here；　together。　it　was　a　year　since　her　husband　had　died；　nearly　a　year　since　she’d　e　to　live　with　me。　she　was　getting　so　much　better；　i　thought。　she’d　been　smiling　more。　taking　an　interest　in　things。　she　could　hear　his　name　without　welling　up。　we　sat　here　and　i　was　knitting—a　nice　pair　of　bed　socks　it　was；　for　kitty；　softest　lambs’　wool；　pink　to　go　with　her　dressing　gown—　and　she　had　a　book　in　her　lap。　she　can’t　have　been　looking　at　it；　though；　because　she　said；　“joan；　you’ve　turned　that　heel　twice。”

i　held　up　my　work　and　she　was　right。　“well；　i’m　blowed；”　i　said。

she　said　if　it　had　been　her　knitting；　she　wouldn’t　be　surprised。　she　was　always　turning　heels　twice；　or　else　forgetting　to　turn　at　all。　more　than　once　she’d　knitted　a　sock　for　her　man　with　no　heel；　just　a　leg　and　a　toe。　we　laughed。　but　she　was　surprised　at　me；　she　said。　it　wasn’t　like　me　to　be　so　absentminded。

‘well；“　i　said；　”i　have　made　this　mistake　before。　only　the　once。“　and　i　reminded　her　of　what　i’ve　just　told　you。　all　about　my　young　man。　and　while　i　was　reminiscing　aloud；　i　carefully　undid　the　second　heel　and　got　started　to　put　it　right。　takes　a　bit　of　concentration；　and　the　light　was　going。　well；　i　finished　my　story；　and　she　didn’t　say　anything；　and　i　thought　she　was　thinking　about　her　husband。　you　know；　me　talking　about　my　loss　all　those　years　ago；　and　hers　so　recent　by　parison。

it　was　too　dark　to　finish　the　toe　properly；　so　i　put　it　aside　and　looked　up。　“kitty？”　i　said。　“kitty？”　there　was　no　answer。　i　did　for　a　moment　think　she　might　be　asleep。　but　she　wasn’t。

she　looked　so　peaceful　there。　she　had　a　smile　on　her　face。　as　if　she　was　happy　to　be　back　with　him。　back　with　her　husband。　in　the　time　i’d　been　peering　at　that　bed　sock　in　the　dark；　chattering　away　with　my　old　story；　she’d　gone　to　him。

so　it　bothered　me；　that　night　of　the　pitch…black　sky；　to　find　that　i’d　knitted　a　second　heel。　once　i’d　done　it　and　lost　my　young　man。　twice　and　i’d　lost　my　sister。　now　a　third　time。　i　had　no　one　left　to　lose。　there　was　only　me　now。

i　looked　at　the　sock。　gray　wool。　a　plain　thing。　it　was　meant　for　me。

perhaps　it　didn’t　matter；　i　told　myself。　who　was　there　to　miss　me？　no　one　would　suffer　from　my　going。　that　was　a　blessing。　after　all；　at　least　i’d　had　a　life；　not　like　my　young　man。　and　also　i　remembered　the　look　on　kitty’s　face；　that　happy；　peaceful　look。　can’t　be　so　bad；　i　thought。

i　set　to　unraveling　the　extra　heel。　what　was　the　point　of　that；　you　might　wonder。　well；　i　didn’t　want　to　be　found　with　it。　“silly　old　woman；”　i　imagined　them　saying。　“they　found　her　with　her　knitting　in　her　lap；　and　guess　what？　she’d　turned　her　heel　twice。”　i　didn’t　want　them　saying　that。　so　i　undid　it。　and　as　i　worked　i　was　readying　myself　to　go；　in　my　mind。

i　don’t　know　how　long　i　sat　there　like　that。　but　eventually　a　noise　found　its　way　into　my　ear。　from　out…of…doors。　a　cry；　like　some　lost　animal。　i　was　away　in　my　thoughts；　not　expecting　anything　to　e　now　between　me　and　my　end；　so　at　first　i　paid　no　notice。　but　i　heard　it　again。　it　seemed　to　be　calling　me。　for　who　else　was　going　to　hear　it；　stuck　out　here　in　the　middle　of　nowhere？　i　thought　perhaps　it　was　a　cat；　lost　its　mother　or　something。　and　although　i　was　preparing　to　meet　my　maker；　the　image　of　this　little　cat；　with　its　wet　fur；　kept　distracting　me。　and　i　thought；　just　because　i’m　dying；　that’s　no　reason　to　deny　one　of　god’s　creatures　a　bit　of　warmth　and　something　to　eat。　and　i　might　as　well　tell　you；　i　didn’t　mind　the　thought　of　having　some　living　creature　by　me　right　at　that　moment。　so　i　went　to　the　door。

and　what　did　i　find　there？

tucked　in　the　porch；　out　of　the　rain；　a　baby！　swaddled　in　canvas；　mewling　like　a　kitten。　poor　little　mite。　cold　and　wet　and　hungry；　you　were。　i　could　hardly　believe　my　eyes。　i　bent　down　and　picked　you　up；　and　the　minute　you　saw　me　you　stopped　crying。

i　didn’t　linger　outdoors。　you　wanted　feeding　and　some　dry　things。　so　no；　i　didn’t　stop　long　in　the　porch。　just　a　quick　look。　nothing　there。　nobody　at　all。　just　the　wind　rustling　the　trees　at　the　edge　of　the　wood；　and—odd　this—smoke　rising　into　the　sky　off　toward　angelfield？

i　clutched　you　to　me；　came　inside　and　closed　the　door。

twice　before　i　had　knitted　two　heels　into　a　sock；　and　death　had　e　close　to　me。　the　third　time；　and　it　was　life　that　came　to　the　door。　that　taught　me　not　to　go　reading　too　much　into　coincidences。　i　had　no　time　to　be　thinking　about　death　after　that；　anyway。

i　had　you　to　think　about。

and　we　lived　happily　ever　after。

aurelius　swallowed。　his　voice　had　grown　hoarse　and　broken。　the　words　had　e　out　of　him　like　an　incantation；　words　that　he　had　heard　a　thousand　times　as　a　boy；　repeated　inside　himself　for　decades　as　a　man。

when　the　story　was　finished；　we　sat　in　silence；　contemplating　the　altar。　outside　the　rain　continued　to　fall；　unhurried。　aurelius　was　still　as　a　statue　by　my　side；　yet　his　thoughts；　i　suspected；　were　anything　but　quiet。

there　were　lots　of　things　i　might　have　said；　but　i　said　nothing。　i　just　waited　for　him　to　return　to　the　present　in　his　own　time。　when　he　did；　he　spoke　to　me。

‘the　thing　is；　it’s　not　my　story；　is　it？　i　mean；　i’m　in　it；　that’s　obvious；　but　it’s　not　my　story。　it　belongs　to　mrs。　love。　the　man　she　wanted　to　marry；　her　sister　kitty；　her　knitting。　her　baking。　all　that　is　her　story。　and　then　just　when　she　thinks　it’s　all　ing　to　an　end；　i　arrive　and　give　the　story　a　new　start。

‘but　that　doesn’t　make　it　my　story；　does　it？　because　before　she　opened　the　door…　before　she　heard　the　sound　in　the　night…　before—“

he　halted；　breathless；　made　a　gesture　to　cut　off　his　sentence　and　start　again：

‘because　for　someone　to　find　a　baby　like　that；　just　find　him；　all　alone　like　that　in　the　rain；　it　means　that　before　then；　in　order　for　it　to　happen；　of　necessity—“

another　frantic　erasing　gesture　of　the　hands；　eyes　ranging　wildly　around　the　church　ceiling　as　though　somewhere　he　would　spot　the　verb　he　needed　that　would　allow　him　finally　to　an