The Journey Read Free

of witticisms and practical jokes, which Argus found alternately irritating and amusing.
    After dinner the food was cleared away and the dishes were washed. The children began a game that they called, for no reason that Argus could fathom, ‘Butterflies’. It seemed to be a guessing game based on imitations. One child would jump on the table and impersonate, with appropriate noises and contortions of the face and body, an object or creature; a parrot, for example, or a chair, and the others would try to guess what it was. The children were very skilful, both in their acting and in their guessing. To Argus’ surprise, after ten minutes or so, the adults began joining in. Argus, accustomed to the gravity of his father and mother, was confused but pleased as the game spread through the room. And no-one was more active and rowdy than the old man, who, ignoring his paralysis, seemed to shed sixty years. He impersonated, in turn, the little girl Narlan, a baby pig, and a travelling wool-trader, and he imitated each one with wonderful accuracy. Argus was enchanted. But no-one could guess his last character, as he sat motionless on a chair, gazing into the fire. The guesses ranged from ‘a rock’ to ‘a spirit’. At last everyone gave up and the old man cackled with glee, ‘Myself! I was being myself!’ before he toddled off to bed. They could hear him giggling and wheezing all the way up the stairs.
    Argus slept in an attic room. He left the next morning, after a big breakfast that put him in good heart for the day. He did not see the old farmer, but his wife farewelled the boy warmly, slipping extra food into his pack as he left the house and strode out towards the road, eager to resume his journey. He walked all day with only a few short stops, and by late afternoon had covered a great distance.

Chapter Three
    T hat evening Argus had his first bout of what he supposed was homesickness. It was not that he wanted to be at home; on the contrary, he was enjoying his freedom and the new world that he was exploring, but he missed the warmth and closeness of family living. He did not connect his sadness with his stay at the farmhouse the previous night, but he did know that he felt unbearably lonely. Not bothering to light a fire, he ate a cold evening meal and rolled up in his blanket, thinking about the way his parents would be spending the evening. To his alarm, he found he could only summon an exact image of their faces when he placed them in familiar situations. He could envisage his father’s face clearly when he imagined him winding the great clock that stood in the entrance hallway; and he could see his mother’s face when he thought of her studying the night sky and making notes in her voluminous astronomy diaries. For a moment he had an unexpected glimpse of his sister’s face too, as he had last seen her, running down to the river, shouting something about Argus getting tea ready. At this memory sadness overwhelmed the boy completely and he wept into his blanket until he fell asleep.
    By the next afternoon he was in country so far from the mountains of his childhood that they could no longer be seen. Instead he was walking through lush and prosperous farmlands, along a well-used road beside a broad river that rolled over the landscape like a lazy carpet. Willows and other trees lined the river’s banks. By Argus’ standards, the land was densely settled, and encounters with people were frequent. He came to fields lined with wooden frames, upon which green vines grew. Many people of all ages were at work, picking from the vines.
    Argus watched from the shadows of the roadside for some minutes before he noticed an artist just a short distance from him: a middle-aged man painting the pastoral scene on a canvas mounted on a large easel. Although the man showed no interest in Argus, the boy approached and stood watching, comparing the painting to the activity in the field.