For in the world, which is not ours, They said

`Let us make a man` and that which should be man,

From that one light no man can look upon,

Drew to this shore lit by the suns and moons

And all the shadows. O dear Spirit half-lost

In thine own shadow and this fleshy sing

That thou art – thou.

Tennyson,

De Profundis.

Sparkling laughter shimmered on a bright summer evening, it competed with serenade of birds, birds that flew here and there, in that so beautiful and lush green, dell where it never seemed to rain. The pale birches were like beautiful maidens, and the evening sky glowed like a pale lilac, like a dream, seen in the eastern sky. In a grassy oasis, near a large rock, there was nodular old apple tree.

In a shady corner, where in the spring grew Mayflowers, scillas, and strawberries, in the summer-time, sat a young man, one hand outstretched towards the sky in a semi-open position. He had dark-hair, it was perfectly straight, without waves, and his form was graceful, the features of his face were delicately arch of the jaw was well formed, and the nose was beautifully shaped. The eyes were large and gray, like the morning sky, after the rising of the sun. There was something impenetrable in their hue, hard sparkle of a diamond that could suddenly soften, to hazy, translucent shade. There was an ink stain on his right hand, and his fingers had hardened, as if the young man had often handled pen, and intellectual pursuits.

He was dressed modestly, in a whitish, hand-made linen long-sleeved shirt, as well as a dark vest and straight trousers with small blades of grass, stuck on his, long legs. A dark red-gray-striped tie, hung open, under the sharp collars of the shirt. He seemed, somehow absent, not fully here. That young man was was called Walter Blythe. He was the third child of Anne and Gilbert Blythe. The one who, in his coming, had cemented Annes ties to Ingelside, as he was born there, the first of the Ingelside babies.

Over the years, years of carefree bright childhood, Glen's schoolboys, with a few exceptions, stayed away from the doctor's son, for it was known that he, spoke, like a book. Admittedly, all the children in the Doctor´s family were proud, too literary, vibrant, or quiet, except for the eldest of them, the red-haired adventurous Jem, whose hazel eyes always seemed to ask questions, in a carefree, friendly manner. In addition, no one else came close to the doctor's family except the Merediths. These two families had dominated Glen's young crowd perhaps unaware of it themselves. There are always competing departments in village life, and nothing is ever compatible. Associations, local gossip, hearsay, and contests, for the best apple pie or maple syrup in the fall. That was the reality of women, the busy, kind-hearted ladies in the streets of Glen, as they caressed with their work-hardened fingers to Walter's cheek and requested that he promised to send their greetings, to Susan, or to his parents as Walter took letters and parcels to the post office.

Suddenly behind the woods ringing of the bell, was heard, a bell that called, towards Ingelside. There awaited the warmth of home, and the delicacies of Susan,and Mothers attentive, anxious gaze, that he did not escape from its hold even at Redmond.

The creek flowed calmly and inevitably, and the dragonflies flew past him with translucent, silent wings. The whole spectrum of the universe, and the beauty, in nature, in fellow beings, in a blade of grass, held Walter in its grip. He had been writing down a verse that had flooded his mind, like a ferocious storm of sudden yearning.

The cover of the notebook was red, not black, or brown, as usual. Writing in nature was some of the greatest joys, that he knew, but still those sudden verses were different than usual. Loose, powerful, and possibly unfavorable if one of the sisters took a look at his notebooks, Walter wondered. After the Rosamund's sonnets, well... Di had unwittingly spoken of them aloud, to Nan in Jems hearing, and Jem had wanted to see them and Di had complied with with a remark to Jem "they are still outlines, and don't get angry at Walter now." In the weeks, and months that had followed, after that day in October, Jem's eyes had a look Walter had never seen in his brother's eyes before.

It was as if Walter had suddenly become visible, to him, as threat, instead of the sensitive, dreaming, perennial younger brother to be protected and looked after. Walter had never told Jem that all his noble interventions only made the situation worse until it, then always at times, subsided.

In the shadow of the setting sun, Walter gathered his belongings, and ascended the grassy slope, toward his home, to his family.

There was the usual evening chaos at Ingelside, and Susan's food had been delicious, and the dessert had really been Queen Pudding, as Walter had hoped it would be. Susan generally made once a month every favorite dessert of the siblings, in turn as a final to supper, and tonight had been Walters turn. Nan and Di whispered something to each other, and Jem discussed with Gilbert the latest treatments he had heard in his lectures at Redmond. Shirley, with a serious but quiet sense of humor, had handed Walter few empty pages, and a pen and had pointed out "isn't there inspiration, or is it perhaps too much?" Little Rilla played the piano in the living room, with more devotion than skill. Walter hid his grimace at his fragrant tea cup as Rilla-my Rilla slaughtered the usual folk song, which was Rosemary Meredith's regular piano piece for everyone.

The night had fallen and Ingelside was silent and dark.

Walter sat outside on the porch.

Soon the light footsteps were heard on the grass, and Anne Blythe was sitting next to her son, she had been on her usual garden tour, saying goodnight to her flowers. Anne glanced at her son, Walter seemed to have sunk into slumber, so she just lightly touched his shoulder and covered him with a striped blanket, and walked inside, closing the door softly behind her.

All was still.

Suddenly a piercing whistle, repeated, in a flowing pattern in three times echoed in the night and Walter opened his eyes and took a light canvas bag under a chair, with it on his shoulder he set out to walk in soundless steps, towards Rainbow Valley, and even further.

The Shore road was beautiful during the day, but there was a mystery in it at night. The road curved past Glen, and towards the harbor area, and the fishing village. Walter passed the bushes, the fields, and a few scattered houses, he lingered few moments in the decadent garden of The House of Dreams, before climbing towards the Lighthouse.

In the western slopes which during the day were pale reddish in color, there a figure stood. In the darkness shines a small spot of light that seems blindingly bright. A strong smell of salty sea surrounds Walter below, as waves hit the shore rocks, a quiet rumble as he climbed toward the light.

A storm lantern has been placed on the rock a little windbreak, and a worn plaid blanket secured with stones at its corners. Walter lowers his bag, and takes out, fresh bread, and tea, and a little Queen Pudding, and a notebook and a pen.

Suddenly, the familiar scent, the luxurious scent of sandalwood, surrounds him, and a light tenor voice says in his ear:

"It took a long time for the Lord poet to come here. Did you go to greet the roses at the House of Dreams? While I was waiting for you I had time to smoke almost all the tobacco, I have only one left, if you want it? " Walter turns, and behind him stands Ken Ford, a cat-like smile on his face. Gray eyes full of desire for adventure, and a subtle glimmering joy, of this meeting.

In a composed voice, Walter replies "Ken, wouldn't it have been simpler to just march to Ingelside a few hours ago, because you know you're always welcome."

Ken laughs, "It would be, but when I got this hunch a few weeks ago, I thought in the middle of the Toronto summer that I missed Glen, the peace of the House of Dreams, and above all your esteemed company. And it's quite a surprise when I show up at Ingelside's breakfast table tomorrow, from your room, all of a sudden." Walter nodded and in teasing manner said "surprise indeed, but a very pleasant one, I think. Here's some treats from Susan's kitchen, eat if you're hungry. I remember you like that pudding, just like me. Susan's version is light, and really delicious."

The stars twinkled in the sky, and Walter opened his notebook, grabbed a pencil, and began to write, the verses flowing now freely; Ken's scent and warmth, the food near him slowly fading, into crumbs, the bright, warm night air, all woven together, into a fragile, weave of pure words and fragments.

Walter's thoughts broke when Ken threw a piece of bread at him, and said, "I don't know about you, Walt, but I'm tired of sitting here, so I suggest we head towards the House of Dreams and then to dear old Ingelside. You can write inside, the rest of the night, until morning if you want."

Ken moved forward, taking cat-like steps, and next to him Walter felt narrow, and powerless, but at the same time feeling strangely warm. It's as if there's no one in the whole world other than the two of them. The crickets chirped, and soon the cream-colored silhouette of the House of Dreams shone in front of them.

Ken opened the door, and put the storm lantern in the hallway closet, and folded the blanket on the bench, neatly. The fragrant scent of Leslie's roses was everywhere in the small, well-kept garden. Ken seemed to take everything very lightly, like the demands of people and society, although as a result of several in-depth discussions, Walter knew full well that Ken also wanted to succeed in his own life, on his own terms.

Walter was always well aware of the demands of integrity, as part of the Glen community, and of what was expected of them of his sisters and brothers. The societal pressure of being Doctor Blythes son, in Redmond, was hard to bear. On the other hand, Jem also bore that burden, but for Jem it did not seem to be a burden at all, but a challenge, and a motivation, at the end of which was Faith Meredith. But at times, it felt as if life was flying at a rapid pace past him, and everyone else spoke in a language he didn't understand at all, like some Sumerian dialect that needed an interpreter.

In his neat room at Ingelside, Walter observed Ken's relaxed, slumbering form next to him. Silently, Walter got up and crawled across his room, closed the door to the hallway, and tip toed down the stairs to pick up his red notebook, which was in a brown bag, in the living room.

Suddenly, a light, silvery voice said of the depths of the green armchair.

"Ken is here."

Walter turned and faced his mother's gaze. The bright and varied gray-green shade of Anne Blythe´s eyes had almost completely been washed away, in the gloom of pre-dawn hours. Mother almost looked like a ghost herself, as she was wrapped in a cream-colored silk dressing gown, and her rich red hair was in familliar thick braid, over her other shoulder. Mother nodded and said, "Gilbert was called in to treat a sudden illness, I never sleep properly when he's away, so I came down here, to think.

Mother smiled lightly and contiued " the whole staircase smells of sandalwood, if Ken wants to be secretive, that beloved boy must stop using it. What are you doing awake, my dear son? "

Walter, glanced at his mother's familiar, beloved, and clear features and wondered what to answer, in the end he dediced that honesty would be best. "I'm looking for my bag, it has a new notebook, and I got inspired."

With a soft hand, Anne pointed near the fireplace, there stood the bag, someone had moved it, then, but who? Walter opened the right page, and sat down near Anne, and wrote the poem to its conclusion, the pen ran fast and the verses seemed to emerge, as if by themselves.

Bright morning had dawned, it glimmered in the warm façade of Ingelside.

The aromas of tea and toast and porridge flooded to upstairs. Ken smiled at Walter, and dressed in Walter's clothes, and in a blue-striped shirt. Walter, in turn, was wearing Ken's clothes. There was complete silence at Ingelside's breakfast table as Walter's siblings just stared at Ken. Finally, Jem stated, "Ken! as long as you're here we might be able to develop something fun, because my siblings no longer want to participate in my pranks, and I remember you're pretty good at them, at least you used to be."

Rilla, had glanced at him only in passing, and she had then exused herself for a few moments. Soon Rilla was again downstairs, as she drink her tea in regal manner, dressed in a frock that was her usual Sunday wear to Church. In passing, Walter heard Nan say to Di, "Spider had a good idea for once, why no one told me Ken was here" when he handed the warm plate of toast to Ken. Ken was just, Ken, even though he was wearing Walter's clothes. He did not understand at all why Nan also left, and returned in her church dress. Di, was the only one who did not fall into the chaos of changing clothes. She chatted to Ken, calmly and asked about Toronto's news, spinning a strand of red hair around her index finger, and made challenging comments to Ken, a fierce, but amenable discussion had evolved between them.

Feeling restless, Walter walked into the Rainbow Valley, and Ken followed him there,

looking at the soft, quiet peace of that place, Ken said" have you ever happened to want to travel, to see the world, more than what Canada has to offer? You know, we've traveled with my family everywhere. Paris is a place where everyone can live in peace. There's a full spectrum of humanity represented. I think you would feel comfortable there. Personally, I have just currently read a book written by a gentleman named Proust. I think that might interest you too. It has a social description, and there is a lot of talk about the meaning of memories, and especially the feelings evoked by a pastry."

From his bag Ken handed Walter a rather thick blue-covered book with the following words on the cover page Marcel Proust; A la recherche du temps perdu, du Côté de Chez Swann, 1913.

Walter nodded in voiceless gratitude, perhaps this would be a fun summer reading, he mused. He would never see Paris, or even Europe, unless something happened. All Walter had always wanted was to write and publish, maybe it was still possible, in some twisting, glimmering bend of a road, of life not yet lived.

The weave of humanity has different warps, and threads that connect. Walter had always known that, his own path followed different routes than that of his other siblings. And now, here next to Ken, he began to realize that his difference could be of a deeper, inner quality, that he had not previously known, so clearly.

Then suddenly there was light, bright, girl's voice greeted them with delight. Ken had straightened his posture, and Walter felt red flush rise on his cheeks, as he did know that voice, very well.