Chapter Sixteen
At The End Of The Rainbow
As the skylark soared on the wing ever higher into the azure blue of the summer sky, arm in arm, Tom and Sybil ambled gently across the close cropped turf, past where a herd of black cattle grazed contentedly, towards the far side of the field where a stile provided access through to the open countryside beyond. Tom scrambled lightly over it, turned, and waited attentively for Sybil to do the same.
"Of course, I don't suppose it will seem half as magical to you as it did to me when I was a boy" said Tom ruefully from the other side of the stile.
"Well, even if it doesn't, it obviously still means a very great deal to you, Tom, and I would love to see it all the same" retorted Sybil. "It's part of your past".
"And the past is myself" said Tom softly. He smiled, and then paused. In the silence that followed, Sybil saw that once again Tom was staring off into the distance, over her left shoulder; on his face she saw the same strange, faraway look which she had seen several times before.
"Tom?"
The sound of her voice seemingly had the effect of jolting him out of his reverie and back to the present.
"Hm?" Tom smiled at her.
"Oh, nothing. It doesn't matter". Sybil returned his smile. "Now, Branson, are you going to help me over this stile, or not?" She grinned; held out her hand to him.
"Certainly, milady" said Tom with mock obsequiousness. He smiled back, grasped her proffered hand, and then swiftly and deftly assisted her over the stile.
For the time being at least, normality, or at least what passed for it, had resumed.
The day was still hot and drowsy, and they had now long left the fields of Ciaran's farm far behind. Hand in hand Tom and Sybil made their way along a narrow track which wound along a shallow valley. Here the strong scent of bracken was almost overwhelming; the white topped meadowsweet grew waist high, droning with clouds of flies. Every now and then ahead of them a rush of brown darted across their path, as yet another startled rabbit skittered out from the dense stands of bracken. Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, the path began to climb, wending its way between a scatter of trees, of hawthorn and mountain ash. Tom half turned to smile shyly back at Sybil, as gently he led her ever onwards towards the pool of which he had spoken so lovingly.
"Not far now" said Tom.
Indeed so did it prove to be the case, and but a short while later they emerged from beneath the shade of the sheltering trees onto a short stretch of open greensward. Ahead of them, almost lost to sight in a dense brake of hawthorn was a low, grey, ivy clad cliff, perhaps twenty or so feet high, over which the stream spilled in a foaming waterfall, swiftly tumbling through a jumble of moss grown rocks to splash into an almost circular pool fringed with fern; thereafter to trill over a rocky lip and wend its way onwards down the valley up which they had walked. Sunlight glinted off the foaming fall of water producing an iridescent kaleidoscopic wealth of many coloured hues which, thought Sybil, must be why they call it the Rainbow Pool.
"With what deep murmurs, through Time's silent stealth,
Doth thy transparent, cool, and wat'ry wealth, Here flowing fall"
"Shelley?" asked Tom with a grin.
"No" said Sybil. "Henry Vaughan, a Welsh poet".
Save for the sound of the waterfall, the silence was completely unbroken.
"Well, this is it" said Tom with a sideways glance at Sybil. He indicated the tranquil scene now before them with a gentle spread of his hand.
"What do you think?" he asked softly.
But before Sybil could answer there was a sudden flash, a blur of colour, she thought of brown and grey, and beating wings swept low across the surface of the pool.
"Kestrel!" said Tom.
"How on earth do you know that?" asked Sybil, genuinely amazed once again by Tom's unexpected store of knowledge.
"For my tenth birthday, my mother bought me a book on birds. I spent hours looking at it, learning all their names, about their plumage, their nests, their feeding habits ..."
Sybil glanced about her. A more peaceful and tranquil spot was hard to imagine. This certainly was far from the maddin' crowd.
"So, what do you think?" asked Tom again.
"Why, my darling, I think it's absolutely enchanting". Sybil flung her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. "Thank you! Thank you for bringing me here!"
"My pleasure!" Tom grinned at her, his eyes sparkling.
"And, if leprechauns do exist I'm sure they'd choose somewhere like this to live!" laughed Sybil.
Tom smiled broadly.
That Sybil clearly found the bathing pool and its immediate surroundings to be as beautiful and magical a place as he had all those years ago as a young boy pleased him enormously. He pulled out his watch from his waistcoat pocket; looked at the time.
"We don't have to start back yet; at least not for a while". Tom pushed his watch back into his pocket. "You must be tired, love. Do you want to sit down?" he asked solicitously. Without waiting for Sybil to reply, he slipped off his jacket and spread it out for her on the short sun-warmed grass.
Sybil did as he suggested and sat down on his jacket, then slipped off her shoes, and stretched out her legs. Tom squatted down beside her.
"And that, that over there" he pointed towards a series of rough steps hewn in the rock, "that's the way down to the ledge. Yes, that's it, off from where Ciaran taught me to dive".
Sybil looked over to where he was pointing.
"Wasn't that rather dangerous? It looks very narrow".
"No. Of course not. The pool's quite deep, and as for the ledge, why, it's much wider than it looks from here. Do you mind if I go and explore? See if I can still get down to it? Will you be all right here, if I do?" Tom stood up, grinning down at here, the sunlight catching a gleam of gold in his hair.
"I'll be fine". Sybil nodded. "Why are you going in for a swim?" She laughed.
"Hardly. No bathing suit!" said Tom. He sounded somewhat wistful.
"Well, from what Ciaran said, that didn't stop you when you were here before!" giggled Sybil.
"Sybil, I was thirteen at the time!" pointed out Tom mortified. He flushed bright red to the roots of his hair at her suggestion.
"I'd ask you to come with me, but the last time we were here, the track ... down to the steps ... well, it was frightfully overgrown!"
"Go on, off with you".
"Wait for me?" asked Tom with a merry twinkle in his eyes.
"Of course" laughed Sybil. "What else have I to do except wait for you? Although, come to think of it, I might just try and do a sketch of this place while you're exploring. Mind you, I doubt I will do justice to it".
"I'm sure you will. Aislin was really taken with the sketch you did of Riordan back at the farm". Tom laughed out loud as Sybil pulled a face at him. She was already searching for her sketchbook and pencils.
"I'll be back in half an hour or so".
Sybil smiled up at him.
"All right".
Happy as a sand-boy, whistling merrily, Tom set off jauntily down the track. And as she watched him go, Sybil reflected thankfully that some of his childhood memories were happy ones. The sound of Tom's footsteps dwindled, faded; was gone.
Resting herself on the palms of her out-splayed hands Sybil sat back and gazed about her. When she had told Tom that this seemed an almost magical place, she had not been speaking entirely in jest. All about her she could hear the buzzing drone of countless insects. There were rabbits too, running across the short grass beyond her, scuttering in and out of the sweet smelling bracken. Scarlet and emerald damsel and dragon flies darted and hung motionless poised above the surface of the water. There was a sudden flash of bright blue as a kingfisher dived into the dark depths of the pool, only to emerge moments later, sparkling in the sunlight, bejewelled with minute droplets of crystal clear water, and with a wriggling silver fish twisting helplessly in its beak. The kingfisher flew off and disappeared amongst the grey green reeds fringing the pool. And, above the myriad sights and sounds to Sybil's ears there came the continuous, almost hypnotic, sound of running water.
Later...
Although by now it was late afternoon, the sun was still high and warm on the back of her neck. Sybil could hear Tom coming back through the trees towards her. She yawned; lay back on his jacket, breathing in his scent, linking her hands behind her head. A moment or two later and Tom emerged from out of the thicket of holly and mountain ash and dropped down on the short turf beside her.
"Miss me?" he asked with a self-satisfied grin. He leaned in for a kiss to which she readily responded.
"What do you think?" asked Sybil when they broke apart. "Tom, your hair's all damp!"
"It's only spray from the waterfall" said Tom.
"Did you manage to get down to the ledge? I suppose I ... I must have dozed off ... in the sun".
"You know me", chuckled Tom. He nodded. "No sketch of the pool then?"
"Of the pool? No". Sybil shook her head. She smiled broadly at him.
"Pity. Well, never mind. They'll be other opportunities to draw this place I'm sure", said Tom.
"I'm sure there will", echoed Sybil.
"You ready to set off back?" Tom held out his hand toward her, helped her up to her feet, then reached down, and retrieved his jacket, swinging it nonchalantly back over his left shoulder. Then, arm in arm, they set off along the path towards the distant farm.
"This has been a beautiful day, one that I will never forget", said Sybil with a dazzling smile. Gently, she rested her head on his shoulder as, clutching her sketchbook firmly under her arm, they walked back into the farmyard to find Ciaran and young Ruari already hitching up the waggonette for the return journey back to Clontarf and to be met by the younger children running over to them, to drag both Sybil and Tom inside the reed thatched farmhouse for tea.
Later that night, as Sybil snuggled down in bed, her sketchbook lay safely hidden beneath her pillow. And like the drawings by Patrick Hennessy that they had both seen in the National Gallery in Dublin, Sybil's sketch of Tom left nothing to her imagination.
She had caught him naked, seated on the rocky ledge from where but a short time earlier he must have dived into the pool below; absent-mindedly absorbed in drying his tousled hair with his flannel vest, his arm outstretched. Drops of water glistened on his pale skin. Tom looked radiant, carefree, glowing with both health and happiness. Later, much later, Sybil was to be thankful that she had drawn him as he looked now.
Tom was gazing directly in Sybil's direction, over to where she had been sitting when he had left her, believing her to have fallen asleep; unaware of course, that to avoid the full glare of the afternoon sun she had, albeit temporarily, moved back under the fringe of the sheltering trees. In no sense was the portrait posed. After all, how could it have been, when Tom had been so singularly unaware that Sybil was sketching him from her covert vantage point? And it was the total lack of self-consciousness on his part, which gave the sketch of him such a rare vitality.
Sybil did not believe in deceit and would of course show Tom the sketch ... eventually. But not yet. After all, Tom had asked her if she had sketched the pool and to that she had replied truthfully enough; that she had not.
I wonder, thought Sybil. In years to come, if one day the Irish National Gallery will ever display some of my sketches? And if it does, and I feel mine of Tom to be at all idealised ... why then, I will have the living proof lying right next to me with which to compare it!
And with that comforting thought, hugging both her pillow and sketch book closely to her, Sybil yawned, turned out her lamp, and drifted off to sleep.