A loss of innocence,
And of a childlike, blithe spirit,
Happened before it ever could develop.
I grew old while still in a child's body;
being an adult for the world's eyes was all I knew.

"Lost of Innocence"- Snyder

Chapter 6

The ice-tipped wind beckoned to the seduction of the vast fields, the morning tide of infinity. The heavy clouds languished in silent mirth, mocking daylight within its perpetual gloom and rendering humanity obsolete. The coils of breeze sung in melodic angst, thieving life from its decadent glory. 'Death by Harmony', thought Dickon absently, his eyes briefly sealing his existence from reality. A veil of frost coated the landscape on this unusually frigid spring morning, enveloping the young man in its forbidding embrace. For a moment in time the world seeped through the confines of fantasy as Dickon fell into oblivion, his senses heightening to new lengths. The crunch of hardened blades of grass reverberated in his ear, meadow larks betraying their hidden nests due to an overwhelming need to sing. With a dithering hesitation, he opened his eyes yet again, intimately taking pleasure as the remains of the day captivated his sight. His eyes shifting to a silver-blue as the colours wove into a tapestry of motion. Though the morning had given its sleepy welcome, a sliver of moon strung by a thread sat motionless, almost transparent in the remaining hints of periwinkle. Sultry clouds were being heralded in from the north, cantankerous in its oppressive demeanour.

'The sun will not reveal its presence today', he decided with a resolute thought of absence. The moors would sorely miss the spilled honey of golden serenity that only Belenus could bestow.

Dickon breathed in his senses, gazing lovingly over the moors that he wholeheartedly devoted himself to. He had always known, to some extent, his primal connection to these untamed fields. They were the pulse of his veins, the soul of his being and the drummer of his heart. Feral and free, Dickon revelled in the knowledge of this boundless liberty in which had cultivated him into the young man he was today.

As he gazed longingly, a ruse of chastity sprung into fruition as the seas-caped fields draped themselves further into a distant horizon, the breadth of heavenly thumbs spanning across space and time. Dickon knew that despite the initial appearance of a barren chasm of the windswept rock-laden moors there dwelt a hidden spirit, a gasp of breath in the particles of epochs. A silken sea of fossilized truths and decaying lies, marred only by the treads of mortal toes. A chariot of time, sweeping an epic of change. This was his home, captured in its record of prehistory and early mankind entrenched in its own craggy appearance. His life, his blood.

Sprawled in a ballet of ancient mystery and lore reeked the initial stench of perdition, only to have freedom sung though the salt of thousands of grass-embedded waves. A drapery of silence, a wisp of truth, only in the moors could a man truly see the human within himself- or so Dickon believed. There were much more to the moors then an occasional shepherd's flock or crag-like rocks. It was the fragrance of an antiquated past encased in a glass cage of immortality that enraptured him so. Between the infinite seconds and the star-bred molecules of time-encrusted fields lay the imperceptible acres of words and song, ancient scrolls and whispers of time weaving into the sanctity of Dickon's mind. Let the clouds weep in heavenly grace, their silver-laden tears could never wholly erase the imprints of history etched in the bark of the past. Nor the crowned-capped mares, impregnated with Poseidon's own pearl-eyed foals, could bestow an untouched canvas of new as they galloped to other destinies.

The moor was hypocritical in every sense of the word. The gnaws of fate stained with the presence of unbearable loneliness, the mirrors of haunting echoes of mortal grievances. This is the first impression given to an innocent, but Dickon knew better. Sorrow-laden ecstasy and sun-kissed frowns, the contrasts of humanity with the wake of the endless moor. These fields encompassed who he was, and though he was a solitary soul, he was a loving one. It was encompassed by wick, tormented by sweetly slow decay.

Dickon too had sprung from the womb of its existence, half fey abandoned by the wee folk of ancient myths foretold. Nourished by stardust and raised in child-like infinity, he grew, the moors shaping alongside him. These fields were his earthly companions, cradling him when he fell, mourning his sadness upon the loss of innocence. In return they told him the untouchable truths of the spirit, spilling gossip of other-worldly knowledge. And, with a turn of the lip, he locked their words away. They told him sorrowful tales, a sadness seen by none, secrets locked in the recesses of time itself. Known to no souls, except to a mere Yorkshire lad, a myriad of tales springing from the knowledge given from the landscape.

Even the Oracles of Delphi would have spilled the messages of the cosmic truth, but unlike those sensuous women of time past, young Dickon Sowerby knew his place in the scheme of universality. He was the keeper of secrets, not a philosopher of tales and enlightened realizations revealing to those less worthy to hear it's moral. Dickon, who can recognize the continuance of the soul of every earthly creature, he is enveloped in time itself, beauteous soul indeed! He did not seek out existential prophecies, rather only the comfort of home. Though that might seem considerably simple-minded to an everyday man, it was all he lived for. That, and for a cheeky young lass that dwelt in the manor to the North.

It was here upon the moor that Dickon stood, a solitary figure in the compass of field and gothic silence. He was a resolute figure upon a frost-veiled landscape. Gazing into the shroud of sorrow that the Misselthwaite manor seemed to be ensconced in, he was blindly ignorant of the heavy footsteps that appeared behind him, and it was only until he felt the powerful hand that clapped him across the back that he was jarred back into reality.

"Wake up lad, and get tha' arse back to work, ye lazy git!"

Without stripping his gaze off the manor, Dickon felt a smile tug at the corner of his lip as he responded, bemused.

"Why, tha' canna' be lazy without me?"

Still staring to the North, Dickon grinned wholeheartedly as he felt the sturdy hands turn his strong frame and face the source of his interruption, chuckling as he tore his gaze from Misselthwaite. He turned around and faced the brawny figure of Will Blakely.

"Tha knows perfectly well that somebody between the two of us needs to work, and it sure bloody well is not going to be me."

Will was a twenty year old youth from a neighbouring farm in Yorkshire. Brawny and monstrous as he was, a face ravaged by pockmarks hardened lines, he had a tender soul that could charm the harshest beast. At the back of Dickon's mind he always wondered if his friend could tame even the cruel Miss Medlock, a theory of which he severely doubted. They had met as young children, before the arrival of the young mistress, and the two had instantly formed an unlikely friendship. It was a friendship that that forced Dickon back into reality, a necessity at his age. Behind Will stood two disdainful mares, both pawing impatiently at the ground.

"Now, because thou' art are a might fool and forgot to fetch tha horse, I brought her to thee."

With a tender grin Dickon strode to his grey mare whom he had lovingly named Polly, and though he knew she could never replace the young pony he had as a young boy, he could tell that she had an old soul much like his dear old friend. Will watched with an eyebrow raised at the sight of Dickon patting his horse, disbelief consuming his features.

"I still canna' believe that Lord Craven actually gave thee a horse, a horse for Christ sakes! I should get me self a job up there an' act all hoity toity and then maybe I could get an entire herd."

Dickon smiled absently, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

"They aren't so bad, I canna' say they treat me wrong."

Despite Will's rough and tumble appearance, he had a healthy appreciation for Dickon's quiet, hardworking ways. Dickon himself was always willing to tell everything and anything to Will, but he rarely shared his time spent at Misselthwaite. He knew that if they did, the conversation would somehow drift to the young Mary Lennox, and Dickon had enough worries to think about as it was. Will wasn't even aware that Dickon even knew the young mistress of the Manor, much less understood the friendship that bonded them to the Garden. This of course was for a very simple cause- Mary Lennox was off limits. He would never openly talk about the girl, for fear that he might let too much be known about her. His thoughts of her were sacred, a sanctity that gave him peace in any situation. All Will knew of Dickon's involvement with the manor was the mere fact that Martha Sowerby worked as a maid in its grey confines, and every so often Lord Craven himself would commission Dickon for aid in the tending of the gardens and landscapes. And, speaking of work…

"What's it today then, Will?"

His friend sighed and swung himself on the other horse.

"Workin' at the smithy in exchange for lunch, then afterwards haulin' bags of coal. We best get going, ye' know how he is about being on time."

Dickon laughed softly, grinning at his friend.

"Aye, I remember the time he boxed your ears for chattin' up Kate Reilly 'stead of doing tha job."

Will grimaced at the memory, before shifting his features and replacing them with a fond smile, which thus transformed into a hearty grin.

"It was worth it, me mate. Believe me, it was worth it."

With a chuckle Dickon thumped Polly gently on her bristled neck. Leaning his face in the curve of her slender head, he whispered softly into her ear.

"Ows that me luv, ready to go into town then?"

With a single, swift movement Dickon hauled himself over his horse, not bothering with a saddle, landing with a gentle ease. Running his fingers over her dapper coat, he felt the bristles rise in static excitement. With a click of his tongue she spun into motion, her sleek muscles uncoiling in fervent excitement. Throwing a cocky grin over to Will, he spoke in a calm tone, nonchalant in its deceiving attitude.

"Race you."

With that the art of motion unfurled into a frenzy of movement. Like chariots of mist and fog, they raced alongside the indelible curve of the elongated fields, freedom in their wake.

The wind swept in cascades of moaning angst, clutching at every unfortunate obstacle and screeching in agonizing labour. Billowing with resolute sadness, it no longer dared to shadow its presence in the face of mere mortals. The shattered leaves rising in incensed quarrel to the quakes of Aeolus furiously pirouetting in the whispers of the wind, reaping the virginity of innocent meadows. Yes, it was sufficient to say that this particular afternoon was a windy day. This day also happened to mark the first outing Mary and her Ladyship embarked on together. Arm in tentative arm, the two strolled down the weaving passageways alongside this tucked in village, giggling like schoolgirls as they found common interest to enlist conversation.

The wind sifted in delirious delight, thumbing through Mary's wild hair.

With a chuckle, the Lady du Bont wove her fingers through the girl's unruly locks.

"My word, child, is it always like this in Yorkshire? I cannot fathom it is this bad in London."

Laughing, Mary gazed up at the Lady with twinkling eyes.

"After a while you come to love it, my Ladyship. It is as though the keeper of the time and wind is showing his indignation at us, and has decided to let us know about it."

With a raised eyebrow, the Lady du Bont responded in a tone of exaggerated surprise.

"Oh! I see we have a poet in our midst!"

With a bellow and screech, the wind unfurled and unleashed a bitter whip of cold. With a gasp, Mary clutched at her hair too late, her wide brimmed hat flinging off her head and spinning into the cobble-stoned market place. With a laughing cry Mary raced after it, although it was all for nought. With a flicker and a twirl, it disappeared in the many dark shadows that slithered from the alleys. With a disappointed 'humph', Mary watched sullenly as her prey slipped between her fingers. Margaret du Bont walked in graceful cadence over to where the young girl stood defeated, laughing softly with cold eyes. With a silky voice, she turned Mary around to face her.

"My darling girl, though it pleases my heart to see you happy, I feel as though it is my duty to warn you that it is not proper of a lady of your stature to be scampering about like one of the villagers."

Mary looked up in curiosity.

"I apologise your Ladyship, forgive my impertinence. But to be quite frank, I must admit to some surprise at your statement. After all, is it not true that running does improve one's health?" She spoke the last statement in a teasing manner, hoping to lighten the situation.

Margaret smiled tenderly, placing a pale hand on the curve of Mary's lilac cheek.

"Quite right, my dear. However, you will soon come to learn that in proxy of exercise, we have the highly desirable corsets. Of course, I shan't speak of such things, it is hardly appropriate for a lady such as yourself."

With a confused smile, Mary tried to ignore the dread that crept in her soul upon the mention of a corset. An image of Miss. Medlock rose to the surface, subsequently followed by a shudder. With an excited laugh, her Ladyship cupped her hands around Mary's face, and with twinkling eyes, cried out.

"None of this then! I promise you, no more dreary talk of propriety! Let's move on, shall we?"

With that they linked arms yet again, laughing quietly over mundane details and thus braved the fierce rhythm of wind with the force of two. Before long, however, the Lady du Bont breached another topic of conversation.

"Were you aware that I have a son?"

Mary cocked an eyebrow.

"I believe I heard something of the sort upon our initial introduction, Madam."

"His name is Edward, and it would please me greatly if ever you two would meet. I have no doubt that the two of you would become instant friends."

"I'm sure we would, your ladyship, she replied absently, not particularly listening."Is he attending boarding school at the moment?"

"That he is my dear. However perhaps not the same form of education your cousin Colin is receiving. Edward is much too old; 24 years of age to be exact and has already achieved his diploma... He is currently attending a military academy in Southampton and I hear is already gaining recognition amongst his superiors."

By this time Mary had ceased to listen altogether, something else had caught her eye. Amidst the snakes of rising black smoke and the haze of darkened particles of coal she saw two sturdy figures carrying rather large bags into wheelbarrows, one of whom she recognized instantaneously. It was Dickon, with his shirt sleeved rolled callously up to the elbow, his homespun breeches hidden behind a leather working apron. His brown hair was mussed up by the wind, sweat and grime etching along the hardened contours of his laboured face. Hauling bags of coals was indeed an arduous task. Dirt splattered and mud sprayed over the length of his clothes, and as tired as he was his eyes still shone with unbridled mirth. With each bag he toiled with and lifted, the muscles in his arms clenched and uncoiled, rippling with the strength bestowed on all who work manual labour.

Mary was captivated, her Ladyship was very much less so.

"It's Dickon! I have forgotten that he comes to town quite often for work. My lady, I am surprised that I have not previously mentioned him. He is my dearest friend; his sister is employed by Misselthwaite staff. Oh! It would do me good if I introduced you to him, would you like to meet him? "

With an obvious look of distaste, the Lady hastily replaced it with a look of adult maturity.

"Perhaps another time... He is after all a working man and we must not interrupt him 'lest we cause trouble for him."

This statement undoubtedly created utter devastation in the young girl's eyes, but she nodded in reluctant comprehension.

"I suppose you are correct, chances are he would not look kindly upon an interruption, nor I for that matter. Without my hat my hair is beyond repair, I would be absolutely mortified it he saw me looking so dishevelled!"

Relieved, her Ladyship instantly welcomed the opportunity to change discourses.

"Come, the hat was not befitting to you at all. It seems we have forgotten our initial purpose of coming here, and that is of course shopping. Your Uncle Archie has agreed on any purchases we might find suitable for you, does that agree with you?"

Reluctantly tearing her eyes off Dickon, she once again turned her attention back to her mother's friend.

"He is reimbursing us and our purchases?" Mary replied teasingly, "Well, by all means, we mustn't disappoint."

Giggling, her Ladyship ushered Mary into the tinted entranceway of a nearby hat shop, but she was unable to resist glancing behind her to see who had captured the admiration of her young protégée. With eyes as cruel as steel, her eyelids narrowed in aversion. She decided then and there that she would do all in her power to prevent him from affecting the impressionable Mary Lennox. However, her worry was soon consumed the clear knowledge that this Dickon lad was a mere commoner, hardly competition for her own handsome specimen of a son. Only time would tell, she thought to herself, of course with the guiding aid of her own intrusive hand.

As always, reviews are more than welcome. :)