Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

One deep sniff and I was back in the rich shop where the furs were

stored--oh, it was a glorious smell! But the odd thing was, it no

longer reminded me of bluebells. I waved a little about on a

handkerchief and managed to capture them for a second, but most of the time there was just a mysterious, elusive sweetness that stood for

London and luxury. It killed the faint wild-flower scents and I knew

it would spoil the lovely smell that comes from Belmotte grass after a hot day; so I decided not to wear any for the rites. I took one last

sniff, then ran down to the kitchen for the sack of twigs and the

basket and started off. I was glad Heloise wasn't there to follow me, because she always wants to eat the ceremonial cake.

There wasn't a breath of wind as I climbed the mound. The sun was

down- usually I begin the rites by watching it sink, but trying the

scent had taken longer than I realized. The sky beyond Belmotte Tower was a watery yellow with one streak of green across it- vivid green,

most magically beautiful. But it faded quickly, it was gone by the

time I reached the stones we placed to encircle the fire. I watched

until the yellow faded, too--then turned towards the moon still low

over the wheat field. The blue all around her had deepened so much

that she no longer looked pale, but like masses of luminous snow.

The peace was so great that it seemed like a soft, thick substance

wrapped closely round me making it hard to move;

but when the church clock struck nine, I stirred at last.

I emptied the sack of twigs into the circle of stones and put on the

small logs that Stephen had left ready. He had brought some long,

slender branches too, so I set them up over the logs like the poles of a wigwam. Then I well to the tower for my need fire Real need fire-from which Midsummer fires should be lit--can only be made by rubbing two pieces of wood together;

but when first we planned the rites, Rose and I spent an hour at this without raising so much as a spark. So we decided it would be pagan

enough if we took matches to the tower and lit a taper.

Then Rose carried it out and I followed, waving foxgloves.

We were always fascinated that such a tiny flame could make the

twilight seem deeper and so much more blue--we thought of that as the beginning of the magic; and it was tremendously important that the

taper shouldn't blow out as we came down the tower steps and crossed

the mound--on breezy nights we used a lamp glass to protect it.

Last night was so still that I scarcely needed to shelter it with my

hand.

Once the fire is blazing the countryside fades into the dusk, so I took one last look round the quiet fields, sorry to let them go. Then I lit the twigs. They caught quickly--I love those early minutes of a fire, the crackles and snappings, the delicate flickers, the first sharp

whiff of smoke. The logs were slow to catch so I lay with my head near the ground, and blew. Suddenly the flames raced up the wigwam of

branches and I saw the snowy moon trapped in a fiery cage. Then smoke swept over her as the logs caught at last. I scrambled up, and sat

back watching them blaze high. All my thoughts seemed drawn into the

fire- to be burning with it in the brightly lit circle of stones. The whole world seemed filled with hissing and crackling and roaring.

And then, far off in the forgotten dusk, someone called my name.

"Cassandra!"" Did it come from the lane--or from the castle? And whose voice was it? Dead still, I waited for it to call again, trying to

shut my ears to the fire noises. Had it been a man's voice or a

woman's his When I tried to remember it I only heard the fire. After a few seconds I began to think I must have imagined it.

Then Heloise began barking, the way she barks when somebody arrives.

I ran across the mound and peered down. At first my eyes were too full of the flames to see anything clearly, then gradually the pale light of evening spread round me again; but I couldn't see into the lane or the courtyard because a thick mist was rising from the moat.

Heloise sounded so frantic that I decided to go down. Just as I

started off, she stopped barking--and then, floating across the mist, came the voice again: "Cas-sandra--a long, drawn-out call. This time I knew it was a man's voice but I still couldn't recognize it. I was

sure it wasn't Father's or Stephen's or Thomas's. It was a voice that had never called me before.

"Here I am" I called back.

"Who is it?"

Someone was moving through the mist, crossing the bridge.

Heloise came racing ahead, very pleased with herself.

"Why, of course--it'll be Neil!" I thought suddenly, and started to run down to meet him. Then at last I saw clearly. It wasn't Neil.

It was Simon.

Oh, strange to remember- I wasn't pleased to see him! I had wanted it to be Neil--if it had to be anyone at all when I was just starting the rites. I wouldn't blame anybody who caught a grown girl at them for

thinking her "consciously naive."

As we shook hands, I made up my mind to take him indoors without

referring to the fire. But he looked up at it and said:

"I'd forgotten it was Midsummer Eve--Rose told me about the fun you always have. How pretty your garland is."

Then, somehow, we were walking up the mound together.

He had driven down to see the Scoatney agent;

had been working with him all day: "Then I thought I'd come and call on you and your Father--is he out? There are no lights in the castle."

I explained about Father- and said he might possibly have turned up at the flat.

"Then he'll have to sleep in my room--we're like sardines in that apartment. What a glorious blaze!"

As we sat down I wondered how much Rose had told him about the rites--I hoped he only knew that we lit a fire for them. Then I saw him look at the basket.

"How's Rose ?" I asked quickly, to distract him from it.

"Oh, she's fine--she sent you her love, of course. So did Topaz.

Is this the Vicar's port that Rose told me about ?"

The medicine bottle was sticking right out of the basket.

"Yes, he gives me a little every year," I said, feeling most selfconscious.

"Do we drink it or make a libation ?"

"We?"

"Oh, I'm going to celebrate too. I shall represent Rose--even if she does feel too old for it."

Suddenly I stopped feeling self-conscious. It came to me that Simon

was one of the few people who would really find Midsummer rites

romantic--that he'd see them as a link with the past and that they

might even help with those English roots he wants to strike.

So I said: "All right--that'll be lovely," and began to unpack the basket.

He watched with much interest: "Rose never told me about the packet of cooking herbs. What are they for ?"

"We burn them--they're a charm against witchcraft.

Of course they oughtn't to be shop herbs--they should have been

gathered by moonlight. But I don't know where to find any that smell

nice."

He said I must get them from the Scoatney herb-garden in future:

"It'll be grateful to be used, after being a dead failure in salads.

What's the white stuff?"

"That's salt- it wards off bad luck. And turns the flames a lovely blue."

"And the cake ?"

"Well, we show that to the fire before we eat it. Then we drink wine and throw a few drops into the flames."

"And then you dance round the fire ?"

I told him I was much too old for that.

"Not on your life, you're not," said Simon.

"I'll dance with you."

I didn't tell him about the verses I usually say, because I made them up when I was nine and they are too foolish for words.