A Dreamer
“You know,” Hugo mused sitting back, the lines of his face easing, “you know, when I was a boy, I used to walk out in the hills beyond Birmingham. Out as far as Kingstanding.” He chuckled to himself. “I always thought someday I would meet a king standing out there. I was a romantic in those days; at fourteen years of age I was a romantic. ...Wilson was making speeches at Versailles, the war to end all wars was over, and the streets were full of lads with missing limbs. My father was out of work that year. There wasn’t enough money for coal. My mother was feeding us three times a day on porridge. Yet I was never happier. Spent too much time in the Museum, I suppose, looking at too many Pre-Raphaelites. One Saturday I walked and walked till the leather was falling off my boots, and the hobs began to dig into the soles of my feet. I didn’t care. I was looking for a king standing, and I knew I would find him that very day. As dusk came on, my heart began to sink. The day was ending and I had not found him. A black cloud descended on me. I’m a fool, I said to myself. I’m a dreamer, just like Dad says. I turned to walk back to the city, and suddenly I saw a sight that stopped me dead in my tracks. Beside the road, lights were coming on in an old brick manor house. In a great round window I saw the king. He was standing with one arm reaching for me, and the other touching his chest. Below him in the field three white horses were grazing.”
Hugo shook his head. “When you’re a kid, everything’s bigger than life. The king was a stained-glass window, of course. Some kind of chapel. The horses weren’t bucking or galloping. They were as quiet as a boneyard, just lifted their heads and watched me pass. There weren’t any stars falling. But it was like a glorious sign, like happiness that comes out of nowhere at the very moment when everything seems most dark.”
“So, did you go in and meet the king?” Esther asked.
“Of course not. I went home. I drew the scene with a stub of pencil on lined paper. Biggest mistake I ever made.”
“Why do you say that, Hugo?” Rose asked.
“Because once I started drawing I couldn’t stop. It took over my life. It made me what I am.”
“But that is a wonderful thing, Hugo!” Rose exclaimed. “You are a wonderful man!”
Hugo and Esther chuckled simultaneously.
“Thank you”, Hugo said. “I shall survive a few days longer on that gratuitous and entirely inaccurate observation.”
~Michael O’Brien (from the novel A Cry of Stone)
Hugo shook his head. “When you’re a kid, everything’s bigger than life. The king was a stained-glass window, of course. Some kind of chapel. The horses weren’t bucking or galloping. They were as quiet as a boneyard, just lifted their heads and watched me pass. There weren’t any stars falling. But it was like a glorious sign, like happiness that comes out of nowhere at the very moment when everything seems most dark.”
“So, did you go in and meet the king?” Esther asked.
“Of course not. I went home. I drew the scene with a stub of pencil on lined paper. Biggest mistake I ever made.”
“Why do you say that, Hugo?” Rose asked.
“Because once I started drawing I couldn’t stop. It took over my life. It made me what I am.”
“But that is a wonderful thing, Hugo!” Rose exclaimed. “You are a wonderful man!”
Hugo and Esther chuckled simultaneously.
“Thank you”, Hugo said. “I shall survive a few days longer on that gratuitous and entirely inaccurate observation.”
~Michael O’Brien (from the novel A Cry of Stone)
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