The Rainbow

Oh, and this doe was her familiar. It would talk to her,

because she was a magician, it would tell her stories as if the

sunshine spoke.

Then one day, she left the door of the parish room unlocked,

careless and unheeding as she always was; the children found

their way in, Katie cut her finger and howled, Billy hacked

notches in the fine chisels, and did much damage. There was a

great commotion.

The crossness of the mother was soon finished. Ursula locked

up the room again, and considered all was over. Then her father

came in with the notched tools, his forehead knotted.

"Who the deuce opened the door?" he cried in anger.

"It was Ursula who opened the door," said her mother. He had

a duster in his hand. He turned and flapped the cloth hard

across the girl's face. The cloth stung, for a moment the girl

was as if stunned. Then she remained motionless, her face closed

and stubborn. But her heart was blazing. In spite of herself the

tears surged higher, in spite of her they surged higher.

In spite of her, her face broke, she made a curious gulping

grimace, and the tears were falling. So she went away, desolate.

But her blazing heart was fierce and unyielding. He watched her

go, and a pleasurable pain filled him, a sense of triumph and

easy power, followed immediately by acute pity.

"I'm sure that was unnecessary--to hit the girl across

the face," said the mother coldly.

"A flip with the duster won't hurt her," he said.

"Nor will it do her any good."

For days, for weeks, Ursula's heart burned from this rebuff.

She felt so cruelly vulnerable. Did he not know how vulnerable

she was, how exposed and wincing? He, of all people, knew. And

he wanted to do this to her. He wanted to hurt her right through

her closest sensitiveness, he wanted to treat her with shame, to

maim her with insult.

Her heart burnt in isolation, like a watchfire lighted. She

did not forget, she did not forget, she never forgot. When she

returned to her love for her father, the seed of mistrust and

defiance burned unquenched, though covered up far from sight.

She no longer belonged to him unquestioned. Slowly, slowly, the

fire of mistrust and defiance burned in her, burned away her

connection with him.

She ran a good deal alone, having a passion for all moving,

active things. She loved the little brooks. Wherever she found a

little running water, she was happy. It seemed to make her run

and sing in spirit along with it. She could sit for hours by a

brook or stream, on the roots of the alders, and watch the water

hasten dancing over the stones, or among the twigs of a fallen

branch. Sometimes, little fish vanished before they had become

real, like hallucinations, sometimes wagtails ran by the water's

brink, sometimes other little birds came to drink. She saw a

kingfisher darting blue--and then she was very happy. The

kingfisher was the key to the magic world: he was witness of the

border of enchantment.