The Travellers and Other Stories by Carys Davies Page B

sarcastic and bored and didn’t seem to enjoy being with us. Many of us, I think, liked him better than our fathers, I certainly liked him better than mine. I think I liked Mr. Persian, actually, at that time, more than anyone else in the world. I liked the fact that he seemed to enjoy being with us, that he talked to us. I liked the seriousness with which he went about everything we did together, as if all of it—a good star-shaped fire, the right knot, the difference on a map between a mixed wood and an orchard—were real life, as if it mattered much more than anything else we did in the rest of our lives, as if it were more real than school and the time we spent with our families, more real than whatever it was he did when he was not with us on Thursday evenings in the white hut on the Forest Road, and in our one week away together in the summer.
    It was his custom to give us all a copy of the handbook when we joined. I still have mine, the green and red 1967 paperback edition, and while I can see now that it is, on the whole, a self-important, rather comical little book, both priggish and prurient, at the time I was very proud of it, wrote my name in ink on the flyleaf, and committed great chunks to memory. To this day I can remember that the span of my extended arms is almost equal to my height. I can remember that a line through the belt and head of Orion will give you the Pole Star.
    That the best way to harden the feet is to soak them in a solution of water and alum.
    That a poisonous snake carries its venom in a bag concealed within its mouth.
    Every day that we were away it was warm and sunny except for the last one when we did our big climb and it rained. We did all the usual things during the week that summer, the same as any other: we hiked up to Grisedale Tarn, and took the ferry across Ullswater to Pooley Bridge. We took a bus into Penrith and visited Brougham castle.
    Until the end, only one small incident marred everyone’s enjoyment of the week—a nasty scuffle quite near the beginning between Qualtrone and Needham when Qualtrone made some remark about Needham’s sister which Needham found offensive. The result was a short, scrappy fight during which Qualtrone had his cheeks viciously raked by Needham’s fingernails. Mr. Persian broke them apart with his usual brisk composure, he didn’t shout at them, he just sent them off in different directions to perform various chores and that was that.
    Otherwise Needham looked very happy. I don’t think any of it disappointed him. He kept up with Mr. Persian on our walks, half running all the time, like some lean and hairless dog, to keep up with the older man’s smart pace. He seemed hungry to hear about everything there was to see. Whenever you looked, Needham was up there at the front of any group when Mr. Persian stopped to point something out. This is how it was all the time on our walks; it seemed to me he was always, always there, right at the front with Mr. Persian, almost beside himself with the pleasure of it all.
    All through our walks Mr. Persian kept up a stream of observation as we went along. He prided himself on his sharp eyesight, on his ability to read the landscape spread out before us: a scout is observant , he liked to say.
    He maintained this constant patter as we walked, holding up his short muscular arms from time to time as a sign for us to stop when he saw something he particularly wanted us to notice, to learn from. I can still picture him, striding out in front, the smooth unspooling of his commentary. Trig Point. Oxbow Lake. U-shaped Valley. Mica Schist. Victorian Spruce Plantation. Limestone Pavement.
    One day we found raspberries growing by the path and ate them with our sandwiches. Needham ate his sitting on the ground next to Mr. Persian. I can see them now, Needham is smiling, they both are, sitting there together, with Mr. Persian looking happy too, leaning back with his knees clasped in his hands, relaxing in the rare, new