"It's your magnetism," Gabriel said, utterly deadpan. "You're distracting me." The deadpan was sort-of ruined by the dancing amusement in the Archangel's eyes. He added, "Prefer oral stories, myself. The written word's lastin', but the spoken word's living. There's a lot you can do with it."
The Archangel spoke, then, without any magical power in his voice--nothing except his natural skill and passion and emotion, such as only a master could have. The Gaelic rolled off his tongue as if it was, indeed, a living thing, a friend Gabriel loved and met with regularly; the Archangel himself seemed to lean into the sound, his hands rising and falling with his voice, his body with the air of animation even though it was perfectly still. Even in a language Fletcher and Barney couldn't understand, they would still grasp the feeling.
"A-nthist tha an dubhar gruamach dubh air bùrn glan ùr a bhreith 's allt eile brùchdadh à tobraichean a' chridhe. Is luath tha ar n-uisgeachan a' fàs luasganach beò 's iad a' ruith. nan cabhag, coma, cho bras far bheanntan na h-inntinn. Sios le bruathach gorm gaoil gu ruige comar air ghoil dà thuil a' suaineadh sa bheil an t-iasg smaoine leum. ach am feum iad tighinn gu rnaghair uaine 's an abhainn a' Iùbadh 's a' lasachadh? Am feum iad tighinn gu h-inbhir dorcha 's cladach an dòchais fhàgaiI? Air an call 's air an dealachadh am measg shruthan a' chuain far nach bi ach ciùineas no stoirm 's far an dubhaich na sgòthan a-rithist."*
~~~
Dad nodded solemnly, and yet even that didn't restrain the twinkle. "Good choice. Always a great thing, to be able to rise above and see things clear."
At Miss Guild's second comment, a broad, beaming grin spread across Dad's face, and He tipped His hat at her. "Well, thank you, little lady. I got it from the booth over there." He nodded just down this particular 'lane' of stalls to the one with the bags. "Betcha there'll be one left just waitin' to be adopted."
[*Again the black and lowering darkness has born fresh clear water as another burn bursts from the wells of the heart. Quick are our waters to swell alive and tumbling as they flow hurried carefree impulsive off the mountains of the mind. Down a lush brae of love, to a boiling confluence two floods entwining in which the thought-fish leaps. But must they come to a plain of green where the river weaves and wanes? Must they come to a dark estuary and leave the shore of hope? Lost and separated out among the ocean's streams where is only calm or storm and where the clouds darken again.]
no subject
The Archangel spoke, then, without any magical power in his voice--nothing except his natural skill and passion and emotion, such as only a master could have. The Gaelic rolled off his tongue as if it was, indeed, a living thing, a friend Gabriel loved and met with regularly; the Archangel himself seemed to lean into the sound, his hands rising and falling with his voice, his body with the air of animation even though it was perfectly still. Even in a language Fletcher and Barney couldn't understand, they would still grasp the feeling.
"A-nthist tha an dubhar gruamach dubh
air bùrn glan ùr a bhreith
's allt eile brùchdadh
à tobraichean a' chridhe.
Is luath tha ar n-uisgeachan a' fàs
luasganach beò 's iad a' ruith.
nan cabhag, coma, cho bras
far bheanntan na h-inntinn.
Sios le bruathach gorm gaoil
gu ruige comar air ghoil
dà thuil a' suaineadh
sa bheil an t-iasg smaoine leum.
ach am feum iad tighinn gu rnaghair uaine
's an abhainn a' Iùbadh 's a' lasachadh?
Am feum iad tighinn gu h-inbhir dorcha
's cladach an dòchais fhàgaiI?
Air an call 's air an dealachadh
am measg shruthan a' chuain
far nach bi ach ciùineas no stoirm
's far an dubhaich na sgòthan a-rithist."*
~~~
Dad nodded solemnly, and yet even that didn't restrain the twinkle. "Good choice. Always a great thing, to be able to rise above and see things clear."
At Miss Guild's second comment, a broad, beaming grin spread across Dad's face, and He tipped His hat at her. "Well, thank you, little lady. I got it from the booth over there." He nodded just down this particular 'lane' of stalls to the one with the bags. "Betcha there'll be one left just waitin' to be adopted."
[*Again the black and lowering darkness
has born fresh clear water
as another burn bursts
from the wells of the heart.
Quick are our waters to swell
alive and tumbling as they flow
hurried carefree impulsive
off the mountains of the mind.
Down a lush brae of love,
to a boiling confluence
two floods entwining
in which the thought-fish leaps.
But must they come to a plain of green
where the river weaves and wanes?
Must they come to a dark estuary
and leave the shore of hope?
Lost and separated out among
the ocean's streams
where is only calm or storm
and where the clouds darken again.]