Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [109]
Apart from small adventures like this, he could not say that his own life during the years from childhood to manhood had been particularly eventful. Once, the Irish king had come to demand tribute from the Norsemen of Dyflin and had camped outside the walls until he got it; but though there had been a brief skirmish, this had been exciting rather than frightening. Osgar’s life had not been so very different from the lives of all the other boys he knew. But he had developed one passion. It had started as a child. He would amuse the adults by returning from his walks along the shore with bags of shells he had picked up. At first it was just a childish game, picking up strangely shaped or brightly coloured shells that had pleased him. Then he had begun to sort his shells into a collection, until he had an example of every one of the different sea creatures whose shells could be found in the area. If any strange or unusual shell appeared on the beach, he would know it at once. As time went on, however, looking over these childish treasures, he began to be fascinated by the shape and structure that each exhibited. He would examine their lines minutely, observing the simplicity and purity of the basic forms within them, admiring the elegance and complexity with which each shell achieved its necessary and harmonious whole. Their colours fascinated him, too. Sometimes, hardly knowing that time was passing, he would gaze at his shell collection, completely absorbed, for hours. In due course, he added other kinds of objects: pressed leaves, strange stones, complex knotted branches from fallen trees. He brought them all home and studied them. It was a solitary activity, only because he never found anyone else to share his enthusiasm, though his uncle, in a kindly way, was always amused to see what strange thing he had found. Even Caoilinn, when he periodically showed her the collection, would glance around at the treasure trove with a quick nod, but would soon get bored.
Occasionally he would also pay a visit to one of the churches in Dyflin. Here there was a Psalter, not especially fine, but with some handsome illuminations; and the priests there, knowing he was the nephew of the abbot of the little monastery on the slope, would allow him to turn its pages and stare at them by the hour. He had waited a long time before he brought Caoilinn to see the Psalter, thinking that she might be too young to appreciate such a thing. But finally, when she was sixteen, he had brought her there and reverently turned the pages for her. One, in particular, in greens and golds, he thought was fine.
“Do you see,” he showed her, “how it glimmers? It’s as if you could step right into the page; and once you are there, you encounter …” he searched for words for a moment, “a great silence.” He had gazed at her, hoping she felt the same thing. But though she smiled briefly, he detected a faint frown of impatience as well.
After what she felt was a proper pause, she said, “Let’s go outside.”
The transformation that had taken place in Caoilinn had been remarkable. The thin little girl he had known and loved had all but disappeared, and in her place there was now a dark-haired young woman with a well-rounded figure. Subtler changes had also occurred. It was to be expected that her interests would change. She would speak of domestic matters now, or show delight at the fine cloth at a merchant’s stall—things which he did not especially care for himself but which he knew were the matters that women liked to discuss. But there was something else about her now,