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.