Do you care about anything we saw that day - those days - all those times by the Loch, the little mountain, the road, the cattle grid, the burn, the wet black trout filled stream? And the gully with the rocks, slippery with the midges, the mist and the ferns?
‘Course I care. I think about them every day... often. My eyes grow moist when I think of the stony, slate path all wet and the dank heather and peat.
L put his hand over his eyes. As he did he moved his other hand across Bron’s beetling brow to lightly cover her eyes.
As he stood thus, Leo thought about the smell of the lime wash covering the white scuffed walls, the faint smell of rain, guttering and moss, black dead grass trampled and the steady chug of a generator.
He lowered his hands but stood stock still, his red eyelids faintly trembling over his pregnant eyeballs, the drooping eyelashes blonde, the ringlets of his oiled and perfumed hair falling across his shoulders, lapping across the Carmine doublet. Brass buttons marched down his chest. He breathed the moment.
B breathed also, but her eyes opened and she half turned to L, but then sank to the floor, her moss green tunic with the brocade of herons and swallows and tan riding breeks curled around her as she curled at Leonardo’s feet.
They made a pretty picture thus. Statues in the hollow chapel. Like a living tomb. They effloresced iun the glowing dark, the deep hues of blue and gold, the oak panels, the lead casings, the cold wet stones, windows of grey glass in diamonds with hints of Amber.
High above the cock spun, the moss crawled infinitely across the stone parapet, the moths changed direction sniffing out the best carpet and drapery and a church cat slipped past grinning in stripy fur with bent tail and only half his whiskers.
A long, warm tear rolled down L’s great hawk nose. It reached the bulbous tip, but clung there and catching the light from the window it finally broke free and fell in a slow lazy drop, landing with a little splash on Bron’s neck.
The tear broke the spell and Bron rose from the floor and took L’s hand, leading him gently from the chapel and up the small lane towards the villa.
After supper and several cups of wine L took a rolled up drawing from his inside pocket and smoothing it on the table began to add some details.
This was a diagram combined with a map. Tomorrow work was to begin on its construction. It followed a design based on the pure logic of a metallic dragonfly. It used some idea of harnessing tiny fluctuations in light, refractions of light bouncing on dust particles. The dust was gathered from forests where butterflies fluttered then fluttered no more. Hence the great mounds of iridescent and trembling dust of velvet and infinite lightness. Weighing no more than a baby’s breath.
This boat had four sails and worked like unto a heli-copter. Heliotrope wings pulled the craft about in a gentle slow spin. It rose then dove and tumbled about. It could do twenty leagues in a few days. It had interchangeable lenses, toilet, two stoves, a cabinet of bog oak, towels and some books on a way to replace the current banking system with sort of locked and bound building blocks set in a flux of turbulent yet somehow stable mediums of honey and cat hairs (held the goo together like adobe bricks and horse hair!)
They all wanted to get rich it seemed. The then ‘beatniks’ or starveling artists, musos, sculptors and actors, had it in for the dandy’s who seemed to have all the money and power. These ‘toffs’ never tired of exercising their power, which was actually functional, keeping the balance.
Anyway, there’d be plenty to discuss on the maiden voyage. They’d not tire of the gooey goo and the cat hairs. One of the archers had made some pretty decent installations - satirically taking off the new system and its possible ramifications, ins and outs and so forth.
Leonardo lay down his pen and coughed. A louse in Bron’s cropped and Hennaed hair laughed. Bron hiccuped.
Time for bed.