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Excerpted Inspirations #196

  • Writer: Linda Odhner, with photos by Liz Kufs
    Linda Odhner, with photos by Liz Kufs
  • Sep 22
  • 0 min read
[Paul Randall is a writer, blinded in World War II; Bess is his service dog, a Labrador retriever.] He had finished work for the night but he sat on listening to the sounds of the night that he loved more than the sounds of the day. Intensely sensitive to the music of sound as he had become, the crashing symphony of the day sometimes almost overwhelmed him; especially in the spring when the birds and the children had gone mad, when the spring rains rushed upon the new leaves and Valerie started her spring cleaning. But the night music was quiet as one of Beethoven’s gentler sonatas, the notes falling with grave precision. There was the tick of his clock, the creak of the tired old stair treads as they relaxed in the dark, the rustle of a mouse, an owl calling and the slow deep breathing of Bess. And other infinitesimal sounds that he had never heard when he was sighted, the eddying of air on a windless night, the tinkle of dew, the breathing of trees and the steps of the moonlight. It might be that he imagined these sounds. He did not know. But if he did they were none the less exquisite for that. It was time for bed and he moved in his chair. Bess was instantly awake and standing by him, her silken tail swishing expectantly. Every new activity, though it was merely a repetition of daily routine, was hailed by Bess as a thrilling occurrence. To eat, to sleep, to wake, to to go upstairs or downstairs, to go for a walk, to come home, it was all equally wonderful to Bess because it was Paul’s world that controlled these things and she trembled to his will as a compass needle to the north. […] Bess took him to the back door and was let out, and he stood leaning on the door while she chased her tail in the moonlight. Beyond the tiny kitchen garden he was aware of the orchard and the glory of motionless blossom. There was that apple tree there, just over their fence. Fallen and broken, it still lived and bore fruit. Suddenly parting from routine, to the astonishment of Bess, he left the door and walked down the short grass path to the low fence. Here he had only to stretch out a hand and he could feel the blossoms of the fallen tree. They were cool and wet with dew and in his mind’s eye he could see their pale glimmer under the moon. There were so many of them. This fallen tree bore fruit as richly as any in the orchard, a round red little apple, crisp when one bit into it and very fresh. The dew was heavy tonight, and most welcome in this dry spell. As always after working too hard his scarred face felt tight and hot, but the coolness of the dew and its faint scent eased him. The scent of water, of the rain and of the dew. It was difficult to separate it from the grateful fragrance of the life it renewed, but it had its scent; the faint exhalation of its goodness. It would still come down upon the earth after man, destroying himself, had destroyed also the leaves and the grass. Its goodness might even renew again the face of the burnt and blasted earth. He did not know. But unlike Job’s comforters he believed there was a supreme goodness that could renew his own soul beyond this wasting sorrow of human life and death. Elizabeth Goudge, The Scent of Water (1963), pp. 125-127

 
 
 
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