Audio Book: The Fire Tree (Chapter 2)
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General) British (Received Pronunciation - RP, BBC)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
the fire tree. Chapter two, Angus Brennan cried out in his sleep, his head thrashed, first to one side, then to the other, as he gasped and choked to say the words his sleeping body would not permit. After a few moments, he seemed to come on the night stand by. His bed stood a candle in its holder, its flame not long extinguished. The pool of hot wax around its wick bulged precariously around the brim of the candle, threatening to spill over. It hung there like a bird on a cliff, unsure about taking its first flight before gradually solidifying it's escape to join the rolling waves of wax down its shaft. Thwarted next to the convo was a silver cloak clasp in the shape of a bird's claw on antler Hilton knife in a lever cover, almost black with age, a brass uniformed button on a miniature tinder box the size of an adult fun. The owner of these objects stirred again, his body momentarily tensing as if in pain before slowly relaxing and resuming his sleep. Presently, however, he began to whimper. Soon after, he cried out again. They were incoherent, babbled words that tumbled from his lips with urgency and desperation. He arched his back and clenched his teeth as if trying to stifle sudden pain. His hand rose to his neck, crying at the sweat sort collar of his nightshirt. He had already kicked his blanket down to his knees, and now he flailed his legs as if hurriedly walking on the spot on the blanket, eventually tumbled to the floor in a heap on top of his kilt. All at once, he became calm and his body relaxed, a smile flooding to his lips. He could hear a vague, roaring sound, the noise of a waterfall. He strained his ears in his dream to here. No, it wasn't the sound of a waterfall. It was a sound of flames. Something was burning, but he couldn't tell what was on fire. Whatever it wass, it was close by. Not far from the window, Angus became vaguely aware that he was asleep. He tried to open his eyes and wake up fully, but his lids, we're too heavy. Hanging midway between sleep and wakefulness, hiss smile, widened. He could see the glow of flames dancing on the wall in the real world, his brow creased as he studied the flames in his dream. There were friendly flames. They were good flames, he sighed a long, heartfelt Cy and returned to a deep, tranquil sleep in the whole way. Beyond the door to his room, the innkeeper stopped, his leg frozen in mid stride. His candle, which had been flickering and swaying precariously as if it had caught a hidden draught, suddenly began to burn steadily again, its flame once more, rising serenely straight up. The innkeeper, a kindly old man with a weathered, salt scoured face of a sailor, listened intently for a few moments, cocking his head this way and that. Satisfied that his guest was no longer in any kind of distress, he slowly turned around and crept back, tase her own room with a practise stealth of a smokler. He silently lifted the lunch. A few soundless steps. Later, the door was closed and he was carefully and gently climbing back into bed. His wife, alerted only by her inexplicable awareness of his presence, opened. Her eyes appeared out of him from under the blankets as the candle flame wafted and suede throwing its crazy lengthening and shortening shadows across the walls. and ceiling, he spied a questioning expression on her face. He shrugged, his shoulders, pursed his lips on, rocked his head from scientist side. In a gesture of cluelessness, his wife smiled a week, wistful smile and shook her head. Sadly, he's a good man, she said, before yawning and falling back to sleep. The innkeeper laid awake for a while, listening to the wind and rain outside on our halted, bad tempered Lee. Somewhere in the bright, moonlit night. Further up the valley, a fox part softly, as if in reply, straining his ears, he could hear the gurgling of the little waterfall at the foot of the valley wall to the west. Across the yard, the handle on the winch atop the well, began to squeak as a wind gusted and caught it's dangling rope. The innkeeper leaned up on his elbows and blew out the candle on the bedside stand. It extinguished with a little flutter, and he watched the glowing red tip of the week appear to hover in the air for a few moments before it winked out. Leaning back into the pillows, he looked up at the wall, studying the constantly changing pattern thrown by the moonlight, shining through the rain on the window pane. The light was at one moment, pale yellow and then the next, a ghostly white. As he yielded to sleep. His eyelids flickered and re opened A couple of times before finally closing, his lips began to form a smile as he began to hear the soft, oddly comforting crackle of a fire. Now, in his sleep, he could see the fire on the wall. A friendly patchwork of yellow, orange and red flames were dancing and flickering from floor to ceiling. The stranger across the whole had brought a warmth to the inn since his arrival a few nights ago. A feeling of peace and tranquillity, a feeling of wound next to the innkeeper. His sleeping wife shared his smile and gave a little sigh at the beauty of the flames.