The Turning Stair

High on giggles, little legs scrambled up the smoothed castle steps, his six-year-old ears refusing to hear my entreaty as I climb behind and his sandals clatter away ahead around the turning stair. Dust and summer sun flicker beyond my eye as I reach for the safety of cool stone, worn smooth by medieval hand and grasping tourist touch.

Earlier, on the castle green, we had listened to the soft alien sounds of medieval music and watched a display of medieval archers. My son remained captivated throughout the display, fascinated by the warriors displaying their strength and agility. I, his mirror of enchantment, watched his small, serious face transforming with each study of the call to arms, to smiling and cheering in congratulation.

So here we are now exploring, climbing to the highest point of the castle keep. My son, the medieval archer, racing to the turret to defend his castle, whilst I, the maiden, choosing consternation as I will him not to fall.

"Let's stop for a moment," I say. So we look out through the oblong gap, strangely shaped like an empty cross, in the castle wall. Below the river curves like the winding steps of this staircase glinting in the summer sun, reflecting life. From here I point out the houses of blue and pink nestling the river bank and birds fly below us as we catch their breeze against our leaning faces. "Wow," we exclaim. Then he is gone around the next bend and I follow. Unperturbed, he squeezes past the old man who wheezes in descent and the young father bouncing a baby upon his back with every step. I follow, stopping politely to let them pass, and worry I will be left behind.

How long have we been climbing I ask myself? Surely not too long I wonder, as the heat seems to be getting more oppressive and the music of the birdsong becomes remote upon the breeze that blusters now, pulling at the outer walls. I hear voices up ahead, a foreign lilt to their tone. And music? A drum played at a ponderous pace descends, accompanied by a gathering mist of grey and light moving shadows that envelop me with a distinct stale aroma. I begin to feel afraid of what is ahead when suddenly I am surrounded by tense, excited voices, calling for their bows, counting their arrows, checking every man is in place at each opening where we had not long ago viewed the world below. These people are blind to me as they rush past in preparation and I feel lost as I observe their muted colors of war. I witness chaos and order in one place as the drummer boy descends towards me, studying each thoughtful beat with each careful step. A young child going into battle a serious task to lead grown men to do his county of Yorkshire proud. Where is your mother I ask? But he is deaf to me and it is a useless question. He has his job to do and his mother will do hers. Here in the present, I feel her apprehension and share her grief as she watches her child become a man too quickly, his life vanishing along the road to glory. This strange landscape of shadow and sound encases me while I remain still like the stone wall as all around lives pass through that have left their mark on each beveled and smoothed step, indented with the passions of history. I am drawn to muse on this boy and his adulthood lost as the sounds begin to fade and the sun breaks through the shadows filling the staircase with grateful light and the bright sound of my name being called.

"Robert," I call back and he shouts to me,"

Come on, hurry up, I am here at the top!" So I climb the last steps and there stands, my son, triumphant, curls flying in the breeze. I laugh, as the sun, full and warm wraps around us and we both are relieved to be together again at the top of the world. I briefly breathe the clear, heady air, a respite from the shadows, as Robert bolts to make his descent shouting without a backward glance "Keep up mam!" Following, I listen to his small determined feet disappear and watch his bright curls flash in the sunshine and disappear into the subdued stairwell.

"Be careful," I shout back and I hear his laughing voice saying,

"Ok mam, that's the hundredth time you have said that today!"