It takes a cool blood to feel the earth's warmth. 



was gone for more than a week before 

 / they found me. A rustling in the bean- 

 field, heavy steps nearby. A shout — a boy's 

 voice — more shouts. Thomas the gardener catch- 

 es me up in his hands with sickening haste. I 

 weigh six pounds thirteen ounces. He lifts me as 

 though I weigh nothing at all. 



Ground breaks away. May wind shivers in my 

 ears. My legs churn the sky on their own. I look 

 down on bean-tops. Down on the blunt ends of 

 sheep-bitten grasses. Over one field, into the next, 

 into the hop-garden beyond. Past thatch and tiles, 

 past maypole, past gilded cock on the church tow- 

 er. All in my eye, all at once. So far to see. 



My week gone in two-score of their strides. 

 Through the meadow. Past the alcove and down 

 the brick-walk. Wicket-gate clicks shut behind us. 

 Thomas sets me down beside the asparagus. All 

 feet square on the ground again. Ferns just joining 

 in a canopy above. Print of Thomas's warm fmgers 

 on my tiled belly, smell of tar and damp mould. 

 The fuss the humans made when they found me. 

 Escape of the Old Sussex Tortoise! Eight Days' 

 Pursuit! Captured in Hampshire Bean-field! 



"Out!" the boy shouted when they found me, 

 stumbling over his heels. "Timothy got out!" 



The boy is mistaken. There is no Out! Humans 

 believe the asparagus forest is In! Fruit wall, laurel 

 hedge. Melonground. They prey upon the distinc- 

 tion. But I am always Out. Among the anemones. 

 On the grass-plot. In the shade of the Dutch- 

 currant trees. Under young beans a week away. 



And I was In there, too, as always. In, under un- 

 hedged stars, dark of the moon. Among chiding of 

 field-crickets, stirring of long grasses, gleaming 

 wind. Clap of thunder and din of haO. The hon- 

 eyed smell of maples and sycamores in bloom. Be- 

 yond sight of humans. Within my beloved shell. 



Great soft tottering beasts. 77;fy are Out. Houses 

 never by when they need them. Drab furrows of 



By Ver/yn Klinkenborg 



person-scented cloth hang about them. False 

 head of hair or kerchief or hat. Contrivance of 

 hide or wood on the feet, or none at all. That 

 mass of body and brainpan to heat and cool with 

 their internal fires. Fleece, hide, feathers, scales, 

 and shell all denied them. 



Humans of Selborne wake all winter. Above 

 ground, eating and eating, breathing and breath- 

 ing, talking and talking. Huddled close to their 

 fires. Never a lasting silence for them. Never more 



42 



NA'IUHAl IIIS IOKY February 2006 



