exposed to the winter night； as if it had
no walls。
Sometimes there sounded； long and remote in the house；
vibrating through everything； the moaning cry of a woman in
labour。 Brangwen； sitting downstairs； was divided。 His lower；
deeper self was with her； bound to her； suffering。 But the big
shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly
round the farmstead when he was a boy。 He was back in his youth；
a boy； haunted by the sound of the owls； waking up his brother
to speak to him。 And his mind drifted away to the birds； their
solemn； dignified faces； their flight so soft and broad…winged。
And then to the birds his brother had shot； fluffy；
dust…coloured； dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly
asleep。 It was a queer thing； a dead owl。
He lifted his cup to his lips； he watched the child with the
beads。 But his mind was occupied with owls； and the atmosphere
of his boyhood； with his brothers and sisters。 Elsewhere；
fundamental； he was with his wife in labour； the child was being
brought forth out of their one flesh。 He and she； one flesh； out
of which life must be put forth。 The rent was not in his body；
but it was of his body。 On her the blows fell； but the quiver
ran through to him； to his last fibre。 She must be torn asunder
for life to e forth； yet still they were one flesh； and
still； from further