Читать книгу The Snow Spider Trilogy - Jenny Nimmo - Страница 11

Nain had warned him that he would be alone, but Gwyn had not realised what that would mean. After all, he had felt himself to be alone since Bethan went, but there had always been Alun when he needed company on the mountain or in the woods, to share a book or a game, to lend a sympathetic ear to confidences.

And for Alun the need had been as great. Gwyn was the one with an empty house and a quiet space to think and play in. And Gwyn was the clever one; the one to help with homework. It was Gwyn who had taught Alun to read. On winter evenings the two boys were seldom apart. Gwyn had never envisaged a time without Alun’s friendship and perhaps, if he had kept silent, that time would never have come. But it never occurred to Gwyn that Alun would find it impossible to believe him. He felt that he only had to find the right words in order to convince his friend, and on the homeward journey, that same afternoon, he once again brought up the subject of magicians.

Iolo always raced ahead when they got off the school bus. The older children, however, were not so keen to run uphill. They lingered on the lane, Siôn and Gareth arguing, the girls collecting wild flowers or coloured leaves. Alun and Gwyn always brought up the rear.

‘Have you heard of Math, Lord of Gwynedd?’ Gwyn began innocently.

‘Of course; he’s in the old Welsh stories. Dad talks about them,’ Alun replied.

‘And Gwydion?’

‘Yes, and how he made a ship from seaweed,’ Alun’s interest had been aroused.

‘I’d forgotten, Dad never talks. But Nain reminded me; she’s got more books than I’ve seen anywhere, except in the library.’

‘Your Nain’s a bit batty isn’t she?’ Alun had always been a little suspicious of Gwyn’s grandmother.

‘No! She’s not batty! She knows a lot,’ Gwyn replied. ‘She knew about me; about my being a magician!’

‘Now I know she’s batty. And you are too,’ Alun said good-naturedly.

Gwyn stopped quite still. His words came slow and quiet, not at all in the way he had intended. ‘I’m not mad. Things happened last night. I think I made them happen. I wasn’t dreaming. I saw my sister, or someone like my sister. Nain said Math and Gwydion were my ancestors . . . and that I have inherited . . .’ he could not finish for his friend had begun to laugh.

‘They’re in stories. They’re not real people. You can’t be descended from a story.’

‘You don’t know,’ Gwyn began to gabble desperately. ‘I can make the wind come. I saw another planet last night, very close. It was white and the buildings were white, and there was a tower with a silver bell, there were children, and this is the most fantastic part, I could hear them in a pipe that came from . . .’

‘You’re mad! You’re lying!’ Alun cried bitterly. ‘Why are you lying? No one can see planets that close, they’re millions and millions and millions of miles away!’ And he fled from Gwyn still crying, ‘Liar! Liar! Liar!’

‘How d’you know, Alun Lloyd?’ Gwyn called relentlessly. ‘You don’t know anything, you don’t. You’re ignorant! I know what I know. And I know what I’ve seen!’

He had gone too far. He realised that before Alun sprang through his gate and followed his brothers up the path to the house, slamming the door behind him, to emphasise his distaste for Gwyn’s conversation.

Gwyn was alone on the lane with Nerys, Nia and Kate. The three girls had lost interest in their posies and were staring at Gwyn in dismay. He could not bring himself to speak to them, and so passed by in an awkward silence.

Half a mile further on he reached his grandmother’s cottage and, knowing she was the only person in the world who would believe him, unceremoniously burst in upon her. He was astonished at what he saw.

Nain had sewn up the red velvet dress. She was wearing it; standing in the centre of her room like some exotic bird, surrounded as she was, by her flowering plants and gaudy paraphernalia. She had something shining on her forehead, huge rings on her fingers and, round her waist, a wide bronze chain.

‘Nain!’ said Gwyn, amazed. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m staying here,’ his grandmother replied. ‘This is my castle; I have to defend it.’

She was talking in riddles again. Gwyn decided to come straight to the point. ‘Nain, I had something else from the wind last night: a silver pipe, and there were voices in it, from far away.’

‘Ah,’ said Nain. ‘Even when men whispered, Math could hear them; he could hear voices beyond any mortal ear! The pipe is from him!’

‘And something happened,’ Gwyn went on, ‘in Arianwen’s web!’

As he spoke his grandmother began to move about her room, but Gwyn knew she was attending to his story, and when he mentioned the girl in the web, she hovered before a huge gilt-framed mirror at the back of the room and said softly, ‘Gwydion Gwyn, you will soon have your heart’s desire!’

‘My heart’s desire?’ said Gwyn. ‘I believe I am a magician but I am not strong yet. I don’t know if these things are happening to me because I have the power, or if they would have happened to anyone.’

‘You’ve forgotten the legends, haven’t you, poor boy?’ said Nain. ‘I used to read them to you long ago, but your father stopped all that when Bethan went; he stopped all the fun, all the joy. But he couldn’t stop you, could he? Because you are who you are! Now I’ll read you something.’

In spite of the multitude of books scattered about the room, his grandmother always knew exactly where to find the one she needed. From beneath a blue china dog, supporting a lopsided lampshade, she withdrew a huge black book, its leather cover scarred with age.

‘The legends,’ she purred, stroking the battered spine. It looked so awesome and so old Gwyn half-expected a cloud of bats to fly out when his grandmother opened it.

She furled the train of her velvet dress around her legs, settled herself on a pile of cushions and beckoned to him.

Gwyn peered at the book over his grandmother’s shoulder. ‘It’s in old Welsh,’ he complained, ‘I can’t understand it.’

‘Huh!’ she sighed. ‘I forgot. Listen, I’ll translate. “At dawn rose Gwydion, the magician, before the cock crowed, and he summoned to him his power and his magic, and he went to the sea and found dulse and seaweed, and he held it close and spoke to it, then he cast it out over the sea, and there appeared the most marvellous ship . . .”’ She turned the next few pages hurriedly, anxious to find the words that would convey to Gwyn what she wanted. ‘Ah, here,’ she exclaimed. ‘Now you will understand. “Then Gwydion’s son subdued the land and ruled over it prosperously, and thereafter he became Lord over Gwynedd!”’ She closed the book triumphantly.

‘Well?’ said Gwyn. ‘I don’t think I understand, yet.’

‘He was our ancestor, that Lord of Gwynedd,’ said Nain, ‘and so, it follows, was Gwydion.’

‘But they’re in a story, Nain.’ In spite of himself Gwyn found he was repeating Alun’s words. ‘They’re not real people.’

‘Not real?’ Nain rose tall and proud, out of her chair. ‘They’re our ancestors,’ she said, glaring at Gwyn, and she slammed the book down upon others piled on a table beside her.

Gwyn winced as a cloud of dust flew into his face. A tiny jug tottered precariously beside the books, happily coming to rest before it reached the edge of the table.

‘But how do you know, Nain?’ he quietly persisted.

‘How do I know? How do I know? Listen!’ Nain settled back on to the cushions and drew Gwyn down beside her. ‘My great-great-grandmother told me. She was a hundred years old and I was ten, and I believed her. And now I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone, not even your father. She was a witch, my great-great-grandmother. She gave me the seaweed and the brooch and the whistle. “Keep it for you- know-who,” she said, and I did know who.’

‘And the broken horse?’

Nain frowned. ‘I am afraid of that horse,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I tried to burn it once, but I couldn’t. It was still there when the fire died, black and grinning at me. I believe it is a dreadful thing, and she thought so too, my great-great- grandmother. She tied a label on it, “Dim hon! Not this!” for it must never be used, ever. It must be kept safe; locked away; tight, tight, tight. It is old and evil.’

‘I’ll keep it safe, Nain. But what about the scarf ? She didn’t give you the scarf, your great-great-grandmother?’

‘No, not the scarf. That was my idea. I found it on the mountain, the morning after Bethan went; but I didn’t tell a soul. What would have been the use? I kept it for you.’

‘Why for me?’

‘Can’t you guess? I knew you would need it.’

‘And are you a witch too, Nain?’ Gwyn ventured.

‘No,’ Nain shook her head regretfully. ‘I haven’t the power, I’ve tried, but it hasn’t come to me.’

‘And how do you know it has come to me?’

‘Ah, I knew when you were born. It was All Hallows Day, don’t forget, the beginning of the Celtic New Year. Such a bright dawn it was; all the birds in the world were singing. Like bells wasn’t it? Bells ringing in the air. Your father came flying down the lane, “The baby’s on the way, Mam,” he cried. He was so anxious, so excited. By the time we got back to the house you were nearly in this world. And when you came and I saw your eyes, so bright, I knew. And little Bethan knew too, although she was only four. She was such a strange one, so knowing yet so wild, sometimes I thought she was hardly of this world; but how she loved you. And your da, so proud he was. What a morning!’

‘He doesn’t even like me now,’ Gwyn murmured.

‘No, and that’s what we have to change, isn’t it?’ Nain said gently.

Gwyn buried his face in his hands. ‘Oh, I don’t know! I don’t know!’ he cried. ‘How can a spider and a pipe help me? And what has another world to do with Bethan? I’ve just had a row with my best friend. He wouldn’t believe me.’

‘I warned you never to betray your secret,’ Nain admonished him. ‘Never abuse your power. You must be alone if you are to achieve your heart’s desire.’

‘What’s the use of magic if no one knows about it?’ Gwyn exclaimed irritably. ‘And how do I get my heart’s desire?’

‘You know very well,’ Nain replied unhelpfully. ‘Think about the scarf. Think about using it. And now you’d better leave me, and eat the supper that is growing cold on your mother’s table.’

The room had become dark without their noticing it. The fire had almost died and the few remaining embers glowed like tiny jewels in the grate. Gwyn was unwilling to leave his grandmother; he wanted to talk on into the night. But Nain was not of the same mind, it seemed. She lit a lamp and began to pace about her room, moving books and ornaments in a disturbed and thoughtless manner, as though she was trying either to forget or to remember something.

Gwyn pulled himself up from the pile of cushions and moved to the door. ‘Goodnight then, Nain!’ he said.

The tall figure, all red and gold in the lamplight, did not even turn towards him. But when he reluctantly slipped out into the night, words came singing after him: ‘Cysgwch yn dawel, Gwydion Gwyn! Sleep quietly!’

When he got home the table was bare.

‘Did your grandmother give you a meal?’ his mother inquired, guessing where he had been.

‘No,’ said Gwyn. ‘I forgot to ask.’

Mrs Griffiths smiled. ‘What a one you are!’ She gave him a plate of stew kept warm on the stove.

Gwyn could not finish the meal and went upstairs early, muttering about homework.

He did not sleep quietly. It was a strange, wild night. The restless apple tree beneath his window disturbed him. He dreamt of Nain, tall for ten years, in a red dress, her black curls tied with a scarlet ribbon. She was listening to her great-great- grandmother, an old woman, a witch with long grey hair and wrinkled hands clasped in her dark lap, where a piece of seaweed lay, all soft and shining, as though it was still moving in water, not stranded on the knees of an old, old woman.

Gwyn gasped. He sat up, stiff and terrified. He felt for the bedside light and turned it on.

Arianwen was sitting on the silver pipe. Gwyn lifted the pipe until it was close to his face. He stared at the spider and the pipe, willing them to work for him. But they did not respond. He laid them carefully on the bedside table, and got out of bed.

His black watch told him that it was four o’clock; not yet dawn. He dressed and opened his top drawer. It was time for the seaweed. Yet he took out Bethan’s yellow scarf and, without knowing why, wrapped it slowly round his neck, pressing it to his face as he did so, and inhaling, once again, the musty sweet smell of roses. He closed his eyes and, for a moment, almost thought that he was close to an answer. But he had forgotten the question. It was something his grandmother had said: something about using the scarf. Try as he might to order his mind, he felt the answer and the question slipping away from him, until he was left with only the tangible effects: the scarf and the dry dusty stick of seaweed.

Gwyn tucked the seaweed into the pocket of his anorak and went downstairs, letting himself out of the back door into the yard.

There was a pale light in the sky but the birds were still at rest. The only sounds came from sheep moving on the hard mountain earth, and frosty hedgerows shivering in the cold air.

He did not ascend the mountain this time, but wandered northwards, through the lower slopes, seeking the breeze that came from the sea. Here the land was steep and barren. There were few sheep, no trees and no farms. Gigantic rocks thrust their way through the earth and torrents of ice-cold water tumbled over the stones. Gwyn longed for the comfort of a wall to cling to. The wide, dark space of empty land and sky threatened to sweep him away and swallow him. One step missed, he thought, and he would slip into nowhere.

And then he smelt the sea. Moonlight became dawn and colours appeared on the mountain. He was approaching the gentler western slopes. He started to climb upwards, gradually, field by field, keeping close to the stone walls, so that the breeze that had now veered into a wailing north-east wind, should not confuse his steps.

Gwyn had passed the fields and was standing in the centre of a steep stretch of bracken when it happened; when the thing in his pocket began to move and slide through his fingers, causing him to withdraw his hand and regard the soft purple fronds of what had, a few moments before, been a dried-up piece of seaweed. The transformation was unbelievable. Gwyn held the plant out before him and the slippery petal-like shapes flapped in the wind like a hovering bird. And then it was gone; the wind blew it out of his hand and out to sea. And all the birds above and below him awoke and called out, the grey sky was pierced with light and in that moment Gwyn knew what he had to do.

He took off the yellow scarf and flung it out to the sky, calling his sister’s name again and again, over the wind, over the brightening land and the upturned faces of startled sheep.

Then, from the west, where it was still dark, where the water was still black under the heavy clouds, there came a light, tiny at first, but growing as it fell towards the sea. It was a cool light, soft and silver and, as it came closer, Gwyn could make out the shape of a billowing sail, and the bows of a great ship. But the ship was not upon the sea, it was in the air above it, rising all the time, until it was opposite to him and approaching the mountain.

A wave of ice-cold air suddenly hit Gwyn’s body, throwing him back into the bracken, and as he lay there, shocked and staring upwards, the huge hull of the silver ship passed right over him, and he could see fragments of ice, like sparks, falling away from it. He could see patterns of flowers and strange creatures engraved in the silver, and then the ice was in his eyes and he had to close them, and curl himself into a ball, shaking with the pain of bitter cold that enveloped him.

A dull thud shook the ground: something scraped across the rocks and filled the air with a sigh.

Gwyn lay, hidden in the bracken, for a long time; cold, curled-up tight, with eyes closed, too frightened and amazed to move and when he finally stood up, the cold, cold air was gone. He looked behind him, around and above him, but the mountain was empty. There was snow on the bracken and in one flat field beyond the bracken, but no sign of a ship of any kind. Yet he had seen one, heard one, felt the bitter cold of its passage through the air.

Gwyn began to run. Now that it was light, he had no difficulty in finding his way across the northern slopes. Soon he was back in familiar fields, but when he came to within sight of T Bryn he paused a moment then kept on running, down the track, past his gate, past his grandmother’s cottage, until he reached the Lloyds’ farmhouse. He flung open the gate, rushed up the path and, ignoring the bell, beat upon the door with his fists, shouting, ‘Alun! Alun! Come quick! I want to tell you something! Now! Now! Now!’

Within the house someone shouted angrily, it must have been Mr Lloyd. Then footsteps could be heard, pattering on the stairs and approaching down the passage.

The front door was opened and Mrs Lloyd stood there, in a pink dressing-gown, with rollers in her hair, her face all red and shiny.

‘Whatever is it, Gwyn Griffiths?’ she said. ‘Accident or fire?’

‘No fire, Mrs Lloyd. I want Alun. I have to tell him something. It’s urgent!’

‘No fire, no accident,’ snapped Mrs Lloyd. ‘Then what are you doing here? We’ve not had breakfast. Why can’t it wait till school?’

‘Because it’s just happened!’ Gwyn stamped his foot impatiently. ‘I’ve got to see Alun.’

Mrs Lloyd was angry. She was about to send Gwyn away, but something about the boy, standing tense and dark against the dawn clouds, made her hesitate. ‘Alun! You’d better come down,’ she called. ‘It’s Gwyn Griffiths. I don’t know what it’s about, but you’d better come.’

‘Shut that door,’ Mr Lloyd shouted from above. ‘I can feel the cold up here.’

‘Come inside and wait!’ Mrs Lloyd pulled Gwyn into the house and shut the door. ‘I don’t know – you’ve got a nerve these days, you boys.’

She shuffled away into the kitchen, leaving Gwyn alone in the shadows by the door. It was cold in the Lloyds’ house. The narrow passage was crammed with bicycles and boots, and coats half-hanging on hooks; it was carpeted with odd gloves, with felt-tip pens, comics and broken toys, and there were two pairs of muddy jeans hanging on the bannisters.

Alun appeared at the top of the stairs, in pyjamas that were too small. He was trying to reduce the draughty gap round his stomach with one hand, while rubbing his eyes with the other. ‘What is it?’ he asked sleepily.

‘Come down here,’ Gwyn whispered. ‘Come closer.’

Alun trudged reluctantly down the stairs and approached Gwyn. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.

Gwyn took a breath. He tried to choose the right words, so that Alun would believe what he said. ‘I’ve been on the mountain. I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a look at the sea . . .’

‘In the dark?’ Alun was impressed. ‘You’re brave. I couldn’t do that.’

‘There was a moon. It was quite bright really,’ Gwyn paused. ‘Anyway, while I was there I . . . I . . .’

‘Go on!’ Alun yawned and clutched his stomach, thinking of warm porridge.

‘Well – you’ve got to believe me.’ Gwyn hesitated dramatically, ‘I saw a spaceship!’ He waited for a response, but none came.

‘What?’ Alun said at last.

‘I saw a ship – fall out of space – it came right over the sea – it was silver and had a sort of sail – and it was cold, ever so cold, I couldn’t breathe with the cold of it. I had to lie all curled up, it hurt so much. And when I got up – it had gone!’

Alun remained silent; he stared at his bare toes and scratched his head.

‘Do you believe me? Tell me?’ Gwyn demanded.

There was no reply.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Gwyn cried. ‘Why? Why? Why?’

‘Sssssh! They’ll hear!’ Alun said.

‘So what?’

‘They think you’re a loony already.’

‘Do you? D’you think I’m a loony?’ Gwyn asked fiercely. ‘I did see a ship. Why don’t you believe me?’

‘I dunno. It sounds impossible – a sail an’ all. Sounds silly. Spaceships aren’t like that.’

Gwyn felt defeated. Somehow he had used the wrong words. He would never make Alun believe, not like this, standing in a cold passage before breakfast. ‘Well, don’t believe me then,’ he said, ‘but don’t tell either, will you? Don’t tell anyone else.’

‘OK! OK!’ said Alun. ‘You’d better go. Your mam’ll be worried!’

‘I’ll go!’ Gwyn opened the door and stepped down into the porch, but before Alun could shut him out, he said again, ‘You won’t tell what I said, will you? It’s important!’

Alun was so relieved at having rid himself of Gwyn’s disturbing presence, he did not notice the urgency in his friend’s voice. ‘OK!’ he said. ‘I’ve got to shut the door now, I’m freezing!’

He was to remember Gwyn’s words – too late!