Читать книгу The Snow Spider Trilogy - Jenny Nimmo - Страница 14

‘No! No! No!’ Gwyn rushed out of the kitchen and up to his room. He regarded the dark places where cobwebs had sparkled with snow from that other world. The room seemed unbearably empty without them. He flung himself on to the bed and tried to tell himself that Arianwen had not gone forever. Surely he had the power to bring her back?

But he had nothing left for the wind. All Nain’s gifts had been used up: the brooch, the whistle, the seaweed and the scarf. Only one thing remained – the broken horse.

Gwyn got up and went over to the chest of drawers. He tried to open the top drawer but it appeared to have stuck. He shook it and the silver pipe rolled off the top. He bent to pick it up and, as he touched it, a sound came from it, like whispering or the sea.

He ignored the sound and left the pipe on his bed while he continuted to wrestle with the drawer. It suddenly burst open and almost fell out with the force that Gwyn had exerted on it.

The black horse lay within; it was alone and broken; grotesque without ears and a tail. Its lips were parted as if in pain and Gwyn was overwhelmed by a feeling of pity. He took the horse out of the drawer and examined it closely. ‘Dim hon!’ he murmured, reading again the tiny scrap of yellowing paper tied to its neck. ‘Not this! Why “Not this”? This is all I have!’

From the bed the pipe whispered, ‘Not this! Not this! Not this!’

But Gwyn was not listening.

The following morning Gwyn woke up with a sore throat and a cold.

‘You’d better stay indoors,’ his mother told him over breakfast. ‘No use getting worse or spreading your germs.’

Gwyn was about to remark that other people carried germs about, but thought better of it. He would not mind missing a day of school and if, by some miracle, Arianwen should have escaped the septic tank, she would fare better if she had a friend near at hand.

‘I’m not staying in bed!’ he said sulkily. He had not forgiven his mother.

‘I didn’t say in bed,’ she retorted.

‘I don’t want to stay indoors either.’

‘Please yourself! I’m only thinking of your good!’

Mr Griffiths did not seem to be aware of the acrimony flying round the breakfast table. He took himself off to the milking-shed, still whistling.

Gwyn went up to the attic and put on his anorak. The sun was shining and the air was warm. He went downstairs and out through the back door into the yard. To the left of the yard a row of barns formed a right angle with a long cowshed directly opposite the back door. To the right, a stone wall completed the enclosure. Within the wall a wide gate led on to the mountain track, and somewhere in the field beyond that gate lay the septic tank.

Gwyn wandered towards the gate, climbed over it and jumped down into the field.

A circle of hawthorn trees surrounded the area where the septic tank lay, buried under half a metre of earth. The trees were ancient, their grey branches scarred with deep fissures. It always came as a surprise when white blossom appeared on them in spring. Sheep had ambled round the thorn trees and nibbled the grass smooth. Not even a thistle had been left to give shelter to a small stray creature.

Gwyn stood at the edge of the circle and contemplated the place where Arianwen may have ended her journey from the kitchen sink. He imagined her silver body whirling in a tide of black greasy water, and he was filled with helpless rage.

Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he stepped away from the hawthorn circle and began to stroll up the mountain. As the track wound upward, so the field beside it sloped gently down towards the valley until, a mile beyond the farmhouse on a sharp bend, there occurred a sheer drop of ten metres between the track and the field below. Here Gwyn stopped, where a low stone wall gave some protection for the unwary. There was something hard in his right pocket; he withdrew his hand and found that he was holding the broken horse. He must have slipped it into his pocket by accident, the night before.

He stared at the poor, broken thing, and then looked back at the farmhouse. A wreath of smoke streamed from the chimney into the blue sky. A blackbird sang in the orchard, and he could see his mother hanging out the washing. A breeze had set the pillowslips flying and a pink curtain flapped from an upstairs window. It was such a peaceful, ordinary scene. And then his gaze fell upon the ring of thorn trees and he hated the morning for being beautiful while Arianwen was dying in the dark.

Gwyn swung out his right hand, and hesitated. The horse seemed to be staring at him with its wild lidless eyes, inviting him to set it free; its maimed mouth was grinning in anticipation. All at once Gwyn felt afraid of what he was about to do, but his grasp had slackened and, in that moment, a gust of wind tore the horse away and his hand tightened on empty air. The wind carried the tiny object over a flock of sheep that neither saw nor cared about it, but some of the animals raised their heads when the boy above them cried out, ‘Go! Go then, and bring her back to me if you can! Arianwen! Arianwen! Arianwen!’

The broken horse vanished from sight and, as it did so, a low moan rumbled through the air. A black cloud passed across the sun and the white sheep became grey.

Gwyn turned away to continue his walk, but after he had taken a few paces it began to rain, only a few drops at first, and then suddenly it was as if a cloud had burst above and water poured down upon his head in torrents. He began to run back down the track and by the time he reached the house the rain had become a hailstorm. His mother was bundling the wet washing back into the kitchen, and he took an armful from her, fearing that it was he who had brought the storm upon them.

And storm it was. Sudden, frightening and ferocious. It beat upon the windows and tore into the barn roofs, causing the cattle to shift and grumble in their stalls. It shook the gates until they opened and terrified sheep poured into the garden and the yard. The hens shrieked and flapped battered soaking wings, as they ran to the hen-house. And once there they did not stop their noise but added their voices to the terrible discord of the other animals.

The sky turned inky black and Mrs Griffiths put the lights on in the house, but the power failed and they were left in the dark, surrounded by the sounds of distressed creatures that they could not help.

Mr Griffiths burst through the back door, his big boots shiny with mud.

‘The track’s like a river,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘What is it, Ivor?’ whispered his wife. ‘It was such a beautiful day.’

‘Just a storm,’ Mr Griffiths tried to sound calm. ‘It’ll blow itself out eventually.’

Will it? Gwyn thought. Have I done this?

They lit a candle and sat round the table drinking tea. Mrs Griffiths seemed the only one capable of speech. ‘Whatever’s happened?’ she kept murmuring. ‘It’s like the end of the world. And Gwyn with a cold, too.’

The storm abated a little in the afternoon. The hail turned to rain again and they were able to attend to the animals. But the air still cracked and rumbled and the dog was too terrified to work effectively. Gwyn and his father had a hard time driving the sheep out of the garden and through torrents of running mud, to the field.

They managed to get the ewes into an open barn, where they remained, anxious but subdued.

‘They’ll lose their lambs if it goes on like this,’ said Mr Griffiths.

The yard had become a whirlpool and they had to use a torch to find their way safely to the cowsheds. The cows were in a state of panic. They trembled and twisted, bellowing mournfully. In the torchlight, the whites of their eyes bulged in their black faces and though they were full of milk they refused to be touched.

Mr Griffiths loved his black cows. He loved to be close to them and he still milked by hand, ignoring the cold electric apparatus other farmers preferred. He stood in the cowshed suffering with his animals, dismayed by their condition.

‘What is it?’ he muttered. ‘It can’t be the storm. I’ve never seen them like this.’

‘Leave them till later, Dad,’ Gwyn suggested. ‘They’ll calm down when the wind dies.’

‘It’s like the devil’s in there,’ said his father, closing the big door on his cattle.

They waded back to the kitchen door, leaving their sodden macs and boots in the narrow porch outside. A cloud of water followed them into the room but, for once, Mrs Griffiths did not seem concerned. She was looking out of the window on the opposite side of the room. ‘I’m thinking about Nain,’ she said. ‘The lane is like a river, her front door rattles even in a breeze and you never fixed her roof in spring, like you said you would, Ivor.’

‘I’ll go and see her in a bit.’ Her husband sighed and sank into a chair.

‘I’ll go,’ Gwyn offered. He wondered how Alun and the other Lloyds had fared in the storm.

The Lloyds were already at home. Fearing that her little ones would be soaked if they had to walk up the lane, Mrs Lloyd had fetched her family by car. And just as well, for Iolo was mad with fear. He hated thunder.

Alun was in the room he shared with his brothers. He was standing by the window, watching the rain while the twins argued on the floor behind him. Alun enjoyed a storm; he relished the noise and the violence. He gazed at the contortions of the trees, hoping that one might fall. And then he saw something.

Someone was out in the storm. Someone small and alone: a pale shape, moving slowly against the wind and the water.

The figure stopped opposite the Lloyds’ gate, on the other side of the lane. Alun saw a face, white in the light from the window, looking up at him, and he knew who it was. Her hood had fallen back and her soaking hair hung in ash-coloured strands over her hunched shoulders. She was holding one arm across her chest and looked frightened and exhausted.

Alun quickly drew the curtains and turned away from the window.

‘What is it?’ asked Gareth. ‘What did you see out there? You look funny.’

‘I didn’t see nothing,’ Alun replied. ‘Only the storm.’

‘Looks like you saw a ghost to me,’ said Siôn.

Gwyn was on the front porch, drawing on his boots. His mother helped him with his mac, buttoning it tightly at the neck.

‘Don’t be long, now,’ she said. ‘Just pop in and see if your grandmother needs anything. Come straight back or your cold’ll get worse.’

‘It’s gone,’ said Gwyn. ‘The water’s washed it away,’ and he tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in his throat.

He ran down the side of the track where the ground was higher, leaping from island to island, his torch beamed on the lane ahead to ensure that the rivulets of mud had not encroached upon the remaining patches of dry land.

When he reached his grandmother’s cottage the rain suddenly stopped and, beneath the clouds, an eerie yellow light crept across the horizon. The dripping trees stood black against the sky and the only sounds came from innumerable streams gushing down the mountainside.

There was no light in Nain’s cottage. Gwyn knocked but there was no reply. He opened the door and looked in. His grandmother’s room was cold and dark. There was something dreadfully wrong about the place, an oppressive stillness that frightened him. He turned on the light and saw what it was.

Beneath a grey veil of ashes, Nain’s treasures lay in ruins. Pictures hung at crazy angles round the room, and once-bright scarves dropped in colourless shreds. The canary lay motionless at the bottom of its cage, and all about the floor were fragments of glass, books ripped and spoiled, shattered beads and dying plants.

Some terrible element had crushed and abused everything in the room that was a part of his grandmother. Every object that she had chosen, nurtured and loved, had been destroyed.

Beside the dead fire from where the flying ashes had scattered, Nain sat huddled in a chair. She seemed older, smaller than before. There were ashes in her black hair and her face was grey.

Gwyn stepped slowly over the broken possessions until he stood beside his grandmother. ‘What has happened, Nain?’ he asked. ‘What has been here?’

Nain looked up at him and her black eyes narrowed. ‘You know very well, Gwydion Gwyn,’ she said. ‘You know and I know what you have done. You mad, bad magician!’

‘What have I done, Nain?’ Even as he asked the question, Gwyn knew what the answer would be.

‘You let it go! My great-great-grandmother trusted me, and I trusted you. You have failed us, Gwydion Gwyn!’

‘You mean the broken horse, don’t you?’ Gwyn cried defiantly. ‘Well, say so then! Speak its name! It was all I had. Arianwen has gone, drowned perhaps, and I had to get her back. Eirlys said I must!’

‘But why the horse? Why the horse?’ Nain rose out of her chair and her voice rose with her. ‘Didn’t I tell you to keep it safe? Never to let it go? The spider would have returned to you. A creature like that could never die. She belongs to you and you can get her when you want to, if you really try.’

‘I didn’t know,’ said Gwyn. ‘And I didn’t mean to let the horse go. The wind took it. What is it, anyway, that I have released? And how can I stop it?’

‘Only you can find that out, Gwydion Gwyn,’ his grandmother replied. ‘And I am afraid for you. It is a strong and dreadful thing that you must capture!’

‘But didn’t you see it? It was here. Why did it do this to your room?’

‘Ah!’ Nain sank back into her chair. ‘I tried to stop it, see. When I heard that noise in the air, and all the birds stopped singing; when the hail began to batter the land and the trees trembled, then I knew what you had done. So I went to my great-great-grandmother’s books and I tried to find out how to stop it.’ Her voice sank to a whisper. ‘I burnt leaves in a bowl, and some bones and berries, and I began to sing. But it knew, didn’t it? It knew what I was doing and it came in through the door and knocked me down. It smashed my bowl and blew out the fire. So angry it was. It roared round the room and broke everything in its way, and then it went!’

‘And didn’t you see anything?’

‘Nothing! It was in the wind, wasn’t it?’

Gwyn was silent. He was terrified of the thing that he had to face, but determined to make reparation. ‘I’ll help you clean up, Nain,’ he said.

‘Leave it to me!’ she snapped. ‘They’ll be needing you at home.’

But Gwyn refused to go until he had helped his grandmother to sweep the debris from the floor. They gathered the dying plants and put them in water, dusted the furniture and straightened the pictures. Gwyn picked up the torn pages and replaced them in the books, before his grandmother tenderly arranged them into piles again. He sifted out the broken china and she put it in order, ready for glueing. After a while the room began to come to life again. But the canary still lay quiet at the bottom of its cage, its neck bent and its eyes closed.

‘It could do this?’ Gwyn asked, staring at the broken bird.

‘It could do worse,’ Nain replied. ‘Go on now! And take this.’ From beneath the cushion on which she had been sitting, she withdrew the black book. ‘I kept one thing safe, you see,’ she said. ‘I knew you would need it.’

It was dark when he left the cottage. The water was not so deep and the thunder had rolled away, but there was a strange turbulence in the air that disturbed him.

He was relieved to see that the lights had come on again in the farmhouse. It looked safe and welcoming. His father met him at the door, ‘Did you see the girl?’ he asked.

Before Gwyn could reply his mother said, ‘Why were you so long? What happened?’

‘I had to help Nain,’ he explained, and would have said more if his father had not interrupted again.

‘Did you see the girl?’ he demanded anxiously.

‘The girl? Eirlys? No, I didn’t see her,’ Gwyn said.

‘Where is she then?’ His father sprang past him and strode across the lawn to where the Land Rover waited in its shed.

‘The Herberts rang,’ he shouted. ‘They said she left two hours ago. Slipped out of the house into the storm. Came to see if you were well, they thought, because you weren’t at school!’

He disappeared into the shed and the Land Rover burst into life. It crashed down on to the track and rocked and roared its way through the mud.

Two hours? Gwyn thought. And in the storm. Can she have fallen somewhere and I didn’t see?

In the kitchen his mother had laid four soup bowls on the table. ‘Your dad’ll find her,’ she said, when she saw Gwyn’s worried frown.

Gwyn was not so sure. There was that thing in the air. That awful something that had destroyed Nain’s room.

They heard the Land Rover returning only minutes later and Gwyn ran to open the front door. His father was already beside the vehicle. The door was swinging wide and he was gathering something into his arms; something grey that was streaked with mud.

Mr Griffiths walked through the gate and up the garden path, and as he came within the arc of light thrown out by the porch lantern, they saw the grey bundle. The girl’s pale hair was black with mud, her white face covered with smudges of brown, and she had lost her shoes.

Gwyn held his breath. He realised that he had known the girl for a long, long time. What a dull magician he was, indeed, not to have understood, just because her hair was pale and her face white.

‘I found her in the lane,’ said Mr Griffiths, ‘just beside the Lloyds’ wall. I can’t think how they didn’t see her. She’s unconscious, the cold probably, but I can’t see any broken bones.’

‘I’ll ring Doctor Vaughan.’ Mrs Griffiths ran to the telephone in the kitchen.

‘She’s staying here, Glenys,’ her husband called after her. ‘In Bethan’s room. I’m not having them take her from us.’

He carried the girl upstairs, and Gwyn followed, mopping at the drips with a paper handkerchief. When Mrs Griffiths had finished with the telephone she ran up and covered the pillow with a towel, then they gently removed the sodden grey coat and laid Eirlys on the bed.

They stood around the bed and, without saying a word, without even looking at each other, they knew that they had all seen the girl lying on the bright quilt. They had seen her there before, long ago. They knew that Bethan had come back.

‘You go and have your tea. I’ll stay with her.’ Mr Griffiths drew a chair up to the bed.

Gwyn did not move.

‘Don’t worry, lad,’ his father said. ‘It’s all over now.’

Gwyn knew that it was not. He could not eat. He took the torch down to the gate to watch for the doctor’s car, and saw something black lying there, beside the hedge, all huddled in the mud.

Gwyn bent down and picked up poor Long John’s limp body. The black cat’s eyes were closed, his nose was full of earth. His three good legs had let him down at last, and he had drowned, unable to escape the malice of the storm.

‘Who d’you think you are, you THING?’ Gwyn screamed into the night. ‘I’ll get you! Just you wait!’