Читать книгу The Snow Spider Trilogy - Jenny Nimmo - Страница 15

The doctor came late. He had many visits to make that night. Other mysterious accidents had occurred: falls, burns and near-drownings.

When he had finished listening through his stethoscope he held the girl’s wrist for a long time, feeling her pulse. Something puzzled him. She reminded him of someone he had seen in the same house, in that very room, only the other had been dark with golden skin. ‘It seems you have recovered,’ said Doctor Vaughan. ‘But you had better stay where you are for a day or two.’

‘Watch her!’ the doctor told Mrs Griffiths before he went. ‘She’s well, but her pulse is so weak I can hardly feel it; it’s almost as though – no one was there.’

Gwyn was allowed into the girl’s room the following morning. It was still dark and the bedside light was on. She was sitting up in one of Bethan’s old nightdresses. Her hair had been washed and looked paler than ever.

It’s strange she hasn’t grown, thought Gwyn. Now we are the same size.

She was gazing round at all the things that made the room peculiarly Bethan’s place: a group of rag dolls on the dressing-table in faded cotton dresses, a picture of bluebells on the wall, a yellow dress in a plastic cover, still hanging on the back of the door, and the blue and pink forget-me-not curtains that Bethan had chosen.

They did not refer to the past, just then. They talked about the thing that had come hurtling out of the storm to throw her down into the mud, the terror of the animals, Nain’s devastated room and poor Long John.

‘And it’s my fault,’ said Gwyn. ‘I know it is. I gave something to the wind that I should not have given. An old, old broken horse. I was told to keep it safe, never to let it go, but I did. I wanted Arianwen back and I thought it was the only way.’

‘It seems to me,’ she said, ‘that if you are to stop the thing, you have to get its name, discover what it is.’

‘How can I do that,’ Gwyn asked. ‘It could be one of a million names, like Rumpelstiltskin, and we can’t wait that long. Who knows what damage it may do while we’re searching for a name.’

She rested her chin upon her hand, like Bethan used to do, and said slowly, ‘If you are your namesake; if you are Gwydion, the magician from a legend, perhaps the broken horse is from a legend too. Perhaps a demon from a true story was trapped inside the broken horse by magic, to keep its evil locked up, safe, away from the world.’

Gwyn frowned. It seemed to make sense. It had felt so very old, that broken horse.

All at once the girl leaned forward and said quietly, ‘There was another gift wasn’t there? Nain gave you five; you have only told me about four of them!’

Gwyn looked hard at the girl in Bethan’s bed, and then he said, ‘A yellow scarf: your scarf, to bring you back!’

They grinned at each other and Gwyn felt as though all the heavy air that he’d been holding tight inside himself, was flowing out of him and he could breathe again. He had so many questions to ask and did not know which to choose. ‘Where have you been, Bethan?’ he said at last.

‘I’m not Bethan,’ she replied. ‘I might have been Bethan once, but now I’m Eirlys. I’ll never be Bethan again. I’ve been out there!’ She inclined her head, indicating a slither of darkness dividing the forget-me-not curtains.

‘On the mountain?’

‘No.’ She seemed reluctant to continue and then said, ‘Out there! Further than the mountain! Further than the sky!’

‘How?’

‘It will be hard for you to believe.’

‘Go on. I know what it’s like when people don’t believe you. Tell me about the night you went to find the black ewe.’

It was several minutes before Eirlys spoke again. Gwyn waited patiently while she searched for words to tell him what few people would believe.

‘I wasn’t frightened,’ she said slowly. ‘It was exciting out there with the rain shining in the torchlight. I had a feeling that something was going to happen. Something that I’d always wanted, but never understood. I couldn’t find the black ewe. I called and called. You gave her a name, remember? Berry! Because her wool was purply-black, like dark fruit. I had to go higher and higher, and it began to get cold. I’d forgotten my gloves and my fingers felt so stiff I could hardly hold the torch. I wanted to rest and warm my hands in my pockets but I couldn’t because of the torch. And then I saw Berry; she was standing by that big rock, just past the last field, where it’s quite flat, except for the rock. I called to her and I put out my hands – and I dropped the torch. It was so black. I tried to move in the dark, but I fell. I rolled and rolled, I don’t know how far, then I managed to grab a tuft of grass and stop myself.’

The girl stopped speaking and stroked the patchwork quilt, spreading her fingers out, as though she wanted to feel her way back to a place where she had once belonged.

‘I thought I was going to die,’ she went on, dreamily, ‘either from cold, or falling, or the wet. And then I saw a light, far away. There weren’t any stars. The light came close and all around it the storm shone like a rainbow. I saw a sail and dancing creatures on a silver ship, just like you did. And I wanted to touch it, I wanted, so much, to be with it . . .’

‘And then?’ Gwyn begged.

‘They took me in!’

‘Who took you in?’

‘The children. Only they’re not really children, they’re quite old, and very wise. But they have never grown – like me. They took me to that other world. The place you saw in the web!’

‘And Berry?’

‘Berry was there too. She knew her name but her fleece was silvery-grey instead of black. And my hair was pale and so was my skin. And I never grew, and nor did she.’

‘Is it a good place?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Why did you come back?’

‘You called me, didn’t you? At first your calls were very faint, and then, when Nain gave you the gifts, your voice became so loud we couldn’t ignore it. We sent the spider because you wanted to see me. She was all we had. That’s how I could see you, back here – in cobwebs!’

‘Cobwebs?’ said Gwyn. ‘You mean there are more spiders? And you use them like . . . like television?’

Eirlys looked pityingly at him. ‘Not television,’ she said. ‘Our cobwebs are far more wonderful than that.’

‘Tell me more about the place out there. Could I go there?’

This time Eirlys ignored his question. ‘Find Arianwen!’ she said.

‘But how? Mam drowned her. She’s out there, under the ground. I’ve nothing left, no gifts to get her back. And I don’t know the words.’

Eirlys stared at him. ‘You’re a magician,’ she said. ‘You’re Gwydion Gwyn. You can get her back. Try!’

Gwyn felt ashamed. Under the compelling gaze of those arctic eyes, he left the chair beside the bed and slipped silently out of the room.

He went downstairs and pulled on his boots. The rain had stopped and there was nothing to remind him that he would need a coat. He opened the front door, and closed it noiselessly, behind him. Within seconds he was standing outside the circle of hawthorn trees. There was something heavy in the air, forcing the grey, twisted branches to bend towards the earth, thus discouraging any passage beneath them.

Gwyn hesitated. Was it possible that even the trees were possessed? He stepped quickly into the circle and gasped as a thorn tore into his shoulder.

The sodden ground was beginning to freeze and a white mist hung low over the grass. There was someone or something else within the circle. He could feel it, drawing him back towards the thorn trees. In order to resist it he had to fling himself to the ground and crawl towards the centre.

Once there, Gwyn did not know what to do. He tried to remember how he had felt when he had hit Dewi Davis, but this was different. Something was distracting him, tugging his mind away from what he wanted to do. He lay his head on the freezing earth and listened, but all he could hear was the air above him, crackling like an angry firework. And then he too began to get angry. A deep hatred of the thing that had killed Long John boiled up inside him. He pushed and pushed against it with his mind, until he felt it falling away, and he had a clear space in his head. He closed his eyes and thought of the bricks beneath the earth, the water from the kitchen sink within the bricks, the spider in the water. He brought up his hands, to rest beside his head, thrust downwards, and felt himself plunging through the earth, down, down, down!

Mrs Griffiths had come into the bedroom with a glass of milk. She gave the drink to Eirlys and then walked over to the window. ‘It’s snowing again,’ she said. ‘What a start to the winter.’

‘I love the snow,’ said Eirlys.

‘I know!’ Mrs Griffiths smiled, and then something through the window, caught her eye. ‘Someone’s out there,’ she said, ‘lying on the ground, and in the snow. Is it Gwyn?’

She opened the window to call to her son but suddenly a shaft of lightning pierced the snow and, with a deafening crack, hit the ground just where Gwyn lay. Mrs Griffiths screamed and fell to the floor. Eirlys, who had run to her, was the only one to see what happened within the circle of thorn trees.

She saw the ground sparkle and shake and Gwyn, arms outstretched, tossing like a bird in the wind. She saw his hands glowing in the snow, and the earth beneath them crack and a shower of glittering icicles fly up and festoon the trees like tinsel. And in one of the trees something shone brighter than a star, and she knew that Arianwen was safe.

Only then did Eirlys run to fetch a cold flannel. She laid it on Mrs Griffiths’ head and gently stroked her hair.

Mrs Griffiths opened her eyes. ‘It’s you,’ she said, and she took the girl’s hand. ‘What happened? I felt queer, and so afraid.’

‘It’s the snow,’ Eirlys replied. ‘It’s the whiteness. It makes you feel queer sometimes.’

Mrs Griffiths sat up, still keeping the girl’s hand clasped in hers. ‘It’s so good to have you here,’ she said.

They stayed quite still for a moment: the girl kneeling beside the woman, calm and silent, until Mrs Griffiths suddenly got to her feet exclaiming, ‘What a nurse I am. It’s you who’s supposed to be the patient. Back to bed now or the doctor will be telling me off!’

She had just tucked the girl’s blankets in again, when Gwyn appeared in the doorway. He was wet with snow and smiling triumphantly.

‘Gwyn! Was that you out there?’ his mother asked. ‘Lying in the snow? Are you mad?’

‘No, not mad – a magician!’ he replied.

Mrs Griffiths made a clicking noise with her tongue. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I wonder if Mrs Davis wasn’t right about you.’

‘Can I talk to Eirlys for a bit?’

‘You ought to be in school,’ his mother said, ‘but seeing as you aren’t, yes, you can have a chat. Change your clothes first, mind, and dry your hair!’

Gwyn retreated. When he returned, dry, to the bedroom, he was carrying his grandmother’s black book. ‘I’ve got Arianwen,’ he said, and he held out his hand, allowing the silver spider to crawl on to the patchwork quilt. ‘I had to fight for her; something was trying to stop me.’

‘I saw,’ said Eirlys. ‘You are a magician, Gwyn!’

Gwyn was gratified, yet a little embarrassed. ‘I’ve been looking at Nain’s book,’ he told the girl, ‘and I can read it. I never thought I could.’

‘Read it to me then, and we’ll try and find the demon in the broken horse!’

Gwyn sat on the bed and began to read the old Welsh legends, translating as he went. It was not an easy task, but the more he read, the more fluent he became and Eirlys heard again the stories that she half-remembered, from the time when Nain had sat where Gwyn was sitting now, and would talk on and on, until she slept.

She heard about kings and princes, magicians and giants, and even the knights of King Arthur, but nowhere could Gwyn find a broken horse.

‘Read about Princess Branwen,’ Eirlys said. ‘There are horses in that legend, I remember. It used to make me cry, but I’ve forgotten it.’

Gwyn began the story of Branwen. Before he had read two pages he suddenly stopped and said quietly, ‘I have found it. But it is too terrible to read aloud. I can’t read it!’

‘Tell me,’ said Eirlys.

‘I can’t!’ Gwyn stared at the page; there were tears in his eyes.

‘Tell me!’ she insisted.

‘You’ll hate it,’ said Gwyn, and then he read, ‘“Efnisien, Branwen’s brother, came upon the King of Ireland’s horses. ‘Whose horses are these?’ he asked. ‘They belong to the King of Ireland,’ said the soldiers, ‘he has come to marry your sister, Branwen.’ And Efnisien screamed, ‘No one asked me. No one asked my consent. She shall not marry the King of Ireland!’ And he drew his sword and, filled with rage and hatred, he cut off the horses’ ears and their tails, their eyelids and their lips, until they screamed with pain, and no one could touch them!”’

Silence filled the room and Gwyn said, ‘You’re sorry now, I told you!’

‘No!’ Eirlys had drawn the quilt around her neck. ‘We had to know. Perhaps that mad prince never died, but became locked in the broken horse because of what he’d done!’

‘Nain tried to burn the horse, but she couldn’t,’ said Gwyn.

‘It couldn’t be destroyed so it was given to the magicians to keep safe,’ Eirlys suggested. ‘They were the most powerful men in the land in those days!’ She paused and then said, ‘Well, you know who you have to catch!’

‘I know his name, but I can’t see him. How do I know where he is?’

‘He’s on the mountain, for sure. You’ll be able to feel him. And you have Arianwen to help you!’

Gwyn went to the window and drew the curtains wide. It was light now and snowflakes were flying past the window; some would linger in their journey and dance gently up and down against the pane, before drifting on to the apple tree below.

‘Perhaps you’d better wait,’ said Eirlys, when she saw the snow. ‘There’ll be a blizzard on the mountain.’

‘No! I daren’t wait. Something will happen if I don’t stop him now. I won’t go far. I know what to do. Tell Mam I’ve gone to see Nain.’

Mrs Griffiths was in the kitchen when Gwyn slipped downstairs, put on his mac and boots and, for the second time that morning, crept out of the house.

He realised, as soon as he was through the door, that he would not get far. Eirlys was right. There was a blizzard on the mountain. The wind and snow lashed his face and he had to screw up his eyes and look down at his boots in order to make any headway. But he knew the way, and he knew what he had to do.

When he arrived at the stone wall from where he had flung the broken horse, he took Arianwen from his pocket and held her out into the snow. She clung to his hand for a moment, bracing herself against the wind.

‘Go!’ Gwyn whispered. And then words came to him that he had never known and did not understand, and he began to chant.

The spider rolled off Gwyn’s hand and drifted up into the snow. He watched her, shining silver, amongst the white flakes, and then he had to shut his eyes against the blizzard. When he opened them the spider had gone, and already the wind had slackened. There was a sudden stillness as the mountain held its breath. Clouds of snow began to gather on the summit; they intensified and rolled downwards in a vast, ever-thickening ice-cold wave. In a few seconds Gwyn could hardly see his hands. He felt for the stone wall and found instead, something smooth and tall – a pillar of ice!

And then Gwyn ran. Or rather threw himself, snow-blind and stumbling, down the track and away from his spell. Arianwen had begun to spin!

At that moment, someone was knocking on the farmhouse door. Mrs Griffiths, when she opened it, found Alun Lloyd on the doorstep.

‘It is Alun, isn’t it?’ she asked, for the boy was muffled up to his eyes in a thick red scarf.

‘Yes,’ Alun mumbled through the scarf.

‘You’ve not gone to school, then?’

‘No school,’ the reply was just audible. ‘No bus – blizzard – where’s Gwyn?’

‘Stamp the snow off those boots and come in!’ said Mrs Griffiths. She took the boy’s anorak and shook it outside before closing the door. ‘Gwyn’s upstairs with the girl,’ she went on. ‘Poor little thing had an accident yesterday. She’s in bed!’

‘I heard,’ muttered Alun. ‘Can I go up?’

‘’Course love. First door on the left. Don’t stay too long, mind. She’s still a bit . . .’

Alun had sprung up the stairs before Mrs Griffiths could finish her sentence. He opened the door and saw only the girl. She was sitting up in bed, reading a book.

‘Where’s Gwyn?’ Alun asked.

‘With his grandmother,’ the girl replied.

‘No he’s not. I’ve been there!’

The two children stared at each other across the patterned quilt.

Alun decided to put his question another way. ‘Is he in the house? Won’t he see me?’

The girl regarded him gravely and he had to look away from her strange, greeny-blue gaze. He did not like her eyes; they made him feel cold.

‘OK. You’re not going to tell, are you? I’m sorry about – about your falling down an’ that, an’ I came to say so.’ He glanced briefly at her pale face, then quickly averted his eyes again. ‘But I want to tell Gwyn about it. I want to talk to him, see? An’ I’m going to find him. I don’t care if it takes – forever!’

Alun turned swiftly and ran out of the room.

A few seconds later Mrs Griffiths heard the front door slam and called out, ‘Was that Alun? Why didn’t he stop?’ Receiving no reply, she returned to her washing, still unaware that Gwyn was not in the house.

Outside, Alun saw footsteps in the snow, and began to follow them.

Gwyn returned only minutes later and, having quietly divested himself of snow-soaked garments, crept barefoot up to the bedroom.

‘It’s done!’ he told Eirlys. ‘The spell’s begun!’

‘Your friend was here!’ she said.

‘Alun? What did he want?’

‘To see you! He was angry!’

‘Where has he gone?’ Gwyn began to feel a terrible apprehension overwhelming him.

‘I think he went on to the mountain,’ Eirlys replied with equal consternation.

‘I didn’t see him. He must have missed the track!’

‘He’ll get lost!’

‘Trapped!’ cried Gwyn. ‘Trapped and frozen!’ He tore down the stairs and out into the snow, forgetting, in his panic, to put on his boots, or his mac, or to shut the front door. He called his friend’s name, again and again as he ran, until he was hoarse. The snow had become a fog, still and heavy, like a blanket, smothering any sound.

He found his way, with difficulty, to the place where he had touched the pillar of ice. There was another beside it now, and another and another; they rose higher than he could reach and too close to pass through. A wall of ice! Gwyn beat upon the wall, he kicked it, tore at it with his fingers, all the while calling Alun’s name in his feeble croaking voice, and then he slid to the ground, defeated by his own spell.