Читать книгу The Snow Spider Trilogy - Jenny Nimmo - Страница 9

Unlike most Novembers, calm days seemed endless that autumn. Gwyn had to wait three weeks for a wind. It was the end of the month and the first snow had fallen on the mountain.

During those three weeks he found he could not broach the subject of his ancestors, though he dwelt constantly on Nain’s words. Since his birthday the atmosphere in the house had hardly been conducive to confidences. His father remote and silent. His mother in such a state of anxiety that, whenever they were alone, he found he could only discuss the trivia of their days; the farm, the weather and his school activities.

But every morning and every evening Gwyn would open his drawer and take out the yellow scarf. He would stand by his window and run his hands lightly over the soft wool, all the time regarding the bare, snow-capped mountain, and he would think of Bethan.

Then, one Sunday, the wind came; so quietly at first that you hardly noticed it. By the time the midday roast had been consumed, however, twigs were flying, the barn door banging, and the howling in the chimney loud enough to drive the dog away from the stove.

Gwyn knew it was time.

‘Who were my ancestors?’ he asked his mother.

They were standing by the sink, he dutifully drying the dishes, his mother with her hands deep in the soapy water. ‘Ancestors,’ she said. ‘Well, no one special that I know of . . .’

‘No one?’ he probed.

‘Not on my side, love. Your grandfather’s a baker, you know that, and before that, well . . . I don’t know. Nothing special.’

‘What about Nain?’

Gwyn’s father, slouched in a chair by the stove, rustled his newspaper, but did not look up.

Gwyn screwed up his courage. ‘What about your ancestors, Dad?’

Mr Griffiths peered, unsmiling, over his paper. ‘What about them?’

‘Anyone special? Nain said there were magicians in the family . . . I think.’

His father shook the newspaper violently. ‘Nain has some crazy ideas,’ he said. ‘I had enough of them when I was a boy.’

‘Made you try and bring a dead bird back to life, you said,’ his wife reminded him.

‘How?’ asked Gwyn.

‘Chanting!’ grunted Mr Griffiths. It was obvious that, just as Nain had said, his father had not inherited whatever strange power it was that those long ago magicians had possessed. Or if he had, he did not like the notion.

‘They’re in the old legends,’ mused Mrs Griffiths, ‘the magicians. One of them made a ship out of seaweed, Gwydion I think it . . .’

‘Seaweed?’ Gwyn broke in.

‘I think it was and . . .’

‘Gwydion?’ Gwyn absentmindedly pushed his wet tea-cloth into an open drawer. ‘That’s my name?’

‘Mind what you’re doing, Gwyn,’ his mother complained. ‘You haven’t finished.’

‘Math, Lord of Gwynedd, Gwydion and Gilfaethwy. And it was Gwydion made the ship? Me . . . my name!’

‘It’s what you were christened, Nain wanted it, but,’ Mrs Griffiths glanced in her husband’s direction, ‘your father never liked it, not when he remembered where it came from, so we called you Gwyn. Dad was pretty fed up with all Nain’s stories.’

Mr Griffiths dropped his newspaper. ‘Get on with your work, Gwyn,’ he ordered, ‘and stop flustering your mother.’

‘I’m not flustered, love.’

‘Don’t argue and don’t defend the boy!’

They finished the dishes in silence. Then, with the wind and his ancestors filling his thoughts, Gwyn rushed upstairs and opened the drawer. But he did not remove the seaweed. The first thing he noticed was the brooch, lying on top of the scarf. He could not remember having replaced it in that way. Surely the scarf was the last thing he had returned to the drawer?

The sunlight, slanting through his narrow window, fell directly on to the brooch and the contorted shapes slowly assumed the form of a star, then a snowflake, next a group of petals changed into a creature with glittering eyes before becoming a twisted piece of metal again. Something or somebody wanted him to use the brooch!

Gwyn picked it up and thrust it into his pocket. Grabbing his anorak from a chair he rushed downstairs and out of the back door. He heard a voice, as he raced across the yard, calling him to a chore. ‘But the wind was too loud, wasn’t it?’ he shouted joyfully to the sky. ‘I never heard nothing!’

He banged the yard gate to emphasise his words and began to run through the field; after a hundred yards the land began to rise; he kept to the sheeptrack for a while, then climbed a wall and jumped down into another field, this one steep and bare. He was among the sheep now, scattering them as he bounded over mounds and boulders. Stopping at the next wall, he took a deep breath. The mountain had begun in earnest. Now it had to be walking or climbing, running was impossible.

A sense of urgency gripped him; an overwhelming feeling that today, perhaps within that very hour, something momentous would occur.

He stumbled on, now upon a sheeptrack, now heaving himself over boulders. He had climbed the mountain often, sometimes with Alun, sometimes alone, but the first time had been with Bethan, one summer long ago. It had seemed an impossible task then, when he was not five years old, but she had willed him to the top, comforting and cajoling him with her gentle voice. ‘It’s so beautiful when you get there, Gwyn. You can see the whole world, well the whole of Wales anyway, and the sea, and clouds below you. You won’t fall, I won’t let you!’ She had been wearing the yellow scarf that day. Gwyn remembered how it had streamed out across his head, like a banner, when they reached the top.

It was not a high mountain, nor a dangerous one, some might even call it a hill. It was wide and grassy, a series of gentle slopes that rose, one after another, patterned with drystone walls and windblown bushes. The plateau at the top was a lonely place, however. From here only the empty fields and surrounding mountains could be seen and, far out to the west, the distant grey line of the sea. Gwyn took shelter beside the tallest rock, for the wind sweeping across the plateau threatened to roll him back whence he had come.

He must surely have found the place to offer his brooch. ‘Give it to the wind,’ Nain had said. Bracing himself against the rock, Gwyn extended his up-turned hand into the wind and uncurled his fingers.

The brooch was snatched away so fast that he never saw what became of it. He withdrew his hand and waited for the wind to answer, not knowing what the answer would be, but wanting it to bring him something that would change the way things were, to fill the emptiness in the house below.

But the wind did not reply. It howled about Gwyn’s head and tore at his clothes, then slowly it died away taking, somewhere within its swirling streams and currents, the precious brooch, and leaving nothing in return.

Then, from the west, came a silver-white cloud of snow, obscuring within minutes the sea, the surrounding mountains and the fields below. And, as the snow began to encircle and embrace him, Gwyn found himself chanting, ‘Math, Lord of Gwynedd, Gwydion and Gilfaethwy!’ This he repeated, over and over again, not knowing whether he was calling to the living or the dead. And all the while, huge snowflakes drifted silently about him, melting as they touched him, so that he did not turn into the snowman that he might otherwise have become.

Gwyn stood motionless for what seemed like hours, enveloped in a soft, serene whiteness, waiting for an answer. Yet, had Nain promised him an answer? In the stillness he thought he heard a sound, very high and light, like icicles on glass.

His legs began to ache, his face grew numb with cold and, when night clouds darkened the sky, he began his descent, resentful and forlorn.

The lower slopes of the mountain were still green, the snow had not touched them and it was difficult for Gwyn to believe he had been standing deep in snow only minutes earlier. Only from the last field could the summit be seen, but by the time Gwyn reached the field the mountain was obscured by mist, and he could not tell if snow still lay above.

It was dark when he got home. Before opening the back door he stamped his boots. His absence from the farm all day would not be appreciated, he realised, and he did not wish to aggravate the situation with muddy boots. He raised his hand to brush his shoulders free of the dust he usually managed to collect, and his fingers encountered something icy cold.

Believing it to be a snowflake or even an icicle, Gwyn plucked it off his shoulder and moved closer to the kitchen window to examine what he had found. His mother had not yet drawn the curtains and light streamed into the yard.

It was a snowflake; the most beautiful he had ever seen, for it was magnified into an exquisite and intricate pattern: a star glistening like crystal in the soft light. And then the most extraordinary thing happened. The star began to move and Gwyn stared amazed as it gradually assumed the shape of a tiny silver spider. Had the wind heard him after all? Was he a magician then?

‘Gwyn, is that you out there? You’ll have no tea if you hang about any longer.’ His mother had spied him from the window.

Gwyn closed his fingers over the spider and tried to open the back door with his left hand. The door was jerked back violently and his father pulled him into the kitchen.

‘What the hell are you doing out there? You’re late! Can’t you open a door now?’ Mr Griffiths had flecks of mud on his spectacles; Gwyn tried not to look at them.

‘My hands are cold,’ he said.

‘Tea’ll be cold too,’ grumbled Mr Griffiths. ‘Get your boots off and sit down. Where were you this afternoon? You were needed. That mad cockerel’s out again. We won’t have a Christmas dinner if he doesn’t stay put.’

With some difficulty Gwyn managed to remove his boots with his left hand. ‘I’m just going upstairs,’ he said airily.

‘Gwyn, whatever are you up to?’ asked his mother. ‘Wash your hands and sit down.’

‘I’ve got to go upstairs,’ Gwyn insisted.

‘But Gwyn . . .’

‘Please, Mam!’

Mrs Griffiths shrugged and turned back to the stove. Her husband had begun to chew bacon and was not interested in Gwyn’s hasty flight through the kitchen.

Tumbling into his bedroom Gwyn scanned the place for something in which to hide his spider. He could think of nothing but the drawer. Placing the spider gently on to the yellow scarf, he pushed the drawer back, leaving a few centimetres for air, then fled downstairs.

He got an interrogation in the kitchen.

Mrs Griffiths began it. ‘Whatever made you run off like that this afternoon?’ she complained. ‘Didn’t you hear me call?’

‘No, it was windy,’ Gwyn replied cheerfully.

‘Well, what was it you were doing all that time? I rang Mrs Lloyd, you weren’t there.’

‘No,’ said Gwyn, ‘I wasn’t!’

‘Not giving much away, are you?’ Mr Griffiths muttered from behind a mug of tea. ‘It’s no use trying to get that cockerel now it’s dark,’ he went on irritably. ‘We’ll have to be up sharp in the morning.’

‘Won’t have any trouble waking if he’s out,’ Gwyn sniggered.

‘It would take more than a cockerel to wake you some mornings,’ laughed his mother. At least she had recovered her good humour.

After tea Mr Griffiths vanished into his workshop. His work-load of farm repairs seemed to increase rather than diminish, and Gwyn often wondered if it was his father’s way of avoiding conversation.

He thought, impatiently, of the drawer in his room, while his mother chattered about Christmas and the cockerel. Then, excusing himself with a quick hug, Gwyn left his mother to talk to the cat and, trying not to show an unnatural enthusiasm for bed, crossed the passage and climbed the stairs slowly, but two at a time.

His bedroom door was open and there appeared to be a soft glow within. On entering the room Gwyn froze. There were shadows on the wall: seven helmeted figures, motionless beside his bed. He turned, fearfully, to locate the source of light. It came from behind a row of toy spacemen standing on the chest of drawers. Gwyn breathed a sigh of relief and approached the spacemen.

The silver spider had climbed out of the drawer. It was glowing in the dark!

Gwyn brushed his toys aside and hesitantly held out his hand to the spider. It crawled into his open palm and, gently, he raised it closer to his face. The spider’s touch was icy cold, and yet the glow that it shed on his face had a certain strange warmth that seemed to penetrate every part of his body.

He held the spider for several minutes, admiring the exquisite pattern on its back and wondering whether there was more to the tiny creature than a superficial beauty. It had come in exchange for the brooch, of that he was certain. But was it really he who had transformed the brooch? Or had the extraordinary spider come from a place beyond his world? He resolved to keep it a secret until he could consult his grandmother the following evening.

Replacing the spider in the drawer, Gwyn went downstairs to fetch a book. When he returned the glow came from the bedpost and, deciding that he had no need of an electric light, he sat on the bed and read his book beside the spider. It was an exceptional sensation, reading by spiderlight.

* * *

Nain was gardening by lamplight when Gwyn found her. She was wearing her sunhat and a bright purple cardigan. The sky was dark and frost had begun to sparkle on the ground.

‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’ said Gwyn, approaching his grandmother down the cinder path.

‘I like to poke a few things about,’ she replied, ‘just to let them know I’ve got my eye on them.’

‘There’s not much growing, Nain,’ Gwyn remarked. ‘Not that you can see anything in this light.’

‘There’s tatws!’ she said defiantly, and heaved a plant out of the ground, scattering earth all over Gwyn’s white trainers. Not satisfied with this, she shook the plant violently and Gwyn sprang back, too late, to save the bottoms of his new school trousers.

‘Oh heck, Nain!’ he cried. ‘What did you do that for. I’ll get a row?’

‘Why didn’t you put your boots on, silly boy?’ she replied. ‘There’s mud all down the lane.’

‘I came for a chat, didn’t I? How was I to know I’d be attacked by a madwoman.’

‘Ha! Ha! Who’s mad, Gwydion Gwyn?’ Nain loved being teased. ‘Have you brought good news? Are you a magician, then?’

‘Can’t we go inside, Nain?’ Gwyn fingered the matchbox in his pocket. He did not want to confide under the stars, someone could be listening, out there in the dark.

‘Come on, then! We’ll leave the plants to doze for a bit and have a cup of tea.’ Nain dropped her potatoes, shook out her purple cardigan and stamped across to open the back door.

The inside of her house was like a bright bowl. All the corners had been rounded off with cupboards and bookcases, and upon every item of furniture there was heaped a jumble of books, bright clothes and exotic plants. The fronds of shawls, trailing leaves and garlands of beads festooned the furniture to such a degree that its identity could not easily be ascertained. The only source of light came from an oil-lamp, and as this was partially obscured by a tall fern, the whole place had a wild and mystical air about it.

Somewhere, through the jumble, a kettle lurked, and soon this was whistling merrily, while Nain sang from behind a screen embroidered with butterflies, and a canary chattered in its cage.

Gwyn looked round for a vacant seat. There was none. ‘What shall I do with the eggs, Nain?’ he called.

‘How many?’

Gwyn counted the eggs, nestling in a red woolly hat on the only armchair. ‘Seven,’ he replied.

‘Well! Well! They’ve all been in here today, then, and I never noticed.’ Nain chuckled to herself.

‘Why d’you let the hens in, Nain?’ Gwyn asked. ‘They’re such mucky things. Mam would have a fit.’

‘Huh! Your mam would have a fit if she looked under my bed, I expect,’ Nain giggled, ‘but there’s no need to go upsetting people for nothing. Bring the eggs out here.’

Gwyn held out the bottom of his jumper and gathered the eggs into it. He looked for his grandmother behind the screen but she had vanished, and so had the kitchen. There was only a narrow space between rows of plants and metres of crimson velvet. He found the kettle on the windowsill and put the eggs in a green hat beside it. Nain did not seem to be short of hats, so he felt the eggs would be safe enough for the moment. However, she had been known to wear two at a time and so he called out, ‘Don’t put your green hat on yet, Nain!’

His grandmother’s head popped out from a gap in the velvet. ‘Isn’t it grand?’ she purred. ‘I’m going to dance in it.’

‘The hat?’ Gwyn inquired.

‘This, silly boy.’ His grandmother stroked the crimson material.

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘Who knows?’

‘Nain, would you find yourself a cup of tea and then sit down and – concentrate. I’ve got something to show you!’ Gwyn fingered his matchbox again.

‘Was it the wind?’ Nain asked. ‘It was windy yesterday. I thought of you. Quick, a cup of tea.’ She withdrew her head and reappeared a moment later, carrying two blue enamel mugs. ‘One for you?’

‘No thanks, Nain!’ His grandmother did not use conventional tea-leaves. Her tea was made from nettles or dried roots. Sometimes it was palatable, most often it was not. Today Gwyn preferred not to risk it.

He waited until his grandmother had settled herself in the armchair and sipped her tea before he knelt beside her and took out the matchbox. He wanted her undivided attention for his revelation. Even so he was unprepared for the ecstatic gasp that accompanied Nain’s first glimpse of the spider, when he gently withdrew the lid. The tiny creature crawled on to his hand, glowing in the dark room, and Nain’s eyes sparkled like a child’s. ‘How did it come?’ Her whisper was harsh with excitement.

‘In the snow,’ Gwyn replied. ‘I thought it was a snowflake. It was the brooch, I think. I gave it to the wind, like you said, and this . . . came back!’

‘So,’ Nain murmured triumphantly, ‘you are a magician then, Gwydion Gwyn, as I thought. See what you have made!’

‘But did I make it, Nain? I believe it has come from somewhere else. Some far, far place . . . I don’t know, beyond the world, I think.’

‘Then you called it, you brought it here, Gwydion Gwyn. Did you call?’

‘I did but . . .’ Gwyn hesitated, ‘I called into the snow, the names you said: Math, Lord of Gwynedd, Gwydion and Gilfaethwy. Those were the only words.’

‘They were the right words, boy. You called to your ancestors. The magicians heard your voice and took the brooch to where it had to go, and now you have the spider!’ Nain took the spider from Gwyn and placed it on her arm. Then she got up and began to dance through the shadowy wilderness of her room. The tiny glowing creature moved slowly up her purple sleeve, until it came to her shoulder, and there it rested, shining like a star beneath her wild black curls.

Gwyn watched and felt that it was Nain who was the magician and he the enchanted one.

Suddenly his grandmother swooped back and, taking the spider from her hair, put it gently into his hands. ‘Arianwen,’ she said. ‘White silver! Call her Arianwen; she must have a name!’

‘And what now?’ asked Gwyn. ‘What becomes of Arianwen? Should I tell about her? Take her to a museum?’

‘Never! Never! Never!’ said Nain fiercely. ‘They wouldn’t understand. She has come from another world to bring you closer to the thing you want.’

‘I want to see my sister,’ said Gwyn. ‘I want things the way they were before she went.’

Nain looked at Gwyn through half-closed eyes. ‘It’s just the beginning, Gwydion Gwyn, you’ll see. You’ll be alone, mind. You cannot tell. A magician can have his heart’s desire if he truly wishes it, but he will always be alone.’ She propelled her grandson gently but firmly towards the door. ‘Go home now or they’ll come looking, and never tell a soul!’