by Heide Goody
"Your loss. Horrible creatures really. Untrustworthy."
"Untrustworthy? Dogs?"
"Shifty. What about next door’s collie?"
Jayne nodded in vague agreement. Nerys looked at her.
"Mom thinks it reads our mail," said Jayne.
Nerys’s mouth froze around the opening ‘w’ of ‘What the fucking hell are you talking about, you mad cow?’
"Very intelligent eyes," said her mother with a shrewd and knowing look. "It might have been a member of the KGB in a past life."
Jayne looked at Ben.
"Do you think we knew each other in a past life?" said Jayne to Ben, so openly that Nerys wanted to vomit.
"I always imagined that I had been a great military general in some former existence," said Ben with a casual shrug.
"Maybe I was Cleopatra to your Antony," said Jayne and popped a prawn pastry into Ben’s mouth.
Nerys hid her grimace and snuggled up to Michael.
"I’m sure we were star-crossed lovers in a previous life, eh, darling?"
Michael’s weak smile was not reassuring.
"We have only one life on earth, darling. Belief in reincarnation is heretical."
Nerys tried to make up for his lack of romance by feeding him a morsel from her plate. He looked at the offering critically.
"It’s a blini," she said.
"Yes," he replied, "but you’ve touched it."
"So, Jeremy," said Lydia mordantly, "is there someone special in your life?"
"Of course," he grinned, flecks of chicken Satay between his teeth. "Me."
This actually raised a smile from Lydia but she quickly suppressed it and continued fiddling under the table.
"I meant a woman," she said. "Or a man. Or a goat."
"Who told you about the goat? There have been some ladies. I knew Lilith, back in the day, but she wasn’t the monogamous type. I was busy with work for a long time after that. But since landing here, I’ve just been unlucky in love. There was the mail order one…"
"Like a Thai bride, you mean?"
"No, she came from a sex toy factory in Stockholm. That sort of fell through when Ben stole her, threw her out of the window and caused a police incident."
Jayne leaned back and through the secret language of frantically darting eyes, bombarded Ben with a number of very specific questions.
"I can explain," said Ben and then didn’t.
"And then there was Blenda. Really lovely lady. But she split up with me when I fed her blood sausage made from dead pensioner."
"That was a memorable night," said Michael.
"That was when you and I really hit it off, wasn’t it?" said Nerys.
"Er, yes," agreed Michael.
Nerys gave his hand a loving squeeze.
"So, mom," she said, "what are the sleeping arrangements?"
"Well, I’ve turned your old bedroom into a solarium but you can have the guest room at the back of the house."
"And the boys?"
"Oh, I’ve asked your father to put them up in the annexe."
Nerys and Jayne simultaneously indicated their boyfriends (one real, one fake).
"I thought-" said Nerys just as Jayne said, "Ben and I –"
"What would the neighbours think if we had unmarried men staying in the house?" said their mother with a humourless smile.
"What’s the annexe?" asked Ben.
"The shed," said Jayne gloomily.
Nerys harrumphed to herself and wishing to vent her frustration turned on Lydia.
"What are you doing under the table? I’m sure there’s nothing in your crotch worth that much attention."
Lydia recoiled, stung, and then brought out her hands in which she held a bent wire coat-hanger.
"Divining for men still?" said Nerys and then realised. "What? Jeremy?"
Laughter burst from her. Yes, Lydia would. A man immune to her scathing remarks, one who her mother clearly didn’t like.
"Shut up!" snapped Lydia. "I was just doing it… speculatively. My G-Sez told me I would make a startling connection today."
"Oh, you use G-Sez, do you?" said Michael.
Nerys stroked his arm.
"Michael wrote that app."
"You wrote one of those phone doo-hickey things?" asked her mom.
"He’s a clever guy," said Nerys. "And rich."
"An entrepreneur," said her mom approvingly. "You know, I’m sure we can put an extra couple of pillows on the bed in the guest room for you two. As long as you don’t mind snuggling up."
Michael swallowed.
"No, the shed sounds delightful," he said. "Thank you."
"Very well," she said. "Now let’s get these things cleared so we can have dessert. And maybe another bottle of wine, perhaps?"
"I’ll get the wine," said Clovenhoof.
He stood up and, with the cloth tucked into his collar, dragged the tablecloth and the table’s contents onto the floor.
Nerys glared at him.
"Table’s cleared," he said.
Ben followed Nerys down the darkened garden. The land, sea and sky were only distinguishable as slightly differing shades of dark grey. Ben could just make out the black mound of Bardsey Island, skulking like a moody whale. Nearer to, frosty starlight illuminated the outline of the garden shed and greenhouse.
"So your dad really lives in a shed," said Ben.
"Yes," said Nerys. "Be nice to him."
"I’m always nice."
"I was talking to Jeremy."
Clovenhoof made an admiring noise.
"I like sheds. We should get one."
"We got one," said Nerys. "You burned it down."
"I meant another one."
Nerys opened the sliding door of the greenhouse that directly adjoined the shed and led the way through, Twinkle scurrying at her ankles. Ben followed, taking in the rich aroma of potting compost, liquid fertiliser and – yes, he noted, seeing the clothes line – the aroma of drying underwear. It was, he had to concede, the only greenhouse he’d ever been in that contained a twin-tub washing machine, an ironing board and what looked like a mad scientist’s chemistry set but was probably some complicated home brewing set up.
Nerys knocked on the shed door and lifted the latch.
The short fellow with rolled up shirt sleeves got up from his swivel chair and looked at the clock on the wall.
"Is it Tuesday already?" he asked.
"It’s Saturday, dad."
He grinned toothily and hugged Nerys fiercely.
"Hello, petal."
Nerys kissed his balding pate with a sincerity of emotion that Ben had never seen her express before.
"Hello, dad."
"Not back for good are you?"
"No."
"Good. Or we’d have to resurrect the escape committee." He looked round her at Ben, Michael and Clovenhoof. "Brought fresh inmates with you?"
"Guests," said Nerys.
"Just in time for a Pot Noodle then. I’m Ewan."
"They don’t want a Pot Noodle," said Nerys.
"Says who?" said Clovenhoof.
"Ooh, it’s been ages since I’ve had one," said Ben, putting down his luggage.
"I don’t think I’ve ever had one," said Michael.
"You should," said Ewan. "Sit down."
He gestured to the four seats arranged in one corner of the shed. That the shed was big enough to contain four comfy seats, as well as a shower, desk, fridge, coffee table, bookcase and chest of drawers, was not as surprising as the fact that all four leather-effect seats were car seats.
"British Leyland?" suggested Ben.
"1974 Allegro," nodded Ewan enthusiastically. "Reckoned that my arse spent more time in this place than the car so I swapped these for the wooden kitchen chairs."
Ewan filled the kettle from the shower (which Ben now saw was a jury-rigged garden hose) and plugged it in.
"I’m not stopping," said Nerys.
"Make for the Swiss border," agreed her dad.
"I’ve got to give Twinkle a walk before putting him to bed."
"Excellent cover story," he said and kissed her once more before she left.
He softly closed the door behind her, took down four Pot Noodles from the shelf by the window and ripped off their lids.
"Now," he said, "are any of you gentlemen practising Muslims or recovering alcoholics?"
Ben joined the others in shaking their heads.
"Good," said Ewan, taking a brace of recorked wine bottles from under the desk. "Well, by morning you’ll be the latter and wishing you were the former."
Michael sat with a beef and tomato Pot Noodle clenched between his knees, a fork in one hand and a mug of Ewan Thomas’s cowslip whiskey in the other. The combined culinary experience of the two went beyond the merely unique and ventured into the unrepeatable. Michael had never before felt the need to describe a food substance as ‘rude’ but the rehydrated noodles in gravy quite clearly fell into that category. The cowslip whiskey by comparison was not rude but downright offensive, and yet was certainly warming to the tongue, toes, and everything in between.
Ben was wolfing down the Pot Noodle with relish but taking the whiskey slowly. Clovenhoof had already devoured both, knocking back the Pot Noodle to drain the dregs and immediately following it with the yellow spirit. Helping himself to a second cupful, which Ewan positively encouraged him to fill to the brim, Clovenhoof gestured at the large map pinned to the wall above the desk.
"Is that Wales?" he asked.
"The Llyn Peninsula," nodded Ewan. "We’re right there." He got up and stabbed the westernmost tip.
"And the marks all over it?"
"Well the red dots are work places. I work for the Food Standards Agency. Sometimes we have to use a bit of detective work, and a map comes in handy. Take my colleagues in the Midlands, over your way, like. They had a spate of poisonings a little while back. They mapped out all the occurrences, and traced it back to the butchery counter in a supermarket in Boldmere. They found incinerated fragments of human remains all over the place. Would you believe it? Anyway, these lines here on the map are a more personal interest. Ley lines. Or dragon lines as we call them in Wales."
"I see…" said Ben slowly.
"A sceptic, eh?" said Ewan.
"I have yet to be converted," said Ben diplomatically.
"I’ve never heard of them," said Michael.
Ewan blinked at him.
"First Pot noodles, then ley lines. It’s an evening of education for you, isn’t it?" Ewan spread his arms across the map like a theatre impresario before his stage. "What if I were to tell you that this island of ours is criss-crossed by a series of lines, hundreds of miles long, each of them straight as an arrow, all of them more ancient than any of us truly realise?"
Michael was none the wiser.
"Like roads?"
"No," said Ewan.
"No, you fool," said Clovenhoof. "He means like those yellow lines the traffic wardens paint on the side of the road."
"No, these are invisible lines," said Ewan. "Their presence is marked out by Neolithic landmarks. Stone circles, barrows, dykes and such."
"Some bloke from the 1920s thought they marked out ancient pathways," said Ben.
"But," said Ewan excitedly, "John Michell went beyond Watkins original ideas and theorised – correctly, I might add – that these lines are not mere pathways but resonating sources of spiritual energy."
Ben made a doubtful noise, not impolite as such but suggesting that Ewan’s theories were as believable as the tooth fairy, the Easter bunny and the snot troll that Clovenhoof left weekly offerings for.
"Man mocks what he doesn’t understand," said Ewan. "But how else do you explain the Michael line."
"Michael line?" said Michael.
"Didn’t know you were famous, eh? It’s actually named after St Michael. You know the one? One of the archangels, defeater of Satan in the War in Heaven?"
"Colossal prick," added Clovenhoof.
"There’s a series of monuments and holy buildings dedicated to him across Europe. Going from Monte Sant’Angelo in southern Italy, through La Sacra di San Michele in northern Italy, onto Mont San Michel in Normandy and even onward to Skellig Michael off the coast of Ireland. A perfectly straight line!"
"Impressive," Michael nodded, flattered.
"How is this possible," said Ewan, "without some connecting force compelling medieval man to build along this line? I’ve traced many of these lines myself."
"Is that where Lydia’s picked up the dowsing habit?" said Ben.
Ewan shrugged.
"I used to dowse. I’ve used metal detectors, theodolites and seismographs. But my greatest tool in uncovering the secrets of the earth…"
He crossed the shed door, leaned out and gave a piercing whistle. Almost immediately, there came a scampering sound on the paved greenhouse floor and a black and white border collie leapt into the room. She quickly sniffed her way round Ben, Michael and Clovenhoof, licked at Ben’s discarded Pot Noodle, sneezed over Clovenhoof’s hooves and then sat down and looked up at Ewan expectantly.
"This is Jessie," said Ewan. "I would say she’s next door’s dog but, in truth, she’s no one’s dog but her own."
"Ah, this is the secret letter-opener," said Ben.
"Agnes has been feeding you that guff, eh? Well, Jessie is probably smarter than any two men I know but I don’t think she’s yet gone in for postal espionage. Watch this. Jessie, where’s the kettle?"
The dog bounded over to the desk and placed her nose against the kettle.
"Where are my wellies?" said Ewan.
Jessie rooted the boots out from behind a pile of washing.
"Clever," said Clovenhoof. "Hey, Jessie, where’s the biggest arsehole in the room?"
Jessie sat at Clovenhoof’s feet, her tongue wagging out of the side of her mouth.
"I like this dog," said Michael.
"She can sniff out a ley line and pinpoint buried treasure, I swear," said Ewan.
"Buried treasure?" said Ben.
"Well, I’ve got a fair collection of Roman coins, arrowheads, belt buckles and stuff."
"I’d be interested in seeing those," said Ben.
"No problem," said Ewan and began poking around in the pots and jars on one shelf. "It’s true I’ve yet to dig up any Celtic gold but Jessie helped me locate the spot where Joseph of Arimathea is buried."
"I beg your pardon," said Michael.
"Joseph of Arimathea. His tomb is here in Aberdaron."
Michael shook his head.
"Joseph of Arimathea? Uncle to Our Lord, Jesus Christ? I don’t think he ever came to Wales," he said, mentally adding that he was sure the blessed one would have mentioned it on those occasions when they had met each other in the Celestial City.
"Then you don’t know your Grail lore," said Ewan firmly. "’And did those feet in ancient times,’ yeah? Joseph came to Britain with the infant Christ and, in later years, brought the Holy Grail and the staff of the Glastonbury Thorn here. And I mean right here. This is the land where Arthur lived and died."
"He was an English king, wasn’t he?" said Clovenhoof.
"I read he was a Roman soldier left here after the occupation ended," said Ben.
"Poppycock and arse-gravy," said Ewan. "Your evening of education needs to go post-grad. Listen up, boys."
Ewan spoke as he poured a fresh round of drinks.
"You see that red dragon on your chest, Jeremy? The symbol of Wales. That’s no mere symbol. There was a red dragon in these parts, a great fearsome beast. And when a white dragon came across the border into its territory, such were the roars and screeches from their battle that the sound drove men mad and caused women to miscarry. The people called on King Llud to deal with the matter. You’ve heard of King Llud now?"
"Sorry," said Ben.
"Well, you should have. Your country’s capital, Llud Lhwn, is named after him. Llud, king of the Britons came here to sort the two dragons out. Now, he cou
ldn’t fight them. He was only a man after all. But he was clever. He dug a massive pit, filled it with mead and the dragons, drawn by the brew, fell in."
"I’d fall for that," Clovenhoof agreed with a merry nod.
"Llud filled the pit in and buried the two of them. And so peace was restored, that was until the later king, Vortigern, attempted to build a castle on the spot as a defence against the Saxons. The rumblings and thrashings of the dragons deep in the ground destroyed the castle’s foundations every time Vortigern tried to build them. Vortigern was too proud to build his castle elsewhere and consulted with the wise men who told him that he would be able to build his castle if he made a sacrifice of a boy with no natural parents. Vortigern found such a boy."
"A boy with no natural father?" said Michael.
"That’s a whole other story. This boy pleaded with the king to let him live and told him that if his life was spared he would solve his problem for him. Vortigern spared the boy who told him to release the dragons from beneath the earth. Vortigern must have trusted the lad for he did just that. The red and white dragons burst forth and set about their battle anew. But this time, the red dragon won and sent the white dragon crashing down on the hillside. The boy told Vortigern that the victory of the red dragon was a symbol of the victory of Vortigern’s people over the Saxons who would soon try to invade their lands. And it was so. The Saxon, the English, tried to invade Wales but never conquered it. The red dragon prevails."
"Wahey!" shouted Clovenhoof and drained his mug once more.
"Sorry, what has this got to do with Arthur and the Grail?" said Ben.
"The boy," said Ewan. "The boy was Merlin. The ruins of the castle Vortigern built at Dinas Emrys can be seen off to the west. Porth Cadlan, the site of the last battle in which Arthur died at the hands of his son, Mordred, is not three miles from here. You’re in Arthur country, boys."
"An interesting story," said Michael neutrally.
Ewan opened another bottle. The cowslip whiskey had gone and they moved onto something that Michael suspected was onion beer or similar. Ewan even poured a saucer of the stuff for Jessie but the dog, perhaps wisest of them all, left it alone.
"You and Nerys?" said Ewan, giving Michael a shrewd stare.
"Yes?" said Michael.
"That’s a load of bollocks, isn’t it? A smokescreen."
