“Right here.” Mom pulled a black leather folder out of the side pocket of her suitcase. I got up and grabbed my duffel bag, which I was positive had gotten heavier somehow.
“Let’s go, Gran.” Dad helped Gee Gee to her feet. I took one last look up at the high, arcing ceiling of sooty glass panels,
the daylight shining weakly through, and followed my family along the platform to the train car.
The train rolled through suburb after suburb, rows of houses in brick or stone punctuated by the occasional church steeple or factory. After a while, the swaying of the train made me drowsy, and I leaned my head against the window. My parents were talking quietly in the seats across from me, Mom shuffling through guidebooks, and my mind drifted until I began to doze off.
At some point, the sound of flipping pages changed to the sound of lapping ocean waves. I was walking along a sandy shore, seagulls crying overhead and a chilly breeze blowing. I heard an eerie wisp of song on the wind, teasing my ears with its familiarity. Then I was on a path, on a grassy cliff overlooking the shore—a cliff I’d recognize anywhere. Only this time I walked farther than I had before. I saw the crumbling, abandoned stone church, the one I’d dreamed of before, the one in Gareth’s photo. A few ancient headstones leaned at odd angles around it. The music was getting louder. It was “Ar Lan y Môr.” The same song Gee Gee always used to sing to me, the same song that I kept hearing in every dream, night after night.
Past the church was the cromlech, and everything else Gareth had described to me: the cairns, the plaque. I drifted closer to the cromlech and its giant ancient boulders, and then felt myself floating gently down into the dark interior.
All was dark and silent for a moment, and then a frail little girl appeared, her long hair glimmering in the faint light.
“My name is Olwen,” she said, her eyes sad.
Then I was rising up again, out of the cromlech, out into the air where the seagulls were crying and the waves were crashing against the rocks below.
I woke quickly and scrambled to get my duffel bag from the overhead rack. I had to tell Gareth. There was something important about that place—the cromlech, the hillside overlooking the sea. I knew something strange had happened to Gareth there, and I was dreaming about the area even though I’d never even been to Wales. And now, Gareth’s Olwen was talking to me.
A tiny spark of fear made me move even faster. I pulled out my laptop, located the train’s wi-fi network, and logged into my email. I started a new message to Gareth without even looking at my inbox, writing down every last detail of the dream before I forgot. You have to take us back to this place, I wrote. I have to know who she is.
We were both seeing it in our dreams. It had to mean something.
“Are you online already?” Mom gave me a look. I nodded but didn’t reply.
“You’re missing some gorgeous scenery,” she said. “Look at those lovely rolling hills—the tour book said we might pass one of the famous chalk figures carved into the hillside. Keep an eye out.” She turned to my dad. “Rhys, put that down on our sightseeing list—it’s in the left-hand pocket of the travel folder.”
They totally sounded like tourists and I cringed, trying to hide behind my laptop. When we got to Wales, I planned on sticking as closely to Gee Gee as possible. When I wasn’t with her, I was more than ready to do some exploring on my own.
And maybe—I hoped—with Gareth.
11
Mwyaf y brys, mwyaf y rhwystr.
The more the haste, the
greater the hindrance.
Welsh proverb
… Have you ever heard the song Ar Lan y Môr? My Gee Gee used to sing it to me. I keep hearing it in my dream.
Gareth’s skin crawled. “Ar Lan y Môr.” How was it possible that they were hearing the same song now? Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised him at this point, but still … “Highly illogical,” he mumbled in a Mr. Spock voice, then grimaced.
He set his phone aside and went back to his notes for his upcoming Literature exam. Amit was sitting next to him at the library table, frantically re-reading The Tempest with panic in his eyes. Books and notes were everywhere.
Dan Dobbs was across the table, squinting at a maths review packet. All over the school library, students hunched over textbooks and laptops, notebooks and old homework assignments, in preparation for the exams that started tomorrow. The atmosphere was hushed, with just the occasional rustle of paper or spate of whispering.
All Gareth could think about was getting to the other side of it all. Just a few more days and then he’d be there, with Wyn, and they’d figure it all out together. He wanted to help her; she sounded so desperate and sad. He wanted to help the other Olwen, too. And he wanted his life back. But right now, there was nothing he could do. Absolutely nothing.
He picked up his pen, sighed, and opened his own copy of The Tempest to the page he’d bookmarked.
How appropriate. “We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.” He read it silently to himself, and shivered.
A raucous spill of students overflowed from the brick buildings into the cement schoolyard and out onto the street, rapidly shedding school jackets and ties on the way, rolling up shirt sleeves and letting down ponytails and screaming about the summer holidays. Gareth caught sight of Amit already waiting at the gate and navigated toward him through the crowd. Yells and conversation surrounded him in an almost overwhelming wall of noise.
“Going to Brighton this weekend?”
“Come visit me at work—the Starbucks in Westminster!”
“—seeing Gemma’s band at the music festival next week—”
“Who are you taking to the dance tonight?”
This last question sounded right in his ear. Gareth glanced at the speaker: a sixth-form girl with the tips of her brown hair dyed pink, pushing past him without a glance and waiting for a reply from her friend. They were talking about the end-of-year dance, held at a nearby rented hall for everyone in year 10 and higher. He should have been more excited about it, but as he trudged out of the gate and onto the crowded sidewalk, all he felt was exhausted.
Amit fell into step beside him, grinning.
“What?” Gareth shot him a suspicious glance.
“I’ve got you all taken care of, man, don’t you worry.” He clapped Gareth on the back. “I knew you’d be too busy to get a proper date for tonight, so I made some arrangements, worked a few connections.”
Gareth swallowed apprehensively. “What do you mean?”
“I knew you’d put it off, so while you were studying, I was texting away and finding you a date, my friend. You’ve got to have a date. It’s compulsory.”
“It is not. Mr. Thorrington said it was perfectly fine to—”
“It’s an unspoken rule,” Amit explained slowly, as if Gareth were daft.
Gareth sighed. “So who is it?” They stopped at the back of the long line of students queuing at the bus stop.
There was a dramatic pause.
“Anita Kessler.”
Gareth almost choked. Anita was sporty and popular; definitely not part of his crowd. “How did you manage that?”
“Easy peasy,” Amit said with a smug smile. “Our dads work together; they’re both programmers. Actually, we used to play together as toddlers. I’d have asked her myself, but I felt sorry for you. Figured you could use a good time.”
“Eh? I’m fine,” Gareth said, frowning.
“Sure you are.” Amit slung an arm around his shoulder. “Moping about all day is perfectly normal.”
“I’m not moping. I’ve just been … occupied. There’s this girl,” Gareth admitted. “You don’t know her.”
Amit put him in a momentary headlock. “Then why didn’t you invite her to the bloody dance? I could be with Anita right now! Stroking her long blond hair. P
utting my hands on her—”
“She lives in the U.S., okay? She’s more like a pen friend. I met her online.” Gareth ducked out from under Amit’s arm as the bus finally pulled up.
Amit rolled his eyes. “Online. Riiiight.”
“Seriously.” They boarded the crowded bus and stood near the front, hanging onto ceiling straps. With a jerk, the bus swayed into motion.
“Sure,” Amit said. “Anyway, Anita. She’ll meet you right outside the hall.”
Gareth shook his head. “Anita Kessler. I never would have imagined.” It was hard even to imagine now. In fact, it was a bit frustrating that he was responsible for a date, after all. What if he had one of those weird standing-up dreams while he was at the dance? He couldn’t help worrying this was all going to end in disaster.
He put his free hand to his head, rubbing the back of his aching neck and trying to picture the flirtatious, famously large-chested Anita somehow agreeing to go to the dance with him instead of with Dobbs or some other beefy footballer. There must have been a bribe involved. It was impossible to believe otherwise.
And it was hard to bring himself to care, actually.
Strangely, in his mind, Wyn seemed a lot more solid, a lot more real.
Even as he got ready for the dance that evening, Gareth continued to feel remote and unfocused. He put on his blue dress shirt and pants and went downstairs, barely noticing as his mum fussed with his hair and lapels. His hair, as usual, refused to lie neatly, preferring instead to curl down over his ears and interfere with his glasses. His mum fluttered about behind him, trying to mush it down with one of her styling products that smelled like berries.
“Mum!” Gareth ducked out of the way of her descending hand, full of something foamy and pink. “It’s fine. I don’t want to smell all fruity.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with smelling nice,” his mum said, but she relented, smiling at him in the mirror. “You do look handsome.”
“Oh cripes, Mum!” Gareth retreated to his bedroom and checked his mirror one more time; all seemed to be in order. His clothes were non-wrinkled, his shoes were clean, and he looked … well, older than he usually did. He tried an experimental smile, then a more serious expression. They both looked a bit strange to him.
He thought he caught a glimpse of motion reflected in the corner of the room and whirled around.
Nothing. He shook his head. He’d have to get some more sleep now that exams were over.
Fortunately, Anita didn’t seem to notice he was tired. When they met in front of the hall to make their entrance into the disco, she tottered over to him on ridiculously high heels and let out a squeal, throwing her arms around his neck and surrounding him with a cloud of jasmine scent. Momentarily, Gareth wondered if the squealing was part of the deal and, if so, what Amit had promised her in return.
He wasn’t about to question his good fortune too closely, however. Especially since Anita was wearing a very low-cut mini-dress. And she did look quite nice. Her long, curly blonde hair was swept up on top of her head, and her wide, lipsticked smile flashed around at their classmates as they entered the hall. The huge main room had been cheerfully festooned with gold and silver balloons and haphazardly thrown streamers, and electronic dance music was pulsating from the speakers.
Amit waved at him from the crowded dance floor and gestured toward a table at the side of the room, already heaped with jackets. Gareth made his way over with Anita. As she dumped her shawl over the back of a chair and adjusted her dress, Gareth felt his phone buzzing in his pocket and pulled it out.
New Picture Message, Unknown Number, it said. A strange feeling began fizzing in his head.
“Let’s go dance!” Anita shouted over the music. “Amit and Caroline are already out there!” She pulled on his arm just as he opened the message, bouncing up and down a little. Her cleavage bobbed in time with her jumping.
“Hang on.” Gareth dragged his gaze away, back to his phone. On the screen was a photo he’d never seen before.
Darkness. Light filtering down from overhead. And, faintly, a small girl illuminated by the pale glow, her face bearing a sad smile.
Olwen.
His entire body went cold for a moment.
Quickly, Gareth closed the message, only to have a new one pop up on his screen almost right away. Text Message, Unknown Number. Now the ghost was texting him? What sort of ghost left text messages?
“Hurry up.” Anita grabbed the phone out of his hand. She was just putting it on the table when she took a second look at the screen. “Wait, who’s Wyn?”
Gareth looked over her shoulder. It’s me, Wyn. Now you have my number. Call or text any time!
Oh.
Oh.
Anita’s expression was rapidly morphing into an annoyed frown, the flashing strobe lights making her face even more severe.
“This is so tacky,” she said, almost flinging his phone onto the table. “You’re texting other girls during our date. Amit told me you were—ugh. I don’t know why I agreed to this.”
“But it’s not—”
She let out a loud groan and turned away from him. “I’m going to go dance. I really don’t care what you do.”
Wonderful. Gareth sat heavily in one of the vinyl-cushioned chairs. Hopefully nobody would remember any of this by the time school resumed.
Whatever. It hadn’t been his idea to go to the dance with Anita anyway. Yet another bright idea of Amit’s that had failed spectacularly. Gareth sighed and leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. The room was hot and crowded, the strobe lights were refracting off his glasses, and his dance moves were reminiscent of a spastic monkey. This was not his environment of choice.
For a moment, he was back on the clifftop in Wales, the breeze ruffling his hair, surrounded by green and the quiet crash of waves.
Not long now.
“Oi!” Someone jostled Gareth’s chair and he jerked upright. “What’s your problem?”
“Eh?” Gareth looked up to see Amit hovering above him, his eyebrows merging in an almost comical scowl.
“I got you a date with Anita, man. Why aren’t you out there dancing with her?” Amit wiggled his eyebrows. “Get some action.”
Gareth shrugged. “She got mad about a text I just got. From that girl in America. She’s in Wales for the summer. Dunno why it was such a big deal.”
“Because you’re a twat. You don’t text imaginary girlfriends while you’re out with a real one.” Amit smacked the side of Gareth’s head.
Gareth looked over at the dance floor. Anita was jiggling around and smiling at Francis Okafor, who looked like he had a perma-grin affixed to his face. Gareth couldn’t bring himself to care. In fact, he was feeling a bit lightheaded.
“You know, I think I’m going to just head home, if Anita’s already ditched me.” He stood up and straightened his clothes.
“Poor bloke. I’ll tell her she was too much woman for you. Maybe she’ll give you a second chance.”
“Whatever.” Gareth shrugged again.
“Sure you’re all right?” Amit looked more closely at him for a moment.
“Yeah, fine. Just tired.”
“Go sleep it off, then.” Amit gave Gareth’s shoulder a shake and sauntered back off to the dance floor with a wave.
The cool air outside at the bus stop made Gareth feel marginally better, and he wondered what he’d tell his parents about why he was home so early. It had just gotten dark an hour or so before, and the streets weren’t even full yet with the usual evening club-goers. He didn’t want to reveal the real story, that Anita had abandoned him because he’d been texting Wyn. Or Wyn had been texting him, rather.
He boarded the bus and stared out at the lighted windows rushing past as the bus made its way toward his neighborhood. His faint reflection in the glass had a sort of haunted look, and the pas
sengers around him seemed just as faint and spectral. Businessmen on their way home after working late, couples dressed for dinner. It was all so normal, yet everything had an unreal cast, like an old colorized photograph. His recollection of the little girl, on the other hand, was clear and vivid, as though he could slip back into the scene at any moment. Thanks, of course, to the new photo.
He wondered whether, if he looked at it again, she would even be there, or if it would just be a picture of darkness.
Gareth squeezed his eyes closed, then opened them again. The bus was pulling to a stop. He stomped hard down the metal staircase and into the cold night air, soaking in the realness of it all.
After managing to get past his mum without incident, Gareth hung his jacket and tie on the coat rack and went into the living room. His dad was lying on the sofa watching an action movie and nodded at Gareth absently.
Gareth sat down at the computer and jiggled the mouse. It was past time to look up some Cwm Tawel history and find out if there was anything useful there, something that might help Wyn figure out what her dreams meant. Something that might lead them closer to Olwen.
Not that he really wanted her any closer, but if she was a ghost, then she might have unfinished business. That was what all the pseudoscience telly programs said. And somehow, that unfinished business had something to do with him, and with Wyn.
Against a rather disconcerting aural backdrop of kicks, punches, and muffled groans from the television, Gareth loaded the Swansea Local History page and clicked on the Cwm Tawel link. He was brought to a simple, sparse site: a black-and-white photograph of some old-fashioned-looking folks standing in front of the town chapel, which he vaguely recognized from his last visit. Underneath the photo was a menu of about eight links, most of them useless to him. He didn’t need Places to Stay, Traeth Tawel Caravan Park, Cwm Tawel in 1900, or Getting to Cwm Tawel.
Then he saw exactly what he was looking for: World War II Memories. He clicked. A long, dense page of text flooded the screen, and he scanned it eagerly.
The Truth Against the World Page 10
