by Jenny Nimmo
A few moments later Mrs. Griffiths shuffled down the stairs in torn slippers, still tying her apron strings. "Why didn't someone call me," she complained, irritated to find herself the last one down.
"It's not late, Mam," Gwyn reassured her, "and I've had my breakfast."
His mother began to bang and clatter about the kitchen. Gwyn retreated from the noise and went into the garden.
The sun was full up now. He could feel the warmth of it on his face. The last leaves had fallen during the wild wind of the night before, decorating the garden with splashes of red and gold. A mist hung in the valley, even obscuring his grandmother's cottage. Gwyn was glad that he lived in high country, where the air and the sky always seemed brighter.
At eight o'clock he began to walk down towards the main road. The school bus stopped at the end of the lane at twenty minutes past eight and did not wait for stragglers. It took Gwyn all of twenty minutes to reach the bus stop. For half a mile the route he took was little more than a steep path, rutted by the giant wheels of his father's tractor and the hooves of sheep and cattle. He had to leap over puddles, mounds of mud, and fallen leaves. Only when he had passed his grandmother's cottage did the path level off a little. The bends were less sharp, and something resembling a lane began to emerge. By the time it had reached the Lloyds' farmhouse, the lane had become a respectable size, paved and wide enough for two passing cars.
The Lloyds erupted through their gate, all seven of them, arguing, chattering, and swinging their bags. Mrs. Lloyd stood behind the gate while little Iolo clasped her skirt through the bars, weeping bitterly.
"Stop it, Iolo. Be a good boy. Nerys, take his hand," Mrs. Lloyd implored her oldest child.
"Mam! Mam! Mam!" wailed Iolo, kicking his sister away.
"Mam can't come, don't be silly, Iolo! Alun, help Nerys. Hold his other hand."
Alun obeyed. Avoiding the vicious thrusts of his youngest brother's boot, he seized Iolo's hand and swung him off his feet. Then he began to run down the lane, the little boy still clinging to his neck and shrieking like a demon. The other Lloyds, thinking this great sport for the morning, followed close behind, whooping and yelling.
Gwyn envied them the noise, the arguments, even the crying. He came upon a similar scene every morning, and it never failed to make him feel separate and alone. Sometimes he would hang behind just watching, reluctant to intrude.
Today, however, Gwyn had something to announce. Today he did not feel alone. Different, yes, but not awkward and excluded.
"Alun! Alun!" he shouted. "I've got news for you."
Alun swung around, lowering Iolo to the ground. The other Lloyds looked up as Gwyn came flying down the lane.
"Go on," said Alun. "What news?"
"I'm a magician," cried Gwyn. "A magician." And he ran past them, his arms outstretched triumphantly, his satchel banging on his back.
"A magician," scoffed Alun. "You're mad, Gwyn Griffiths, that's what you are." Forgetting his duty, he left Iolo on the lane and gave furious chase.
"Mad! Mad!" echoed Sion and Gareth, following Alun's example.
"Mad! Mad!" cried Iolo excitedly, as he raced down the lane, away from his mother and his tears.
Soon there were four boys tearing neck and neck down the lane, and one not far behind. All were shouting, "Mad! Mad! Mad!" except for Gwyn, and he was laughing too much to say anything.
But the three girls, Nerys, Nia, and Kate, always impressed by their dark neighbor, stood quite still and murmured, "A magician?"
Chapter 4
THE SILVER SHIP
Nain had warned him that he would be alone, but Gwyn had not realized what that would mean. After all, he had felt himself to be alone ever since Bethan disappeared. But there had always been Alun to share a book or a game, to lend a sympathetic ear to confidences, to wander with on the mountain or in the woods.
And for Alun the need had also been great. Gwyn was the one with an empty house and a quiet space to think and play in. Gwyn was the clever one, the one to help with homework. It was Gwyn who had taught Alun to read. On winter evenings the two boys were seldom apart.
Gwyn had never imagined a time without Alun's friendship, and perhaps, if he had kept silent, that time would never have come. But it never occurred to Gwyn that Alun would find it impossible to believe him. He felt that he only had to find the right words to convince his friend. So on the homeward journey that same afternoon, he again brought up the subject of magicians.
Iolo always raced ahead when they got off the school bus, but the older children were not so eager to run uphill. They lingered on the lane, Sion and Gareth arguing, the girls collecting wildflowers or colored leaves. Alun and Gwyn always brought up the rear.
"Have you heard of Math, Lord of Gwynedd?" Gwyn began innocently.
"Of course. He's in the old Welsh stories. Dad talks about them," Alun replied.
"And Gwydion?"
"Yes, and how he made a ship from seaweed." Alun's interest had been aroused.
"I'd forgotten. Dad never talks. But Nain reminded me. She's got more books than I've seen anywhere, except in the library."
"Your Nain's a bit batty isn't she?" Alun had always been a little suspicious of Gwyn's grandmother.
"No! She's not batty! She knows a lot," Gwyn replied. "She knew about me, about my being a magician!"
"Now I know she's batty! And you are too," Alun said good-naturedly.
Gwyn stopped quite still. His words came slow and quiet, not at all in the way he had intended. "I'm not mad. Things happened last night. I think I made them happen. ... I wasn't dreaming. I saw my sister, or someone like my sister. Nain said Math and Gwydion were my ancestors . . . and that I have inherited . . ." He could not finish because Alun had begun to laugh.
"They're in stories. They're not real people. You can't be descended from a story!"
"You don't know. I can make the wind come. I saw another planet last night, very close. It was white and the buildings were white, and there was a tower with a silver bell." Gwyn was desperate to explain. "There were children. And this is the most fantastic part—I could hear them in a pipe that came from—"
"You're crazy! You're lying!" Alun cried bitterly. "Why are you lying? No one can see planets that close. They're millions and millions and millions of miles away!" He fled from Gwyn yelling, "Liar! Liar! Liar!"
"How d'you know, Alun Lloyd?" Gwyn called relentlessly. "You don't know anything, you don't. You're ignorant! I know what I know. And I know what I've seen!"
He had gone too far. Gwyn realized that even before Alun sprang through his gate and followed his brothers up the path to the house, slamming the door behind him to emphasize his distaste for Gwyn's conversation.
Gwyn was alone on the lane with Nerys, Nia, and Kate. The three girls had lost interest in their flowers and were staring at Gwyn in dismay. He could not bring himself to speak, so he passed by in an awkward silence.
Half a mile further on he reached his grandmother's cottage. Knowing she was the only person in the world who would believe him, he unceremoniously burst in upon her. He was astonished at what he saw.
Nain had sewn up the red velvet dress. She was wearing it, standing in the center of her room like some exotic bird, surrounded by her flowering plants and gaudy paraphernalia. She had something shining on her forehead, huge rings on her fingers, and round her waist, a wide bronze chain.
"Nain!" said Gwyn, amazed. "Where are you going?"
"I'm staying here," his grandmother replied. "This is my castle. I have to defend it."
She was talking in riddles again. Gwyn decided to come straight to the point. "Nain, I got something else from the wind last night. A silver pipe. And there were voices in it, from far away."
"Ah," said Nain. "Even when men whispered, Math could hear them. He could hear voices beyond any mortal ear! The pipe is from him!"
"And something happened," Gwyn went on, "in Arianwen's web!"
His grandmother began to move about he
r room, but Gwyn knew she was listening to his story. When he mentioned the girl in the web, she stopped in front of a huge gilt-framed mirror at the back of the room and said softly, "Gwydion Gwyn, you will soon have your heart's desire!"
"My heart's desire?" repeated Gwyn. "I believe I am a magician, but I'm not strong yet. I don't know if these things are happening to me because I have the power, or if they would have happened to anyone."
"You've forgotten the legends, haven't you, poor boy?" said Nain. "I used to read them to you long ago, but your father stopped all that when Bethan went. He stopped all the fun, all the joy. But he couldn't stop you, could he? Because you are who you are. Now I'll read you something."
In spite of the multitude of books scattered about the room, his grandmother always knew exactly where to find the one she needed. From beneath a blue china dog that supported a lopsided lampshade, she withdrew a huge black book, its leather cover scarred with age.
"The legends," she purred, stroking the battered spine. It looked so awesome and so old Gwyn half expected a cloud of bats to fly out when his grandmother opened it.
She furled the train of her velvet dress around her legs, settled herself on a pile of cushions, and beckoned to him.
Gwyn peered at the book over his grandmother's shoulder. "It's in old Welsh," he complained. "I can't understand it."
"Huh!" she sighed. "I forgot. Listen, I'll translate. 'At dawn rose Gwydion, the magician, before the cock crowed, and he summoned to him his power and his magic, and he went to the sea and found dulse and seaweed, and he held it close and spoke to it, then cast it out over the sea, and there appeared the most marvellous ship. . . .' " She turned the next few pages hurriedly, anxious to find the words that would convey to Gwyn what she wanted. "Ah, here," she exclaimed. "Now you will understand. 'Then Gwydion's son subdued the land and ruled over it prosperously, and thereafter he became Lord over Gwynedd!' " She closed the book triumphantly.
"Well?" said Gwyn. "I don't think I understand, yet."
"He was our ancestor, that Lord of Gwynedd," said Nain, "and so, it follows, was Gwydion."
"But they're in a story, Nain." In spite of himself Gwyn found himself repeating Alun's words. "They're not real people."
"Not real?" Nain rose tall and proud out of her chair. "They're our ancestors," she said, glaring at Gwyn and slamming the book down on top of others piled on the table beside her.
Gwyn winced as a cloud of dust flew into his face. A tiny jug tottered precariously beside the books, fortunately coming to rest before it reached the edge of the table.
"But how do you know, Nain?" he persisted quietly.
"How do I know? How do I know? Listen!" Nain settled back onto the cushions and drew Gwyn down beside her. "My great-great-grandmother told me. She was a hundred years old and I was ten, and I believed her. And now I'll tell you something I've never told anyone, not even your father. She was a witch, my great-great-grandmother. She gave me the seaweed and the brooch and the whistle. 'Keep it for you-know-who,' she said, and I did know who."
"And the broken horse?"
Nain frowned. "I am afraid of that horse," she said thoughtfully. "I tried to burn it once, but I couldn't. It was still there when the fire died, black and grinning at me. I believe it is a dreadful thing, and she thought so too, my great-great-grandmother. She tied a label on it, 'Dim hon! Not this!' for it must never be used, ever. It must be kept safe, locked away. Tight, tight, tight. It is old and evil."
"I'll keep it safe, Nain. But what about the scarf? She didn't give you the scarf, your great-great-grandmother?"
"No, not the scarf. That was my idea. I found it on the mountain, the morning after Bethan went. But I didn't tell a soul. What would have been the use? I kept it for you."
"Why for me?"
"Can't you guess? I knew you would need it."
"And are you a witch too, Nain?" Gwyn ventured.
"No," Nain shook her head regretfully. "I haven't the power. I've tried, but it hasn't come to me."
"And how do you know it has come to me?"
"Ah, I knew when you were born. It was All Hallows Day, don't forget, the beginning of the Celtic New Year. Such a bright dawn it was, all the birds in the world were singing. Like bells wasn't it? Bells ringing in the air. Your father came flying down the lane. 'The baby's on the way, Mam,' he cried. He was so anxious, so excited. By the time we got back to the house you were nearly in this world. And when you came, and I saw your eyes so bright, I knew. And little Bethan knew too, although she was only five. She was such a strange one, so knowing yet so wild. Sometimes I thought she was hardly of this world. But how she loved you! And your dad, so proud he was. What a morning!"
"He doesn't even like me now," Gwyn murmured.
"No, and that's what we have to change, isn't it?" Nain said gently.
Gwyn buried his face in his hands. "Oh, I don't know! I don't know!" he cried. "How can a spider and a pipe help me? And what has another world to do with Bethan? I've just had a fight with my best friend. He wouldn't believe me."
"I warned you never to betray your secret," Nain admonished him. "Never abuse your power. You must be alone if you are to achieve your heart's desire."
"What's the use of magic if no one knows about it?" Gwyn exclaimed irritably. "And how do I get my heart's desire?"
"You know very well," Nain replied unhelpfully. "Think about the scarf. Think about using it. And now you'd better leave me and eat the supper that is growing cold on your mother's table."
The room had become dark without their noticing it. The fire had almost died, and the few remaining embers glowed like tiny jewels in the grate. Gwyn was unwilling to leave. He wanted to talk on into the night. But Nain was not of the same mind, it seemed. She lit a lamp and began to pace about her room, moving books and ornaments in a disturbed and thoughtless manner, as though she was trying either to forget or to remember something.
Gwyn pulled himself up from the pile of cushions and moved to the door. "Good night then, Nain!" he said.
The tall figure, all red and gold in the lamplight, did not even turn towards him. But when he reluctantly slipped out into the night, words came singing after him: "Cysgwch yn dawel, Gwydion Gwyn! Sleep quietly!"
When he got home, the table was bare.
"Did your grandmother give you a meal?" his mother inquired, guessing where he had been.
"No," said Gwyn. "I forgot to ask."
Mrs. Griffiths smiled. "What a one you are!" She gave him a plate of stew that had been kept warm on the stove.
Gwyn could not finish the meal. He went upstairs early, muttering about homework.
He did not sleep soundly. It was a strange, wild night. The restless apple tree beneath his window disturbed him. He dreamed of Nain, tall for a ten-year-old, in a red dress, her black curls tied with a scarlet ribbon. She was listening to her great-great-grandmother, an old woman, a witch, with long gray hair and wrinkled hands clasped in her dark lap, where a piece of seaweed lay, all soft and shining, as though it was still moving in water, not stranded on the knees of an old woman.
Gwyn gasped. He sat up, stiff and terrified. He felt for the bedside light and turned it on.
Arianwen was sitting on the silver pipe. Gwyn lifted the pipe until it was close to his face. He stared at the spider and the pipe, willing them to work for him. But they did not respond. He laid them carefully on the bedside table and got out of bed.
His black watch told him that it was four o'clock— not yet dawn. He dressed and opened his top drawer. It was time for the seaweed. But instead, he took out Bethan's yellow scarf and, without knowing why, wrapped it slowly round his neck, pressing it to his face and inhaling the musty sweet smell of roses. He closed his eyes and for a moment almost thought that he was close to an answer. But he had forgotten the question. It was something his grandmother had said—something about using the scarf. Try as he might to order his mind, he felt the answer and the question slipping away from him, until he was left
with only the tangible effects: the scarf and the dry dusty stick of seaweed.
Gwyn tucked the seaweed into the pocket of his coat and went downstairs, letting himself out of the back door into the yard.
There was a pale light in the sky, but the birds were still at rest. The only sounds came from sheep moving on the hard mountain earth and frosty hedgerows shivering in the cold air.
He did not ascend the mountain this time, but wandered northwards, through the lower slopes, seeking the breeze that came from the sea. Here the land was steep and barren. There were few sheep, no trees, and no farms. Gigantic rocks thrust their way through the earth, and torrents of ice-cold water tumbled over the stones. Gwyn longed for the comfort of a wall to cling to. The wide, dark space of empty land and sky threatened to sweep him away and swallow him. One step missed, he thought, and he would slip into nowhere.
And then he smelled the sea. Moonlight became dawn, and colors appeared on the mountain. He was approaching the gentler western slopes. He started to climb upwards field by field, keeping close to the stone walls, so that the breeze that had now veered into a wailing northeast wind would not confuse his steps.
Gwyn had passed the fields and was standing in the center of a steep stretch of bracken when it happened. The thing in his pocket began to move and slide through his fingers, causing him to withdraw his hand and regard the soft purple fronds of what had, a few moments before, been a dried-up piece of seaweed. The transformation was unbelievable. Gwyn held the plant out before him and the slippery petallike shapes flapped in the wind like a hovering bird. And then it was gone. The wind blew it out of his hand and out to sea. All the birds above and below him awoke and called out. The gray sky was pierced with light, and in that moment Gwyn knew what he had to do.
He took off the yellow scarf and flung it out to the sky, calling his sister's name again and again over the wind, over the brightening land and the upturned faces of startled sheep.
Then, from the west, where it was still dark and where the water was still black under the heavy clouds, there came a light. Tiny at first, but growing as it fell towards the sea. It was a cool light, soft and silver. As it came closer, Gwyn could make out the shape of a billowing sail, and the bow of a great ship. But the ship was not upon the sea. It was in the air above the sea, rising all the time, until it was opposite him and approaching the mountain.
