From Across the Ancient Waters- Wales

by Michael Phillips

  The rabbit she had discovered one day at her doorstep, limping and with signs of blood on its coat. Unlike the gull, it had been skittish and afraid of her touch. Wearing his leather gloves, her father managed to capture the little creature and place it in a pen. Gwyneth had been feeding it daily ever since. After two days she was able to hold the timid little thing in her arms and feed it grasses and flowers from the meadow.

  She opened the pen and gently removed the furry little rabbit who had by now been given a name. “You understand what it is to be afraid, don’t you, Bunny White Tail,” she said softly, walking about stroking behind its soft, furry ears. “I know you were afraid when you came here, weren’t you? You know now that there is nothing to be afraid of, because I am here to take care of you. I am not afraid, either, for God has sent someone to take care of me, just like He sent me to take care of you.”

  Most of the larger beasts left for hours and days at a time, some by day, others by night, to feed and forage as best they could in the wild. Gwyneth’s father could not afford to buy grain to feed all the small animals in her care. But he managed to keep a supply of corn or oats or meal on hand at least to prevent the starvation of the chickens and injured creatures. The former repaid them with a steady supply of eggs. As for the latter, he only hoped his generosity would somehow be credited to him in the eternal scales by which the world is sustained. He certainly could ill afford extra expenditures.

  Barrie was on good enough terms with many of the local farmers that a decent supply of usable hay and grain came his way. He and Gwyneth visited the harvest fields every autumn to glean what they could when the harvesters had completed their work. On most such days they pulled a large cartload of broken stalks home at the end of each afternoon’s effort. After threshing out what grain could be salvaged, they stored their own little harvest in the loft of the shed beside their cottage for use throughout the winter.

  On this day, Gwyneth’s thoughts were not on her animals. She was thinking instead of Percy. How could she repay him for his kindness? After she had come home from the village an idea struck her—she would bake him a fine sweet tea cake!

  She set about almost immediately mixing the ingredients—just as she had learned from Grannie—and placed the tiny loaf in the coal oven to bake. An hour later it was nearly ready. She opened the oven door to check her creation. By then its aromas filled the cottage. Gwyneth patiently waited another ten minutes. Again she opened the iron door. The top was a perfect golden brown.

  With careful hand slipped inside a great padded mitten, Gwyneth removed it and set it on top of the stove to cool. Now she just had to find a way to get it into Percy’s hands. She had sneaked onto the manor grounds without being seen to leave the forgiveness flowers for Master Courtenay and Miss Florilyn. But she could hardly leave a cake hanging from the doorpost!

  She went to the front door, opened it, and gazed out across the moor in the direction of the manor. Rain clouds clung to the mountains. She would have to watch for him. If she didn’t see him today on his way back from the village, perhaps he would visit Grannie’s tomorrow.

  Midway through the following morning, Gwyneth Barrie’s keen eye was rewarded. She darted inside. The next instant she was dashing across the moor as fast as her legs could carry her.

  Percy had emerged from the manor gate, on foot this time, when Gwyneth saw him. As he turned onto the Llanfryniog road, he heard a high voice calling his name. He looked around to see Gwyneth running toward him through the field of grazing cattle between himself and town, white hair streaming behind her appearing almost golden in the sunlight. He stopped and waited.

  “Good morning, Percy!” she said sweetly then paused to catch her breath. “I baked you a tea cake!”

  “Why, Gwyneth, thank you,” said Percy. “What’s the occasion? It’s not my birthday.”

  “It’s a friendship cake,” she replied. “To thank you for chasing those boys away and for what you said when Master Courtenay and Lady Florilyn were laughing at me at Grannie’s. Here, Percy.”

  “This is an unexpected pleasure!” he said as he took it from her hand. “I shall look forward to it—thank you!”

  Slowly they left the road and began walking across the plateau toward the sea. In a few moments, they came to the stream that flowed down from the mountains westward across the moor and tumbled over Mochras Head into the sea. It had not much water in it now and was of no great depth, though was five or six feet in width. Percy paused, set the cake on the grass, then placed his hands on the sides of Gwyneth’s little waist, plunged his feet into the water, and whisked her over to the other side.

  “O–o–o–h!” she squealed with delight, “that was fun! But you’ve gotten your boots and trousers all wet.”

  “They will dry soon enough,” laughed Percy. He recovered his gift and rejoined her.

  Gwyneth led farther up the slope, and Percy was happy to follow.

  “Come,” said Gwyneth. “I want to show you the view from the top of the cliff.”

  They continued two or three hundred yards along the inland edge of the promontory.

  “I have to stay back from the edge,” said Gwyneth as they walked. “Papa knows I am careful. But he says I must always be cautious near the sea.”

  At length Gwyneth stopped, then threw herself on the grass and pointed her face out over the cliff edge. “Come, Percy,” she said, “lay down beside me.”

  Percy laid his cake-gift on the grass beside him and did as she said.

  “Scoot forward,” she said. “Now, put your hands under your chin … like this. Look out—isn’t the sea beautiful like this, so high above it?”

  “Is this another of your special places?” asked Percy.

  “Yes.”

  “So now I know about three. How many do you have?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never counted. Probably six or eight.”

  They lay motionless for five or six minutes, drinking in the sea air. It was mingled with earthy aromas from the grass and moorland around them. Below, the waves splashed against the shoreline though the bluff-edge obscured the sight. In front of them, gulls played in the cliff-breezes.

  “Papa says he will take me back to Ireland one day,” said Gwyneth. “He wants to show me where my mother lived and where I was born.”

  They remained quiet as they stared out across the ancient waters.

  At length Percy rose to a sitting position. “All this salt air has made me hungry,” he said. “How would you like to join me for some tea cake?”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t, Percy. I made it for you!”

  “So it’s mine, is it?”

  “Yes. I gave it to you.”

  “Then I can do anything I want with it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Even share it with my friends?”

  Gwyneth nodded with a smile.

  “Then I want to share it with you!” Percy tore off a chunk of the soft white cake, split it in half, handed one portion to Gwyneth, then took a bite out of the other. “Delicious!” he exclaimed.

  “It is supposed to be eaten with tea,” said Gwyneth.

  “I’ll save the rest—I promise. Uh-oh!” he exclaimed, looking up. “I think I felt rain.”

  Within seconds huge raindrops were pelting them.

  “O–ow—you were right!” cried Gwyneth. “Come, Percy! We’ll run to my house. We’ll have a fire and tea and dry out.”

  “And eat the rest of my cake!” Percy laughed.

  They leaped to their feet and dashed across the moor as the downpour engulfed them. By the time they reached the stone cottage, though Percy had done his best to protect the tea cake inside his shirt, both were dripping wet.

  With the promise to come back the next day if the rain cleared for another riding lesson, Percy returned to the manor late that afternoon. He was not yet quite dry but was happier than he had been in years. The humblest pleasures in life, simply lying on the ground looking out across the sea or getting cau
ght in a rainstorm, gave him more joy than he ever could have imagined.

  40

  Remote Cottage

  With the basic principles of riding clearer in his mind and becoming more natural as he felt increasingly comfortable on the back of a horse, Percy had been out riding almost every day for the past several weeks. On several of those, his uncle had accompanied him. They had spoken of many things.

  He often rode south through the gentle terrain of the coast and occasionally east. He was learning his way along the trails and roads in every direction. He had tried to replicate his lengthy precarious ride with Florilyn but turned back when he realized that he was in danger of losing his way. Whenever he wanted to practice his galloping technique, however, he went to the shore where it was level and the footing secure.

  He knew he must eventually also learn to ride fast over bumpy grassland, even through wooded regions. It was for that reason that he had requested another lesson with his diminutive instructor.

  The day after the downpour dawned fair though chilly. Percy waited until after lunch when he knew Florilyn usually went to her room. They had not spoken again about the incident at Madame Fleming’s. After her strange friendliness of that day, he was afraid she might want to go riding with him again. But on the days of his lessons, he had to keep his riding secret. Once the door of her room closed behind her, Percy left the house for the stables to prepare for his afternoon’s ride.

  He set out down the drive and onto the main road. Instead of turning left on the village road, he continued north then veered onto the moor and through farmland until he was approaching the Barrie cottage.

  Gwyneth saw him coming from behind the house. She ran excitedly to meet him. “Hi, Percy!” she cried.

  “Hi, Gwyneth … are you ready to give me another lesson?”

  “Let me just run inside and take the pot off the stove so it won’t boil over.”

  She returned a minute later. “Shall I run to the beach?” she asked.

  “Why don’t you get up behind me and we’ll ride together,” said Percy. He reached down and took her hand. With a single motion as if he found her light as a feather, and with a high-pitched squeal of delight, Gwyneth flew up onto Grey Tide’s back just behind the saddle. She stretched her arms around Percy’s waist.

  As Percy encouraged Grey Tide into motion, Gwyneth thought she had never been so happy in her life. Percy may have been only sixteen. But he was still a grown man in her eyes. She felt safer in his presence than with anyone other than her father.

  “I would like to try galloping on grass instead of sand today,” said Percy over his shoulder. “Florilyn will be sure to want to race someplace that won’t be easy for me. Where can we go that is not too bumpy?”

  “Go over there,” said Gwyneth, “to the right and up the hill. I will show you.”

  They crossed the main road, continued through several fields full of grazing cattle. As the plateau rose away from the sea, the terrain of patchy moorland became less arable. They rode up and down several inclines, moving into the hills and toward the series of ridges they had been over together on the day he had lost his mount with Florilyn. On this day they were farther north than Percy had yet been.

  “I thought you were going to take me someplace gentle and flat!” He laughed. “I wouldn’t dare gallop here—I’d be thrown in no time.”

  “Don’t worry, Percy,” said Gwyneth behind him. “There is a flat meadow near the Muir cottage. I think you will like it. It is another of my special places.”

  “Stevie Muir?” said Percy.

  “Yes, do you know Stevie?”

  “I do indeed. I saw him shear a sheep in the market day contest. I didn’t know you knew him—though I suppose you know everyone.”

  “Stevie is my cousin.”

  “Is he! What a coincidence! Well, it probably isn’t that much of a coincidence. I suppose many of the families around here are related in one way or another.”

  “There is my aunt’s house … just there. Can you see it?” said Gwyneth.

  “I think so … Ah, yes, there in the little hollow between the slopes.”

  They continued toward it. As they came closer, all at once a clustering mass of sheep came bounding toward them. Without waiting for Percy to stop, Gwyneth leaped to the ground and went running toward them. They baaed in a frenzy, nudging and sniffing and waddling around her. Gwyneth giggled in delight as she ran her hands through their woolly, greasy, dirty, matted coats while they pressed close around her. Percy reined in and stopped, his way blocked by the mass of sheep.

  A minute later Stevie Muir appeared behind them. He waved and called out in greeting. “Hoy, Gwyneth!”

  “Hi, Stevie. I brought Percy Drummond.”

  “So I see. Welcome to you, Mr. Drummond. So you came for your visit along with a wee friend!”

  “I had no idea the two of you knew one another,” said Percy. “Gwyneth tells me you’re cousins.”

  “We are indeed. Let me run back and tell my mum to put the kettle on. It’s not many visitors we get out here. She will be eager to show you the hospitality of the Welsh. She’s heard about you, you see.” He turned and ran toward the cottage.

  “Come with me, Percy,” said Gwyneth, leading the way slowly through the sheep. “They will stay out of Grey Tide’s way.”

  Percy followed. As they came near the cottage, several barking dogs bounded to greet Gwyneth. The sheep did not seem concerned. Percy dismounted, and Gwyneth led him inside.

  A woman of some fifty years stood at a black cookstove. Her partially graying dark hair fell down over a forehead and cheeks dappled with perspiration. In a word, her countenance looked tired. Stevie was nowhere in sight.

  She turned toward them as they entered. In spite of her fatigue, her eyes lit up. “Ah, Gwyneth, my dear. How are ye the day?”

  “Well, Auntie. This is Mr. Drummond.”

  “Welcome to ye, young man,” said the woman, drying her hands on the apron tied around her waist. She extended a strong hand whose appearance indicated close acquaintance with hard work.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Muir,” said Percy. “Your son invited me for a visit several weeks ago. I am sorry to say I have been negligent. But Gwyneth finally got me up here. She says you are related.”

  “Ay. Her daddy’s my brother.”

  Just then Stevie reappeared.

  “Daddy’s fine,” he said to his mother then glanced at Percy. “My daddy’s sick, you see, Mr. Drummond,” he said. “He’s forgotten most things and gets agitated when there’s a commotion. I was just in telling him we had a guest so he wouldn’t be confused. Come … I’ll take you to him.”

  Percy followed into the adjacent room. There sat a man by appearance at least a decade older than Mrs. Muir. What thin hair he had left was pure white. His face was pale and drawn as he sat in an overstuffed chair staring vacantly ahead out of sunken eyes. A blanket of faded red wool lay over his knees and legs.

  “I’ve brought you our visitor, Daddy,” said Stevie. “This is Mr. Drummond.”

  Percy bent down with a smile. “Hello, Mr. Muir,” he said. “I am happy to make your acquaintance.” He took the man’s hand where it lay in his lap and shook it gently. Stevie’s father did not seem aware of Percy’s presence.

  Stevie led him across the room, and they sat down. A few minutes later, Gwyneth and Mrs. Muir appeared with a tray of tea things.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t know you were coming, Mr. Drummond,” said his hostess. “I would have baked some scones. I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you other than buttered bread.”

  “And nothing goes quite so well with tea, Mrs. Muir,” rejoined Percy cheerfully. “That is … would it be laver bread you are speaking of?”

  “No,” she said, laughing. “Not quite to your taste, I take it?”

  “I have to admit, the idea of eating seaweed has been difficult to get accustomed to.”

  “Have no fear—my bread is nothing but thick dark rye and whe
at.”

  “Then I will enjoy it heartily!”

  “Ye be an easy young man to please. ‘Tis not every day we get a visitor from the manor in our wee cottage. What am I saying? We have never had anyone from the manor set foot past our door, much less sit down with us for tea. We are right honored, sir.”

  Percy laughed. “I doubt my presence is worthy of such praise, Mrs. Muir. I am but a friend of Stevie’s and Gwyneth’s who is answering a long overdue invitation. But I thank you for your hospitality and kind words.”

  “We get the viscount’s factor calling, Mum,” said Stevie.

  “Ay. Every six months like clockwork coming for his rents. Yet he never darkens the inside of my door, but just waits outside for me to bring it to him.”

  “Manor … what’s that you say about the manor?” suddenly said the old man from across the room. “I worked at the manor, you know. The viscount treated me right well when I was a lad. Did odd jobs and ran errands for him, I did.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” said Stevie. “We have a visitor from the manor.”

  “The viscount’s come, you say? He’ll be wanting me.” He folded back a corner of the wool blanket, though it seemed too heavy for him to get off his knees, and struggled to rise.

  “Nay, Daddy,” now interposed Mrs. Muir. “The viscount’s not here.”

  Bewildered and disappointed, her husband relaxed back into his chair. He continued to glance about the room, as if looking for someone. Slowly by degrees, he drifted again into silence.

  “I can hardly imagine him working for the viscount,” said Percy. “I would guess him to be quite a bit older than my uncle.”

  “He is speaking of the old viscount, Mr. Drummond,” said Mrs. Muir. “It’s your uncle’s father he’s thinking of. His mind’s about gone, ye see, but his memory of his early years is as clear as the water in the lake up yonder on the far slopes of Rhinog Fawr. Much of the time he doesn’t even know who I am, poor man. I have to watch that he doesn’t wander off. He won’t know how to get back home.”