by Rebecca Bryn
***
A hearse drew up outside Non Richard’s house. Alana jammed a charity-shop hat over her wayward curls and tossed the turquoise silk scarf over her shoulder: she adjusted the matching top Mr John had funded and smoothed out creases in the skirt purchased from her inheritance. She hadn’t known Non, or Mair, but they’d been friends of Aunt Siân’s and she wanted to be there to pay her aunt’s respects.
The little chapel bulged around the mass of floral tributes. Plain oak box-pews were crowded with soberly-dressed mourners: she took the offered order of service and stood at the back, looking up at the gallery and feeling like the outsider she was. She recognised Harriet, Rhiannon and Elin… and Elin’s husband, Stuart who sat apart from his wife. In front of her, the heads of the seated congregation turned slightly. She looked where they were looking. Elin sat head bowed, coat collar turned up, looking at no-one. Quiet whispers fled across the room.
The mourners fell silent as slow footsteps walked from the back of the chapel to the altar and ascended the steps to the lectern. Reverend Thomas surveyed the assembly and bowed his head, hands clasped together.
Organ music crept quietly from beneath the fingers of an elderly man. The light behind her darkened: four men entered carrying a coffin, shoulder-high. They laid down their burden with care, on a place specially prepared, and sat down on the front row, heads bowed.
The music drifted away, leaving silence.
Reverend Thomas raised his head and surveyed the congregation briefly. ‘It is with great sorrow that we are gathered here to say goodbye to our dear friend, Non. It is of some comfort that the number of her friends, attending today, show the great love and esteem in which she was held. Our small congregation, our community, has suffered grievous blows this past two years, from which, with God’s good grace, we shall endeavour to recover. Gareth, Bronwen Stevens and Siân, and now the tragic loss of Non and Mair.’
Reverend Thomas fell quiet and bowed his head again. ‘Man is fallen, corrupt in body and soul, and lusteth against the spirit. God’s path for man is pre-ordained, and he can only be restored and reborn by the spirit of God. Thus, man is in need of salvation not only from the wrath of God for the sins of which he is guilty, but also from his own sinfulness and rebellion. It is not of him that wills, or of him that runs, but of God who showeth mercy, for salvation is by God’s good grace alone.’
She raised her eyes. Reverend Thomas lowered his.
‘Therefore, any man who sinneth, being not of God’s elect, shall burn in everlasting Hell. No man can come to me, except the Father which hath sent me draw him: and I will raise him up at the last day. It is written in the prophets, And they shall be all taught of God. Every man therefore that hath heard, and hath learned of the Father, cometh unto me.’
Organ music swelled. A friend of Non’s spoke tearfully. The coffin was borne aloft and carried out into the chill morning air. The mourners filed silently past her. Some glanced at her: some ignored her. On the faces of others she thought she saw… scorn, revulsion, fear?
She didn’t attend the graveside internment in the cemetery outside the village: it was for close family only. She went home. This afternoon the process would begin again, for Mair.
If Siân had been a member of the chapel congregation, had she believed her path was pre-ordained, her salvation at the whim of God not her own effort? Maybe that was how she’d forgiven Mum and Dafydd: their sin was inevitable, and if God didn’t save them they’d get their punishment in Hell. If she’d understood the Calvinist minister correctly, it was a cosy theology as long as you believed yourself one of God’s elect.
She might as well take notice of the horoscope. She picked up the local rag, bought to trawl through for forthcoming exhibitions. Pisces was the twelfth sign, ruled by the twelfth house: a water sign, its ruling planets were Jupiter and Neptune. According to this she was selfless and focussed on her inner journey. Her parents thought her selfish.
Your emotions are likely to deceive you today, so be careful about making judgments. Situations and people you encounter are apt to be stubborn, emotional, or unreliable. If so, back away and address these things another time.
Maybe the Calvinists were right and events were pre-ordained, and certainly people were unreliable: she switched on the computer. Time to let Mum know she and Siân had been sussed.
Dear Momacat,
Glad you and Kitten’s kitten are well. Does Dad know you’ve been talking to Siân? He said she ruined your marriage and you’d cut her out of your life. I know there’s more to this than you’re telling me and I shall find out. I read the letters. Love to Saffy.
Alana xxx
***
Mair’s funeral was a slight variation on a theme, and Dai Parry spoke movingly about the disaster that had befallen his life. The funeral cortege moved away towards the cemetery, and the mourners formed small groups, talking in low voices. Ignored, she paused to look at the fire-blackened ruins of Mair’s home. How did a man recover from such devastating blows?
A figure stopped at her side and sighed: at least someone was prepared to acknowledge her presence.
‘Does Dai have children?’
Rhiannon scratched her chin. ‘Not that I know of.’
She nodded towards Mair’s ruined door. ‘Do you think the sign was a warning?’
Rhiannon looked up at her, her head on one side. ‘Who’s to say? All signs mean something. Doesn’t mean it’s something bad. I’ve got one on my door and nothing’s happened to me because of it. Besides, if it’s meant to happen, it will.’
‘You believe in things being pre-ordained?’
Rhiannon shrugged. ‘Cause and effect is much the same thing. Some things are inevitable. Take the fire. If Dai hadn’t been busy sorting out house insurance, he’d have been in the car that night. They could all be dead. Who’s to say if it’s fate, or how our choices change things. What’s good or what’s bad.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Take Elin and Reverend Thomas.’
‘What about them?’
‘Didn’t you notice he couldn’t look at anyone? He and Elin are having an affair. His wife’s been giving him the evil eye all day.’ Rhiannon chuckled. ‘It doesn’t mean…’ Her expression changed. She turned and hurried across the green, and slammed her cottage door behind her.
‘What a very odd woman.’
‘Eccentric but harmless.’ Harriet took her arm and they walked together across the green. A face appeared at the window of Rhiannon’s cottage. ‘Elin and Reverend Thomas. Who’d have thought it? I bet attendance goes up… except Elin won’t dare show her face in chapel for a year now it’s common knowledge.’
Home, she checked Siân’s e-mails. Momacat: Alana, we need to talk urgently. Come home now. Mum.
At least she’d got a response. Alana packed an overnight bag: this time she’d get the truth out of Mum if it killed her. She took a deep breath and put the bag down. She wouldn’t go running the second Mum yelled. Besides, Greg had texted her. He and Maddy had a gig at Harbour House, tonight.
***
Pryderi purred on Rhiannon’s lap: she stroked him absently as she re-lived the funeral services. Had the twelve thought their immortal souls safe? She knew better. They weren’t the elect of God, as she was. God spoke to her through Algiz, her spirit guide and she heard his praise and his commands.
Alana bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
I was frightened.
‘I know, Nerys. You’re safe now.’ She brought her pouch of runes from a drawer. ‘I’ll do a telling. I need to know more about Siân’s niece.’
I wish you wouldn’t. No good will come of it. It’s too late for Bethan and Gregory.
‘Gregory’s out there, somewhere.’
I think about him all the time.
‘I know. He’ll be all grown up now.’
Might even have children of his own.
‘Quite likely. I’ll try a Runic Cross. Nerys, don’t
be afraid. Algiz protects us.
Let it go, Rhiannon. It only stirs more wickedness.
She moved her fingers blindly through the twenty-four runes of the FuThARK as she formed her question: Why is she here? She could ask her that, herself. Is she a danger? She’d asked that already and the Wyrd had come to hand - the beginning and the end: unknowable.
What was really bothering her? What should I do about Siân’s niece? Fate would decide her actions. The six runes came to her, one after another. She laid them out in the form of a crucifix in the exact manner she’d picked them out.
JERA
EIHWAZ ALGIZ EHWAZ
NAUTHIZ
URUZ
Eihwaz and Uruz were reversed. Starting at the right, she let her subconscious take over. Ehwaz, the horse, she mustn’t confuse Ehwaz with Eihwaz, described the past. A horse was relevant. In the first and third branches of the Mabinogion, Pwll, the king of Dyfed’s, wife was called Rhiannon. Her punishment for her crimes was to carry people on her back, like a horse. She’d taken Pryderi’s name from the tale. She let her mind wander: she had more in common with the queen of Dyfed than the world knew.
Ehwaz signified travel: change. That could mean career or residence, and fitted both her and the girl: they’d both come to this place from another life. It could also indicate a spiritual journey and faith in her destiny: a message from the gods. A change in the girl’s circumstances had certainly brought about the need for the casting.
Next was Nauthiz, near centre, the position that represented her present state. Nauthiz kept coming up. Patience was needed, yet it was more than that. This sign had come to hand when she’d cast for Alana. Now it had come for her. Necessity, need, absence, sadness, tiredness. Existing on less than enough. Working through pain and strife, not being bitter. Destructive desire.
She was tired… tired of pain and grief. And she was bitter but how could she not be? Her desire for revenge for Nerys’ lost life had proved destructive but not for her, or Alana… yet. She turned to what lay ahead of her, Eihwaz reversed. Nostalgia and a hankering for the past: Nerys’ past, before everything went wrong. Emotional problems linked to the death of a loved one: Tom, Angharad, Bethan and Cadi. Would this grief never end?
She sighed and let her mind flow over Uruz, also reversed. This was the rune she’d placed in the foundation position and showed the basis of the problem. It signified opportunities that had passed by and a lack of progress in certain areas. Which areas? She frowned, unsure if she’d grasped the significance. She should have done something about Siân’s niece, sooner?
The far centre position, where lay Algiz, her spirit guide, represented the nature of the obstacles in her path, the challenge she must overcome. She focussed on Algiz. This too had come to hand before. It was a strong symbol of protection and shelter. Temptation must be resisted. Emotions must be contained, and pain and strife overcome in order to move forward. Pain and strife were the obstacles in her way? She needed to let the past go? Was this the area of lack of progress?
Jera: the Far Rune foretold the best outcome if she could overcome the obstacles and rise to the challenge. Her heart lifted. It was the rune of harvest, fertility and the turning wheel: symbolic of success, an abundant year and the cycles of nature and life. Again, it cautioned patience, but effort would reap its reward. Other meanings included the sacred marriage between heaven and earth, thriving crops, the generosity of kings, and prosperity.
She collected the runes and returned them to their bag. Moving across to the window she lifted the curtain and watched the girl getting into her old banger. She was young and pretty and had her life ahead of her. Was that why she hated her so much, rather than the fact she was Siân’s flesh and blood? She’d brought a breath of air to the dying village, a breath of youth and hope: hers would be the harvest and the fertility, the future. It was little wonder families with children avoided living here, but maybe Alana could be the one to bring the first child back to Coed-y-Cwm.
The generosity of kings… she was master of the runes… protector of the ancient stones: king of her own domain. She rubbed the mist of her breath from the window glass. It wasn’t the answer she’d expected to her question. Effort would reap rewards and patience was the keyword. Could she do as Lowrie wanted, and let her out: never again have to shut her in that dark place and listen to her cries? Or as Nerys wanted, and let go of her bitterness and hatred, forgive the twelve their betrayal and reap the reward of peace? Missed opportunities; it would take self-sacrifice, an end of life as she knew it, but was it too late to rebuild their shattered lives and make them whole again?
Chapter Thirteen
Greg tuned his guitar and glanced toward the door of Harbour House: would Alana come? The bar was filling with locals and talk was either about the fire, and the deaths of two women in a car accident, or the recent storm and flooding: two boats not taken up for winter had been wrecked against the quay.
Maddy put a pint glass on the table in front of him: she’d woven pink braids into her hair and had squeezed into pink, skin-tight jeggings that accentuated her curves distractingly. He took a gulp of cool liquid and wished they’d been able to bring more on the train than one guitar, and clothes for a long-weekend that was rapidly turning into a week. No amps, no mikes. Posters had been hastily put up in shops and on notice boards to advertise the music night, and the landlord had promised him a cut of the night’s takings: it might help pay their train fares home.
She wouldn’t come.
He put down the glass and began to strum a folk song he hoped was suitable for a fishing village. The gossip faded as his voice gained strength. Maddy’s voice swelled with his as he fought the sea to bring home the shoals of herring. The door opened, letting in a blast of air straight off the sea. Alana smiled, pushed back dishevelled hair, and went to the bar.
His throat constricted. Maddy covered for him, taking up the story of fishermen far from home. He played the final chord and swallowed half a pint of lager.
An old man leaning on the bar raised a hand. ‘Do you know The Sloop John B?’
He strummed the opening chords as Alana pushed through the drinkers to a table by the window. The words of the song had evaporated into the space Alana occupied… something about hoisting a mainsail. He strummed the opening chords a second time and Maddy whispered the first line in his ear. He smiled gratefully and launched into the number.
Sporadic clapping greeted the interval, and talking resumed. Maddy beckoned to Alana to join them.
He unslung his guitar and got to his feet, glass in hand. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’ He looked from Alana to Maddy. ‘Can I get you both a drink? I’ve got a free tab, tonight.’
Alana handed him her empty glass. ‘Rum and coke… No, gin and it, please. A small one. I’m driving.’
Maddy drained her glass. ‘You don’t want to go off the road like those two poor women they’re talking about.’
‘Same again, Maddy?’
She nodded and he caught the barman’s eye. He returned with a tray of drinks. Maddy was grilling Alana. ‘What happened?’
‘According to my neighbour, their car skidded on ice and went down into the valley. That’s all I know.’
‘And they were both killed?’
‘They found them dead in the car next morning, apparently.’
‘They were there all night? That’s awful.’
He handed out the drinks. ‘That village certainly doesn’t have much luck.’
Maddy crossed her knees. ‘I’d say three deaths and a fire in three months is a bit more than bad luck.’
Alana looked worried. ‘The fire was at the house of one of the women who died. Do you think…’
Maddy nodded again, her braids bouncing. ‘Someone wanted her dead? It happens. What was her name?’
‘Mair Parry. The other woman was Non Richards. They were buried today.’
He should say something. ‘Do you think it has something to do with the signs on the
doors?’
‘I don’t think it’s coincidence.’ Maddy watched the bubbles popping in her cider. ‘Has anyone else died recently, Alana? Before your aunt, I mean.’
‘Reverend Thomas mentioned two others. Harriet would know. She’s been here longer than me.’
A cold lump formed in the pit of his stomach. ‘What are you thinking, Maddy?’
She looked up at him, her expression anxious. ‘I’m not sure I dare tell you, Greg.’
He re-slung his guitar and began picking out a tune: the tune he’d written for Maddy.
***
Greg parked the hire car in the gateway of the cemetery outside Coed-y-Cwm early next morning.
Maddy jumped out and he followed her towards two newly-filled graves. She was keen to see who else had been laid to rest here during the last year. Beyond the mounds of fresh earth, marked by plain wooden crosses, stood two polished headstones: they looked recently-added.
He bent forward to read one. ‘Bronwen Stevens. Died 24th January 2014. Just over a year ago.’
‘Gareth Price. Died November 2012. That’s too early, Nerys was released in January last year.’
‘We don’t know this woman didn’t die of natural causes, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘We don’t know she did.’
‘You can’t think Nerys is getting her revenge on those who pointed the finger? Divorcing James was a selfless act. After what he said, you really think she’s capable of premeditated murder?’
‘Greg, she had mental health issues. She was in a psychiatric criminal institution for thirty years. Who can tell what state of mind she’d be in when she came out.’
‘James said she was getting treatment.’
‘That doesn’t mean she was cured. Let’s go and talk to Alana’s neighbour.’
Harriet opened the door.
Maddy jumped straight in. ‘We’re friends of Alana’s. She said you might know how Bronwen Stevens died.’
