by Jenny Nimmo
Suddenly another voice called. His mother was climbing the stairs. ‘Is that you, Gwyn? Are you awake? Was that a bell I heard?’
The white world shivered and began to fade until only the voices were left, singing softly in the dark.
The door handle rattled and Mrs Griffiths came into the room. For a moment she stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the landing light. She was trying to tear something out of her hair. At length she turned on the light and gave a gasp. ‘Ugh! It’s a cobweb,’ she exclaimed, ‘a filthy cobweb!’ For her the silky threads did not glitter, they appeared merely as a dusty nuisance. ‘Gwyn, how many spiders have you got up here?’
‘Only one, Mam,’ he replied.
‘I can hear singing. Have you got your radio on? It’s so late.’
‘I haven’t got the radio on, Mam.’
‘What is it then?’
‘I don’t know, Mam.’ Gwyn was now as bemused as his mother.
The sound seemed to be coming from beside him. But there was nothing there, only the pipe. The city, the children and even the vast cobwebs, were gone.
Gwyn picked up the pipe and put it to his ear. The voices were there, inside the pipe. He almost dropped it in his astonishment. So they had sent him a pipe to hear the things that he saw, maybe millions of miles away. The sound grew softer and was gone.
‘Whatever’s that? Where did you get it?’ asked Mrs Griffiths, approaching the bed.
Gwyn decided to keep the voices to himself. ‘It’s a pipe, Mam. Nain gave it to me.’
‘Oh! That’s all.’ She dismissed the pipe as though it was a trivial bit of tin. ‘Try and get some sleep now, love, or you’ll never be up for the bus.’ She bent and kissed him.
‘I’ll be up, Mam,’ Gwyn assured her.
His mother went to the door and turned out the light. ‘That singing must have come from the Lloyds, they’re always late to bed,’ she muttered as she went downstairs. ‘It’s the cold. Funny how sound travels when it’s cold.’
Gwyn slept deeply but woke soon after dawn and felt for the pipe under his pillow. He drew it out and listened. The pipe was silent. It did not even look as bright, as magical as it had in the night. Gwyn was not disappointed. A magician cannot always be at work.
He dressed and went downstairs before his parents were awake; had eaten his breakfast and fed the chickens by the time his father came downstairs to put the kettle on.
‘What’s got into you, then?’ Mr Griffiths inquired when Gwyn sprang through the kitchen door.
‘Just woke up early. It’s a grand day, Dad!’ Gwyn said.
This statement received no reply, nor was one expected. The silences that sometimes yawned between father and son created an unbearable emptiness that neither seemed able to overcome. But they had become accustomed to the situation, and if they could not entirely avoid it, accepted it as best they could. It was usually Gwyn who fled from his father’s company, but on this occasion he was preoccupied and it was his father who left, to milk the cows.
A few moments later Mrs Griffiths shuffled down the stairs in torn slippers, still tying her apron strings. She was irritated to find herself the last one down. ‘Why didn’t someone call me,’ she complained.
‘It’s not late, Mam,’ Gwyn reassured her, ‘and I’ve had my breakfast.’
His mother began to bang and clatter about the kitchen nervously. 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 and bedecked the garden with splashes of red and gold. A mist hung in the valley, even obscuring his grand mother’s cottage, and 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 every morning, 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 track, 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 his passage become easier. Here the track levelled 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 track had become a respectable size, tarmac-ed and wide enough for two passing cars.
The Lloyds had just 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 while the little boy still clung to his neck, 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, and the other Lloyds looked up at Gwyn as he came flying down the lane.
‘Go on,’ said Alun. ‘What news?’
‘I’m a magician,’ cried Gwyn. ‘A magician.’ And he ran past them all, his arms outstretched triumphantly, his satchel banging on his back.
‘A magician,’ scoffed Alun. ‘You’re mad, Gwyn Griffiths, that’s what you are,’ and forgetting his duty, left Iolo on the lane and gave furious chase.
‘Mad! Mad!’ echoed Siôn and Gareth, following Alun’s example.
‘Mad! Mad!’ cried Iolo excitedly, as he raced down the lane, away from Mam and his tears.
Soon there were four boys, tearing neck and neck, down the lane, and one not far behind; all 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 neighbour, stood quite still and murmured, ‘A magician?’
Nain had warned him that he would be alone, but Gwyn had not realised what that would mean. After all, he had felt himself to be alone since Bethan went, but there had always been Alun when he needed company on the mountain or in the woods, to share a book or a game, to lend a sympathetic ear to confidences.
And for Alun the need had been as great. Gwyn was the one with an empty house and a quiet space to think and play in. And 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 envisaged 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 in order to convince his friend, and on the homeward journey, that same afternoon, he once again brought up the subject of magicians.
Iolo always raced ahead when they got off the school bus. The older children, however, were not so keen to run uphill. They lingered on the lane, Siôn and Gareth arguing, the girls collecting wild flowers or coloured 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 for his friend 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,’ Gwyn began to gabble desperately. ‘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, there were children, and this is the most fantastic part, I could hear them in a pipe that came from . . .’
‘You’re mad! 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!’ And he fled from Gwyn still crying, ‘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. He realised that before Alun sprang through his gate and followed his brothers up the path to the house, slamming the door behind him, to emphasise 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 posies and were staring at Gwyn in dismay. He could not bring himself to speak to them, and so passed by in an awkward silence.
Half a mile further on he reached his grandmother’s cottage and, knowing she was the only person in the world who would believe him, 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 centre of her room like some exotic bird, surrounded as she was, 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 had 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!’
As he spoke his grandmother began to move about her room, but Gwyn knew she was attending to his story, and when he mentioned the girl in the web, she hovered before 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?’ said Gwyn. ‘I believe I am a magician but I am 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, supporting 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 he 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 he was 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 she slammed the book down upon others piled on a table beside her.
Gwyn winced as a cloud of dust flew into his face. A tiny jug tottered precariously beside the books, happily coming to rest before it reached the edge of the table.
‘But how do you know, Nain?’ he quietly persisted.
‘How do I know? How do I know? Listen!’ Nain settled back on to 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 littl
e Bethan knew too, although she was only four. 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 da, 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 row 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 his grandmother; 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. ‘Goodnight 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!’
