by S L Ager
‘Whoa!’ the man barked unexpectedly. They were approaching what looked like a railway level crossing, only there were no train tracks leading from them. Warning lights on both sides of the road were flashing intermittently110 red.
‘Whoa, Lady,’ he grunted, pulling the horse to a halt111 before the flashing lights. The pony snorted, shifting impatiently on the spot, awaiting her next command.
‘Stand, Lady, stand,’ said the man.
‘Have your ears recovered?’ Anwen asked.
Claire nodded, poking inside both ears with her index fingers112.
‘What was all that about?’ blurted Claire. ‘Who was chasing us, and where have they gone, and what the heck was flying around, making that noise?’
‘Get ready to stick your fingers into your ears again, cariad,’ Anwen said. ‘You’ll soon see.’
The now-familiar noise rumbled deep in the distance. If Claire hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn113 it was thunder.
As the waves of sound grew louder, Claire glanced at the trap’s occupants114, then at the flashing lights in front of them. The direction of the noise was difficult to pinpoint115, seeming to constantly change orientation116, but as it came nearer, Claire turned to her left to see a black dot in the distance. Within seconds, she could see it was a black fighter jet.
‘What the …?’ mouthed Claire, sealing her ears with her fingers as the noise grew louder.
Jack stood on the man’s lap; the pony didn’t flinch117, but her ears flattened backwards. Anwen’s hands were now clamped over her ears. The jet was about one hundred metres away and, Claire reckoned, only about one hundred metres high but still descending118 towards them. As it neared, she could see it wasn’t going to hit them but was only metres out in front of them. It was so close the force119 and vibration120 of its power resonated121 and reverberated right through her.
The jet was magnificent122, like a giant streamlined123 bird of prey124. Almost skimming125 the flashing lights, it decelerated126, flying in front of them and right across the road towards what must be a runway on their right. The jet was so close Claire could see the pilot’s helmet through the cockpit127 glass. As it flew past, the pilot raised his right arm and saluted128 at the trap. Then the jet briefly touched its wheels down onto the vast tarmac runway, before the forward thrust of engines roared into life, and it lifted straight back off, up into the sky.
In awe129, and still partially130 deafened by the now-decreasing131 engine noise, Claire watched the jet’s rear132 white flashing tail light as it disappeared into the distance. At that moment, the red warning lights in front of them stopped flashing, and the man slapped the reins onto the pony’s rear133, and they were off again at a fast trot, as if nothing had happened.
‘What was that all about?’ demanded Claire directly of Anwen. ‘That was mad. What just happened?’ she asked, not giving Anwen time to answer. ‘Where did that plane come from? Did it scare those motorbikes off?’ Claire stared at Anwen, not realising she was waiting for her to stop speaking.
‘Yes, Claire, it did. It came to help us. We have dependable134 friends.’
‘Friends? Friends in fighter jets? How did they even know to come? We’re in the middle of nowhere.’
‘See over there, that big building? That is an aircraft hangar135, and the control tower is just behind it. Can you see?’ said Anwen.
Claire could just make out glass windows to the top right-hand side of the hangar that she had thought was a warehouse, but she would never have guessed had she not been told.
‘That was an RAF Hawk T1; they help us look after our own hawk.’
‘Your hawk?’ asked Claire, wondering what the batty136 woman was talking about.
What are these people involved in? she thought, impressed a little and scared a lot.
‘You’re telling me eighty-odd-year-old Gladys Jones knows people who can call on fighter jets when they need to?’ Claire had raised her voice loud enough for the man driving the trap to hear, but he didn’t react. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. I don’t believe you,’ Claire said, shaking her head. But there was no denying137 what she’d just witnessed138.
‘OK, I give in,’ said Claire. ‘You win. Tell me what the heck is going on here. I can’t wait until we see Gladys. What’s happening?’ she shouted at them both.
‘Your sister is in danger,’ said Anwen, looking straight at Claire. ‘And you can help us all.’
Claire’s heart lurched so hard she coughed. ‘Help you all?’ she spluttered.
‘Rebecca is innocently139 embroiled140 in something we have feared for many years,’ Anwen said, waiting for Claire to digest the words.
‘What?’ asked Claire. ‘Go on.’
Anwen continued. ‘It all goes back to a Welsh folk141 story so famous we have a village in Snowdonia named after it, Beddgelert. It tells of a twelfth142-century Welsh sovereign143, Prince Llywelyn, and his faithful144 hound, Gelert. Do you know this story, Claire?’
Claire shook her head.
‘Whilst out hunting one day, the prince noticed Gelert’s unusual absence. On returning, he found his baby’s crib145 empty as his bloodstained hound greeted him. In a reckless146 fury, assuming Gelert had killed his son, the frantic father drew his sword and, in one fell swoop147, killed his dog.’
‘Hang on a minute. What has any of this got to do with my sister, or me?’ Claire asked, feeling more scared than she revealed.
‘There are things you need to understand. Let me continue,’ said Anwen.
Claire nodded.
‘As his dog lay dead, the prince heard a cry from beneath the crib. There, wrapped in bloodstained, torn sheets, partially covered by the body of a dead wolf, lay his baby son. Horrified, the prince realised at once his mistake. He had killed his faithful dog, who had saved his child from the jaws of a mighty148 wolf. Besieged149 with emotion, he sank to the floor, cradling his son in one arm, and his dead dog’s head in the other. Legend150 says, from that moment on, he never smiled again.’
‘Is it true?’ asked Claire. ‘I’ve heard stories like this before.’
‘Yes, it is,’ replied Anwen.
‘Well, it’s a sad story, but what has it got to do with me?’ asked Claire.
‘We’re nearly there now, cariad. Gladys will be waiting for us; she will tell you more.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Claire, desperate to know.
‘We’re going to a farm where we’ll be safe,’ replied Anwen as they continued onwards.
After a while of travelling in silence, the man slowed the pony to a walk and turned off the long straight, onto a narrower stretch. They trundled151 on down the meandering152 road, its sides hemmed153 by low walls of grey stones expertly154 piled and held in place by their own weight. Beyond, the setting sprawled155, wild and green, interrupted by solitary156 cottages dotted here and there, chimney smoke carried off on the breeze. Cows and sheep, seemingly ubiquitous157 in Wales, grazed158 in peaceful, unending pastures159.
Occasionally they passed other grazing horses, and when they did, the pony’s trot transformed into a proud circus prance160, boastfully161 lifting her knees. Her ears pricked forward, and she snorted low communicative162 whinnies163 to her fellow164 beings, encouraging them to trot alongside, until the field’s boundaries165 prevented them from going on.
Tapering166 further, the lane descended into a single steep track. Stark stone walls merged167 into thick, spiky gorse bushes. Their yellow flowers disguising thousands of miniature168 daggers, minuscule169 weapons primed170 to attack whatever dared to brush past them. Cloggy mud squelched thick and deep, but the brave pony’s feet soldiered on, not once losing their expert footing. The man slowed to a safer, steadier walk, cautiously entering a dense wooded area that seemed to appear from nowhere.
Claire’s mouth opened, shocked at this sudden barrier of spiny shrubs171, fern fronds172 and giant trees standing before them. Certain the woods hadn’t been there a moment ago, she turned to ask Anwen where they we
re, when Jack answered her question – he knew this place.
Jack was fidgeting173, his tail was wagging, and his legs jigged174 on the man’s lap as they continued winding down a steep ravine175.
As they navigated the treacherous176 hill, branches and barbs177 scratched at the trap. Claire’s hands gripped the sides as she searched the others’ faces for the fear she’d seen earlier when the bikes had chased them. She detected178 none as the dark woods opened into a surprise clearing, and there, nestled179 amongst a cluster of trees, sat a stone house flanked by dilapidated180 buildings and a ramshackle181 barn. It was thoroughly secluded182, and the one sign of life was the smoke curling from the chimney in grey coils183, which spread amongst the branches before anyone beyond this space would ever see.
‘Whoa, Lady,’ grunted the man as he pulled the pony to a halt in front of the modest184 house. Jack sprang in one leap to the ground and ran yapping towards the narrow wooden front door. To Claire’s utter185 relief, the door opened, and Gladys appeared. Jack sprang straight up into her arms. Forgetting herself, and with tears blinding her, she ran and flung herself at Gladys too.
For a while, Claire was unable to speak as Gladys held on to them both, Jack attempting to cover their ears with wet licks. Then everything overflowed at once; multiple186 questions tumbled from Claire’s mouth in senseless gibberish187.
‘Come in, cariad, and we will explain as much as possible,’ soothed Gladys. ‘How about we start with a nice cup of tea?’
In this unfamiliar kitchen, Claire spotted the cooking range first. Identical188 to Ben’s mum’s, it brought a blunt189, melancholic190 ache to her chest, and suddenly she yearned191 for her family and best friend. Stifling a choke, she fought back tears. Gladys busied herself, allowing Claire time to gather her emotions. Using a thick cloth to protect her hand from the heat, Gladys lifted a fat black kettle and poured boiling water into a waiting, warmed teapot.
‘Would you like a piece of buttered bread, cariad? I baked it earlier; it’s still warm.’
Why’s Gladys talking in that odd voice? thought Claire as she replied, ‘Yes, please.’
The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air. Starving, she sniffed the wonderful, sweet smell, reminding herself she’d not eaten a morsel since the sandwich on the train.
Anwen joined them, carrying in some bags from outside. The solemn-faced man, Gwilym, was nowhere to be seen. The congenial192 kitchen conveyed193 a cosy warmth: a dresser on one side adorned194 with blue-and-white plates; a round table covered by a chequered195 cloth; and a stout butcher’s block stood upright in the corner. The cooking range dominated196 one wall, circulating197 a constant heat, gratefully felt where they sat with their hands wrapped around mugs of hot tea.
‘We presume198 you are bursting with questions, Claire, but please, listen for a moment,’ said Gladys.
‘Gladys, I don’t want to listen. I’ve been listening to your letter all morning. I need to ask one thing first: what does cariad mean, and why didn’t you tell me you had a sister, and why have I come to Wales, and how the heck can you lot call on fighter jets?’ she blurted in one long breath, gasping as she finished.
‘That’s more than one thing!’ Gladys laughed.
‘Cariad is Welsh for “love”, and in Wales it’s used a lot. I am Welsh, Claire, not from Lancashire, as you thought. What we tell you now will be difficult for you, as it swims against the tide199 of normality200.’
‘You mean that story about the dog? What’s that got to do with me or Rebecca being in danger?’ Claire’s mouth moved to speak again, but this time, Gladys would not be interrupted.
‘So my sister, Anwen, has told you of Beddgelert?’ asked Gladys.
‘Yes. Some old dead prince killed his dog, so what?’ said Claire, confounded201 as to where any of this was leading. Aware Gladys had not brought her all this way to recount202 Welsh folklore203, she shrugged her shoulders and, with a tone as sharp as a thistle204, said, ‘Well?’
She’d never been cheeky to Gladys before, and immediately regretted205 being so.
‘Well, a more troubling truth taints206 this story. That day, something was taken from the prince’s child that would lead to devastating207 effects.’
‘Is this true?’ asked Claire, her bread suddenly forgotten, her tea cooling – untouched.
‘Yes, cariad, it is.’
Jack skipped in and hopped up onto Claire’s lap. He sat upright and cocked his head towards Gladys.
‘That fateful208 day, the Gwalch Gem bracelet was stolen from the baby prince.’
Claire started209, afraid Gladys had something life-threatening lodged210 in her throat. To her unaccustomed211 ears, the ending of the word gwalch, when pronounced212 in Welsh, sounded like an exaggerated213 and accentuated214 ending of the Scottish word loch. It grated215 like abrasive216 sandpaper.
‘What did you call it? You sound as if you’re choking, Gladys,’ said Claire.
‘I’m fine, cariad,’ answered Gladys as her temples217 and cheeks wrinkled218 into amused furrows219. Welsh sounded most unusual to the untuned220 ear.
‘The Gwalch Gem is an exquisite221 emerald222, cut to the shape of a hawk. It is embedded223 in a bracelet of unique Welsh gold mined from a covert224 location225 by ancient knights. The combination226 of this gem and the gold give it special powers, but with power comes responsibility227 and, sadly, also corruption228 and greed.’
‘But, how do you know all this?’ interrupted Claire, shaking her head.
‘There exists an ancient order229 entitled230 the Knights Hawk. They walk amongst us today, though perhaps not as you might imagine.’
‘What do you mean, Knights Hawk?’ Claire interrupted again.
‘They are not clad231 in armour232 and chain mail233, wielding234 swords, as history portrays235; they blend236 in unnoticed. My surname is Cadwaladr. I am a Keeper of the Gwalch Gem bracelet, and I am also honoured237 to be a Knight Hawk.’
‘Cadwallader?’ exclaimed238 Claire. ‘But my name’s Cadwallader; yours is Jones!’
‘My family name is Cadwaladr; it sounds the same as yours,’ Gladys reiterated239.
‘How come we’ve got the same surname now?’ asked Claire.
‘Because you, too, are a Keeper,’ replied Gladys, observing240 Claire’s stunned reaction, ‘though your name is spelt differently. Until you earn your Instinct241, you cannot be knighted242 as a true Cadwaladr. Only then can you take the Welsh title243, once it is deserved. All Cadwaladr folks born with Instinct are Keepers of the gem, and potential244 Knights Hawk.’
‘What do you mean, a Keeper? A keeper of what? And being knighted? What are you on about, Gladys?’ asked Claire, confused245.
‘We don’t expect you to understand yet.’ Anwen joined in the exchange246. ‘Keepers earn their Instinct in order to guard the Gwalch Gem bracelet, ensuring247 its benevolence248. In fair hands, peace and prosperity249 reign250, but in malevolent251 hands, it is destructive252.’
‘Hang on a minute! Destructive? What do you mean?’ asked Claire, picking out the only part she’d understood.
Her eyes flitted253 between the two women, feeling horribly out of her depth and regretting her decision to come.
As if sensing her fear, the trap driver’s solid figure entered the kitchen. Possessing254 a graceful255 gait256 for someone so sturdy257, he settled at the table, and Jack jumped straight off Claire’s lap and onto his. His presence encompassed258 them, smothering the room in an awkward silence.
Claire glanced sheepishly259, looking everywhere – except at him. His proximity260 unnerved her. Self-consciously she sipped her now-cold tea to fill the silence. She hated cold tea – but swallowed it anyway.
Despite herself, she submitted261 to her curiosity and risked a poorly disguised peek at Gwilym over the top of her mug. As he stroked Jack’s head, she studied him, certain he’d looked older before. His skin seemed smoother, less lined, and his hair thicker and darker somehow.
Maybe it’s the light, s
he thought.
He was, in fact, a handsome262 man, and now wearing jeans and a T-shirt, he didn’t resemble a farmer at all. Come to that, did Gladys appear younger too?
Am I going bonkers? she thought, thrown by this subtle263 change of appearance and the strange shape of a partly concealed tattoo264 poking out from under his sleeve. He reminded her of an actor her mum fawned265 over, whose name escaped her.
‘Claire, I am Gwilym Cadwaladr, and you are my niece.’
Claire nearly spat her tea at him but ended up choking on it instead.
‘What are you talking about? I haven’t got an uncle!’ she blurted, glaring at all three people in turn.
‘You are an Instinctive Cadwallader,’ he explained. ‘All Cadwallader people born with Instinct hail from266 the Knights Hawk. You are my niece, though not in the true sense as you perceive267 it.’
‘What? How can you be my uncle when I don’t have an uncle, and why did my mum not tell me about you if you are my uncle?’ she continued, her honest eyes challenging his.
‘I mined the Welsh gold in which the Gwalch Gem is embedded. In Welsh the word gwalch means “hawk”, Claire.’
‘Sorry?’ she asked, even more confused.
‘Legend tells of mortals268 searching for a rare Welsh gold, one deemed269 to be the purest on earth. Folklore speaks of this gold and the Hawk Gem in combination possessing powers to change men forever, but only if coupled270; alone, they are powerless.’
Reading her expression271, aware his statements272 were difficult to comprehend273, he paused to let them sink in before continuing.
‘Prince Llywelyn’s family possessed the gem for generations274. Llywelyn tasked his most trusted knights to unearth275 the gold in a quest to prove the claims. When I did, I became a Knight Hawk. You are of my lineage276 and you have the gift.’
‘What gift? What do you mean, gift?’ she asked.