by Kit Peel
The only person Wyn completely confided in was Robin.
One night, when Wyn was standing by the open window in her room, ready to leap out into the darkness, Robin tapped on her door. When she let him in, he simply asked her what had happened when she’d flown from Skrikes Wood on the last day of summer, and Wyn told him everything. All the time that she was talking, Robin said nothing. When she was finished he stood stock-still, breathing deeply.
“You’re a …”
“I’m Wyn. I’m just the same,” she said quickly. The shock was lifting from Robin, replaced by giddy excitement.
“I can hardly believe it,” said Robin. “All these years I’ve been telling you this and that and there you are, stronger and older than anyone else.”
“I’d forgotten everything.”
“And now?”
Wyn smiled at her foster father.
“You’re going to be leaving us soon, aren’t you, Wyn?”
“I’ll always keep coming back.”
“Will you do two things for me before you go?” said Robin.
When he told her his first request, Wyn thought carefully before agreeing. She asked him what the second thing was, and this time Wyn couldn’t help but smile. Glancing out of the window, she drew down the high clouds over Nidderdale, tightening them so thickly that nothing remained but a white mistiness.
“Ready?” she asked Robin. They were sitting on the windowsill. The priest nodded. She put her arm tightly around him. And leapt out into the night.
Wyn fulfilled her other promise a few days later.
On a warm evening, Wyn, Robin and Kate walked across the fields to Wath.
“What are we doing here?” Kate asked, as they climbed a wall and dropped down into a field behind the hamlet. Long blades of sorrel came up to their knees.
“You’ll see,” said Wyn.
John and his father were waiting for them at the entrance to Spring Wood. Both of them were as curious as Kate as to what they were doing there. The questions continued all the way through the wood and as they passed alongside the reservoir that lay bathed in the setting sun.
Robin led them to Thwaite’s house. Mary Hebden and Brian Davis were already there, laying out a picnic. Her collie was lying on the grass next to Pip and Wyn finally realized why the dogs looked so similar; the older collie was Pip’s mother. David Ramsgill greeted them, asking what was going on.
“Someone wants to meet you,” said Brian Davis.
Thwaite came out of his hawthorn house, holding a spade. At first Kate, John and his father squinted uncertainly at the hawthorns. Then their eyes widened as they began to see the earth spirit clearly.
“Is that a ghost?” said David Ramsgill.
“Do I look like a ghost?” asked Thwaite, striding up to them and planting his spade hard into the ground.
“You were in Skrikes Wood, that time on the bridge,” said John, glancing at Wyn. “You could see him, couldn’t you?”
“Who are you?” asked David Ramsgill. He jumped back in shock as Naia rose up out of the reservoir nearby, her eyes gleaming blue.
Over the picnic, Naia and Thwaite explained a little about themselves and how John, Kate and David Ramsgill could help them in the dale.
“I’ve seen you often, enjoying my waters,” Naia told Kate. “So you can help me check the streams that run into the Nidd and keep them moving, if you like.”
Kate nodded delightedly.
“And you can help me,” Thwaite told John and David Ramsgill.
Wyn left them, taking the wooden dishes from the picnic to the shore of the reservoir. High on the hill opposite, in the shadow of an ash, she saw Old Mal and Hackfall. Mal’s forehead was still bruised where Denali had struck him, but his eyes burned brighter as ever. She sent her thought to them, and Mal raised a hand, and Hackfall her staff in greeting.
There was a noise behind her. John crouched down next to her, taking a plate and rinsing it in the reservoir.
“You’re like him, aren’t you? And so is that boy, Tawhir.”
Wyn glanced up at John.
“It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone. It’s just … at least now I know why.”
John gave her one of his smiles, but there was none of the old tension in it, only warmth.
“Friends?” he said.
Wyn smiled back at him.
“Always.”
Much later, under heavy stars, Wyn, John and Kate walked back along the river together. Kate was in the middle, her arms around each of their waists. They barely spoke.
Wyn’s thoughts were full of Tawhir. She knew the power the dale had over her was fading. In her heart she was starting to accept the shifting nature of things: the seed of a flower blown from hedge to field; a death in one place becoming a life in another. Water didn’t stay in the dale, nor did the clouds, nor the winds, nor the birds and animals and plants. The spirit of Mrs. March, which had remained to watch over Wyn, was now gone to another place.
The dale was connected to everything. What happened here was like a grain of sand falling on a beach. As small as it was, the beach trembled when it struck.
But there were other grains of sand, other dales that needed her attention, now more than ever.
It was time to leave.
Acknowledgments
This book owes many debts of gratitude; to family, friends and colleagues. My first thanks to Sally Wofford-Girand for her early support and championing of a new writer. Likewise to the wonderful Jo Unwin, to the ever brilliant Carrie Plitt and most of all to Clare Conville. Agent. Fairy godmother. Festival collaborator. Harbinger of champagne. Hurrah!
My great thanks to Sheila Barry and all the team at Groundwood for their thoughtful, inspiring collaboration. They have made the book far better than I could have hoped.
To my friends and family, in particular Sam Enthoven. Forever power to your tentacles, mate, be they directed at music or books.
To the landscape of Nidderdale and all the people working so hard to support the flora and fauna of our dale.
A special thanks to Raj Rai, Kat Johnson and all the team at Harrogate Hospital for giving my wife and I the best gift of all, our lovely daughters.
And last to my wife Megan. With my love and gratitude for your constant support.
About the Publisher
Groundwood Books, established in 1978, is dedicated to the production of children’s books for all ages, including fiction, picture books and non-fiction. We publish in Canada, the United States and Latin America. Our books aim to be of the highest possible quality in both language and illustration. Our primary focus has been on works by Canadians, though we sometimes also buy outstanding books from other countries.
Many of our books tell the stories of people whose voices are not always heard in this age of global publishing by media conglomerates. Books by the First Peoples of this hemisphere have always been a special interest, as have those of others who through circumstance have been marginalized and whose contribution to our society is not always visible. Since 1998 we have been publishing works by people of Latin American origin living in the Americas both in English and in Spanish under our Libros Tigrillo imprint.
We believe that by reflecting intensely individual experiences, our books are of universal interest. The fact that our authors are published around the world attests to this and to their quality. Even more important, our books are read and loved by children all over the globe.
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