by Bond, Nancy
But that was quite different. Then he’d been in control—the ideas, even when they got out of hand—were still his. Now all that had changed. He’d been robbed of his independence and all feeling of control, first by his father who’d landed him here, and now by the object he’d snatched from the sea.
He blew out the candle and climbed into bed, glancing uneasily around at the dark, waiting for it to dissolve, but it didn’t and he fell asleep thankfully.
It was midnight when the Key began to sing. It woke Peter without warning, and as soon as he opened his eyes, he saw the same storm-ravaged landscape he’d seen earlier: tossing trees and the great, flat plain. There, too, was the dyke and near it a low circular building that had been made of thick logs, driven upright into the ground in a closed circle, the cracks between them plastered with a mixture of hard river clay and straw. It had a thatched roof that ran to a point in the middle. From the hut came the sound of coarse, slurred singing, loud and ragged. The Key took Peter inside and he saw that the hut was lit by a single, central fire. The smoke from it hung in the air. Five men lounged around it, each with a huge pot of ale. Their faces were blurred and indistinct with drinking, their mouths wide, their chins wet. A stout, red-faced young man led them all in song, his voice loudest. He half lay on a heavy, brown cloak, the leather belt unbuckled from his waist, a long-bladed knife driven point first into the hard-packed floor of the hut.
The song of the Key shifted up a tone, and the picture flickered. Instead, it became the great sea dyke. Down all its length tremendous waves burst like fireworks—they advanced with a sizzling hiss, exploded with a hollow thundering boom, and burst into showers of luminous white sparks, flinging up into the darkness higher than a man could reach, hesitating, suspended for a moment in the air, before dropping back to join the next onslaught. The whole dyke shuddered as though it were being dynamited. The sea clawed ruthlessly for a hold. Men should have been patrolling it, but the watchmen were drunk and foolish and kept to their hut.
The song was a high, keening wail, steadily building in intensity. In the northern corner of the Low Hundred was a place where a wide, swift-running river came down from the hills to meet the sea. There the dyke had been fortified with special care from water on two sides, and there it should have been guarded most closely tonight of all nights. Through the billowing smoke of the sea spray, two figures were barely visible; they moved with great effort along the dyke, clinging to one another to keep from being washed over it, for the waves already topped it in several places. They came closer—the young bard and the boy from the Great Hall, their faces pale in the gloom, their hair and cloaks running with water. And behind them, the piece of dyke they had just come over crumbled under the pressure of the sea, a jagged hole opened, the wall had been breached! The level of the water on the far side of the dyke was higher by several feet than the land within.
Again the picture changed, and it was dawn. In gray light the wind dropped, but rain continued to fall in long silver threads, making circles on the waves that rose and fell where the day before there had been forest and garden-patch, grass-plain and wattled hut. The waters were still rising, lapping higher on the mound where the Great Hall stood, but it was men now, and not the storm, who were taking it apart. They were feverishly pulling down the huge timbers and lashing them together with thongs. They were building a raft. In the midst of the activity stood the golden man, his face dead in the cold light of morning, his eyes full of tears. Near him were the bard and his boy, crouched on the muddy ground, watching the raft-builders.
Here and there on the gray, uneven surface of the new sea floated dark things: bits of wreckage, farmers’ carts, uprooted trees, terrified animals swimming without direction, out of their element and drowning, pieces of huts with wet and wretched people clinging to them, coracles and other rafts laden with women, children, and men, too stunned and cold to weep for all that had been lost. In a coracle that drifted close to the mound were three of the five men who had been drinking, and the loud one was among them, now stone-sober, his red face gone pasty, his eyes lost and wandering.
From the mouth of the golden one came words, echoing with grief and fury, and in his coracle the other shrank with fear.
Stand forth, Seithenin,
And behold the dwelling-place of heroes,
The Plain of Gwyddno which the ocean covers!
Cursed be the sea guard
Who in his drinking
Allowed in the destroying waters of the raging sea!
A cry from the sea arises above the dykes!
A cry from the sea arises above the winds!
A cry from the sea . . .
Rhian slept curled in a tight little ball like an animal, face hidden in her pillow. Becky was sleeping restlessly, but Jen wasn’t sleeping at all. Her eyes simply wouldn’t close no matter what she tried. She lay staring crossly at nothing for what seemed like ages, then finally, when she could stand it no longer, she sat up in the cold room. No point in disturbing the others, she thought, feeling frantically for her slippers. The floor was so cold it stung the bottoms of her feet. She dragged on her pullover. Perhaps if she could make some cocoa or at least warm some milk, it would put her to sleep. The squeak of the door and the creak of the stairs were covered by the noise of the wind. Downstairs in the hall, she groped among the coats for her own. “Damn!” she muttered crossly as one fell. At last she settled for David’s tweed overcoat and pulled it on thankfully.
She’d forgotten the kitchen lights wouldn’t work and almost gave up and went back to bed, but it was silly to have got this far and admit defeat. The candles from supper were still on the table and she found matches by the stove. By the time she’d lit a burner and put a pan of milk on it, she was feeling quite pleased with herself.
A sudden blast of chilly air made the candle flame gutter dangerously and Jen looked up to see the door of Peter’s room gaping black. He appeared in the middle, moving like a person sleepwalking.
“Peter! You startled me! Did I wake you up?”
He didn’t answer, and for an instant she wondered if he were really awake. She went over to him and his left hand shot out and caught her wrist, his fingers were like ice and clamped tight.
“Peter!” Jen was a little frightened. “Are you all right? What’s the matter?”
“Jen?” His voice was hoarse.
“What’s the matter? Were you dreaming?”
He let out his breath in a long hiss. “Yes—I—no. I don’t know.”
“I just came down to make some cocoa—do you want some?”
“What?”
“Cocoa,” she repeated impatiently. In the light of the candle his eyes had a dazed, faraway look.
“Yes.” He nodded vigorously as if trying to shake something out of his head.
“You’d better put something on over your pajamas. Aren’t you frozen?”
He released her and dove back into his room, reappearing in a moment with his bathrobe. Jen mixed the cocoa and gave him a mugful, then they sat down across the table from each other.
“Was it a dream?”
“Oh, cripes! I don’t know, but it was awful! I went to sleep right off, you know, after we all went to bed, and then . . . and then I think I woke up again. Anyhow, it was dark and there was a storm—”
“There still is,” Jen interrupted dryly. “Or hadn’t you noticed.”
He paid no attention to her. “I don’t know where I was. I mean the place seemed kind of familiar but I didn’t recognize it. There were people in it, but they really looked foreign—old—wearing strange clothes like they might have thousands of years ago. They were all sitting in a big hall and eating, and there were some others who were drunk—”
“What book have you been reading?” Jen inquired skeptically.
“Treasure Island,” said Peter reproachfully. “Don’t interrupt. There was an awful flood. There was a dyke, like the sea wall only made of dirt and boulders, and the sea broke it down and
flooded this whole country. People and animals got drowned in it. Trees came up by the roots and whole houses just got washed away, and no one could do anything to stop it.”
“Peter!” Jen exclaimed sharply. “Don’t!”
“It happened. I saw it.”
“You dreamed it. It was a nightmare.”
Peter stared at her. “I don’t think it was. I’m sure I wasn’t asleep.”
“What else could it have been?” Jen sounded angry. He’d frightened her with his wild story and the way he’d just appeared in the middle of the night. He obviously believed what he was telling her and she didn’t like it. “Well?” she demanded.
Now was the time to tell her, if only he could think of the right words, words that would convince her, words that would make her believe in the Key. With hands that shook slightly, he dragged out the chain and held up the Key.
“What on earth is that?”
“I’m not sure. I found it on the beach near here about three weeks ago. I kind of liked it, so I brought it back with me.”
“So? It looks like a peculiar sort of a key. Why on earth do you wear it?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Peter demanded. “I can do what I like with it. It’s mine.”
Jen shrugged. “Suit yourself. But what has that got to do with your dream?”
Peter was beginning to regret having shown the Key. It wasn’t going to work, but he had to try now he’d started. “I told you it wasn’t a dream. It came from this.”
Jen stared at him in complete disbelief.
“It’s happened before, several times when I wasn’t even in bed. I’ve seen things and I don’t know why.”
“Oh, boy,” said Jen. “You’ve got a good story this time, Peter.”
He was angry. “You asked and I’ve tried to tell you. If you won’t believe me, I can’t help it, but you could try.”
“Do you know how fantastic it sounds? Like you’ve been having hallucinations. I don’t know what you found, but whatever it is you ought to get rid of it.”
“You don’t know what you’re—” Just then their eyes were overwhelmed with light, blinding and stark. It filled the kitchen without warning. Jen’s heart seemed to stop for a moment before she realized what had happened. The electricity had come back on, and they had forgotten to turn the switch off when they left the kitchen after supper. Peter looked dazed and miserable. They both heard footsteps on the stairs, and Peter thrust the Key back inside his robe.
“What in God’s name are you doing up at half-past two?” David demanded, his voice thick with sleep.
“I couldn’t fall asleep, so I came down to make some cocoa and Peter heard me.” Jen was very much aware of Peter’s eyes on her, but she wouldn’t look at him. “It’s the storm,” she said deliberately. “It gave us both bad dreams.”
Peter slumped back in his chair overcome with relief. At least she wasn’t going to tell David about the Key. That much was all right.
“In my overcoat yet! What about Becky and Rhian?”
“Out cold.”
“Which is what you two idiots will be tomorrow if you don’t go back to bed right now.”
“The electricity came on,” said Jen unnecessarily.
“I know. I left the lamp on in my room so it would get me up and I could turn the other lights off. Come on now, both of you. Go!”
4
* * *
To Llechwedd Melyn
THE FARM WHERE RHIAN LIVED, Llechwedd Melyn, was set in a cleft on the northern side of the valley, a collection of buildings huddled together: farmhouse, cowbarn, sheds, with the hill rising steep behind it, and stands of wiry, wind-twisted fir on either side. It was built of stone, whitewashed recently, and it seemed rooted, low and solid in the raw winter ground. Two great chimneys rose at either end of the farmhouse’s slate roof.
About a mile below the farm, the valley turned a corner, shutting off the view out over the Bog and estuary and protecting the farm from the worst of winds and storms. The land was, as Rhian had said, not much good for crop-growing; the hillsides were steep and rocky and disappeared into a narrow, tree-filled cwm. The sound of the river at the bottom of it filled the valley with noise.
There was an awful lot of mud everywhere. Although the rough lane was paved, the asphalt was invisible under great welts of glutinous brown sludge. It sucked hungrily at wellingtons and made walking that much more difficult. Both Jen and Becky were panting by the time they came in sight of the farm, but the stiff climb didn’t seem to bother Rhian in the slightest. She walked with long quick strides like a boy, impervious to the steady drenching rain. Normally, Jen reflected, the rain alone would have kept her indoors. Thank heavens she’d thought to borrow Peter’s boots.
“I am soaked,” announced Becky between puffs. “There hardly seems to be any point in wearing a raincoat!”
“What does it matter?” called Rhian over her shoulder. “You’ll dry right enough and we’re almost there.”
There was water everywhere. The lane ran with it, it came in gouts off the hillside above them, the turf along the track was sodden, and still rain poured out of the sky. In the early hours of morning the wind had dropped—the sudden silence had woken Becky who in turn had woken Jen, so the day had begun at the first gray light in spite of a restless night. Jen’s eyes still felt gritty. But the rain showed no signs of stopping. Even Rhian remarked that it seemed heavier than usual.
David had been a bit reluctant to let Jen, Becky, and Rhian go up to Llechwedd Melyn by themselves, but as Becky pointed out the only real danger was that of drowning, and both she and Jen could swim.
Peter went off by himself after breakfast, so they hadn’t even asked him to go along. Becky, for once irritated with her brother’s unsociability, had declared, “He’s no great loss, really. I don’t see why he’s always in a bad mood!” Jen had said nothing. The picture of herself and Peter drinking cocoa in the candlelit kitchen, the story he had told her, had assumed an unreal, dreamlike quality. She wondered if it had really happened at all, as she thought about it now and tried to pull her hands further up the sleeves of her raincoat with a shiver. She’d begun by putting them in her pockets but had found that the rain simply ran down her sleeves like gutters and had collected in the pockets half-an-inch deep. She was wet with perspiration inside and rain outside and wishing she’d never left Bryn Celyn, when she looked up and saw the tail of Rhian’s mac disappearing around the corner of the farmhouse.
“No wellies in the house, Mam’s rule,” she informed them. “She says there’s more than enough without mopping up all the time.”
They pulled off their boots in a kind of rough porch that had been tacked onto the back of the house. “Da and the boys’ll all be out, then, checking sheep.”
“How can you tell?” asked Becky, glancing around.
“No boots, see?” She pulled open the heavy door and they stepped right into the kitchen, which was warm and dim and smelled of baking. It was a shock after the cold, fresh air.
“Come in then, come in with you, and close door. You’ll have all the heat outside, indeed to goodness!” Rhian’s mother, small and dark like her daughter, stood at the kitchen table, hands covered in flour, a smudge of it white on her cheek. She looked up from the lump of dough she was kneading and smiled at them. “And no need to slam it, Rhian, you’ve woke Gram!”
“Sorry, Mam. It’s Jen and Becky Morgan with me, from where I stayed last night. They’ve come up to see the farm.”
“Picked a grand day for it, you did,” said Mrs. Evans with a laugh. “We’re like to lose ourselves in mud this day!”
“I hope you got my father’s message last night,” began Jen anxiously. “He wasn’t sure they’d get it to you. But there weren’t any buses this way last night.”
“Oh, aye. Mr. Robb from the Forestry came down with it. There is good you were to keep her. She was no trouble, I hope?”
“Oh, Mam!” exclaimed Rhian.
“Wondering how
she’d get back, Gram and me, weren’t we, Gram?”
Now that her eyes were used to the dim light, Jen could see a little old woman sitting in a straight-backed chair by a cavernous fireplace. She was so tiny her feet didn’t reach the floor, but rested instead on a carved footstool. She smiled at them toothlessly.
“Our Gram Jones,” Rhian explained. “You must say hello to her, she loves a bit of company now and then, don’t you, Gram? She’ll not answer, she don’t speak English, Gram don’t.”
“Really?” asked Becky fascinated.
“Never been the need,” declared Mrs. Evans. “Nor did I speak it then until I were sixteen and working at the inn in Machynlleth.”
Jen and Becky both said hello to little Mrs. Jones, Jen feeling rather selfconscious, but the old lady smiled harder and nodded, her eyes bright with interest as she peered at them.
Mrs. Evans went on with her kneading, her hands quick and deft at the thump, push, and fold over. “Sit down by fire and dry out, you should.”
They were glad to. The scrubbed stone hearth had a small iron grate on it, heaped with glowing coals that gave off a comforting heat. And while she sat on the edge of an old wooden settle, close to the warmth, Jen had a chance to look around her at the farm kitchen. She’d never in her life been in one before and she was curious. In Llechwedd Melyn, the kitchen obviously did the service of several rooms. It was good-sized and furnished with an assortment of chairs, the settle Jen sat on, and a low wooden bench along one wall. Six plain wood chairs stood around the huge, scarred table at which Mrs. Evans worked. On the wall next to the door they’d come through was a high Welsh dresser on which a set of blue and white china was carefully arranged, and a big, coal-burning stove sat back in one corner next to an enamel sink and drain board. A little door opened off to the right, and a larger one on the left, both closed to hold the heat in the kitchen. The ceiling and walls were whitewashed plaster with dark, heavy beams. Very little light came through the two small windows that faced the valley; the wall they were cut into was almost a foot thick.