by Bond, Nancy
“He is the most uncooperative—!” she exploded frequently to Becky.
“Och,” said Rhian with a shake of her head. “They’re all like that—men.”
“Peter’s hardly a man,” contradicted Jen irritably. “He’s behaving like a little boy!”
Rhian shrugged. She often came up to Bryn Celyn for lunch with Becky. The smoky Welsh dusk crept into the afternoons so early that it was dark by the time school was out. She had to get home, and there were farm chores at Llechwedd Melyn. But she took a lively interest in Jen’s domestic struggles.
“Why you should be wanting to do all that, I can’t see. Me, I am never wanting to learn!”
Jen gave up trying to answer Rhian. Secretly, she wondered herself sometimes. There were days when it rained and she forgot the laundry on the line in the backyard, and the Washeteria was full of squalling babies and mums gossiping about whose daughter was seeing whose son, and why Mrs. Thomas had left her husband this time. She had even burst into tears one gloomy afternoon when she couldn’t get the clean socks to match.
It was so easy to forget that the toothpaste was almost gone or that they were out of cornflakes until it was too late. And she hated lugging groceries up the hill. But she had her own share of pride and stubbornness. She gritted her teeth and kept at it. Admitting she was wrong to her father was bad enough, but admitting defeat in front of Mrs. Davies was unthinkable!
Gwilym Davies began coming round in time for tea two or three times a week. Jen was too preoccupied with supper to think much about it at first, but after a while she grew curious. He never said much, just sat with the three of them, content with a cup of tea. His ears turned quite pink whenever anyone took notice of him.
“But why does he come?” Jen asked Becky one evening.
“He likes being over here, he told me,” Becky replied. “He thinks we’re peculiar.”
Jen snorted. “I suppose we are.”
“Besides,” Becky added shrewdly, “it keeps his mother quiet.”
“Oh?”
“Mmm. She thinks he ought to have friends his own age.”
“But he never opens his mouth except to swallow tea, unless he’s excited about some bird,” Jen exclaimed.
“She doesn’t know that, does she? Haven’t you noticed that she’s always in a better mood when she finds him here? Not that it matters anyway. I like him, and even Peter’s interested in that motorbike of his.”
9
* * *
The Battle of
Cors Fochno
THAT SATURDAY, on the wet shoulder of Foel Goch, the shape of Peter’s life had begun to alter rapidly. It had been shifting ever since he’d found the Key among the rocks of Sarn Cynfelin, the ancient sea wall—if you chose to believe it was a sea wall—but after seeing Taliesin, and incomprehensibly being seen by him across thousands of years, the sensible part of Peter’s mind had gotten lost in the other, darker part. The Key consumed him, it demanded his whole attention, and he awaited its songs impatiently, absorbing their images like the great, gaunt hills absorbed the endless winter rain.
Jen’s stubborn refusal to accept the Key no longer bothered Peter. Becky’s willingness to be persuaded didn’t matter. His father’s preoccupation with the University didn’t irritate him. Bryn Celyn, school, Borth—all became a flat, remote background, unimportant behind the rich patterns of light and dark that the Key wove him into.
For the first time since he’d arrived in Wales, Peter opened his eyes and his heart to the ancient country of the Cymraeg around him. He felt its quickness and strength and knew, without having to learn, the mysteries of its buried past. The hafod on Foel Goch, the vast, checkered expanse of Cors Fochno, the Dyfi emptying into the sea: these were suddenly more familiar to him than his own backyard in Amherst had ever been.
It was so much easier to be left to himself—he need not bother about what people thought. Jen had her hands full, learning the routines of Bryn Celyn and satisfying Mrs. Davies’s rigid standards; Becky divided her time between school and helping Jen; and David was kept busy with university work and his own study of the Welsh language in the twentieth century. What little spare time he had he spent with Jen, planning her studies. Even Gwilym was lost in schoolwork.
So Peter was free to wander with the Key. Taliesin had taken upon himself the education of this other Elphin, the son of Gwyddno Garanhir. The Bard was older, more thoughtful now than he had been with Elphin Rheged. He taught Elphin the secrets of the high russet hills and the shadowed cwms. Together they tended the fish weir on the river and walked the long, silver beach. Life was not so easy here; everyone, even Gwyddno himself, king of what was left of his drowned land, worked hard for food and shelter. But there was a satisfaction in it Taliesin seemed not to have known before.
Whenever the Key called Peter, no matter where he was—at Bryn Celyn, at school—he went with it. And he thought, when he bothered to, that no one noticed he was gone. After all, the outer part of Peter Morgan stayed wherever it was. He was wrong.
One gloomy Thursday, not long after the beginning of the new term, Mr. Griffith, Peter’s schoolmaster, kept him back after school. Mr. Griffith only did it with the greatest reluctance. He wanted to give Peter every chance, but at last he’d had to admit to himself that he could get no response from Morgan.
“I have no essay from you this week, Morgan,” Mr. Griffith said carefully, reading through the next day’s lesson plan. “Have you been working on it, then?”
“Not really, sir,” Peter answered honestly.
“Why not? Have you an excuse?” The teacher kept his voice reasonable, his eyes still fixed on the papers in front of him.
“No.”
“Do you intend to do it?”
Peter was silent, and Mr. Griffith had to look up at last. He was a young teacher, only two or three years out of university, serious about his work. He tried hard to strike a spark of interest among his students that might catch and spread. He had grown up, the son of a coal miner in south Wales, and he knew the difficulties he was facing: boys without money, without interest in learning more than they had to, boys who would go to work as soon as they could. But if he could convince only a handful to go on in school past leaving age, some even perhaps to university, he could feel he had achieved something.
Peter Morgan puzzled him. Mr. Griffith knew Peter was not stupid. He knew Peter did only as much work in school as he could scrape by on and not attract attention. That in itself was a sign of cleverness. But, since the start of this term, Peter had stopped doing even that much. Except for the fact that he was physically present in the classroom, he might as well have dropped out of school altogether. And Mr. Griffith couldn’t understand why.
“I will be forced to give you an incomplete for the week unless you can produce that essay, Morgan,” said Mr. Griffith quietly. “I don’t want to do that, mind, and I should not be having to. It was not a very difficult one, you know. I am sure you could have written something.”
“I didn’t have time, I guess.”
“Oh? Has there been a problem at home? If you have a reason . . .” He knew a little about Peter and could see the boy was unhappy and rebellious. He was willing to be patient for the slightest reason.
But it didn’t seem important to Peter to make up an excuse even though Mr. Griffith was inviting him to. It just didn’t matter. “I don’t have a reason.”
Mr. Griffith sighed and stacked the papers in a precise pile. “Then I have no choice. If there is something I can do to help you, Morgan, I would like to.”
Peter shook his head. “May I go, sir?”
“Yes.”
Peter felt vaguely irritated as he stood at the top of Penglais Hill waiting for the bus to Borth. What difference did it make to Mr. Griffith what he did and didn’t do? He would only be going to school here for a few more months and then he’d never set eyes on the teacher again. He didn’t make trouble, he wasn’t fresh, he came to school every day. If he chose
not to do any work that should be his own business. He dismissed the entire matter from his mind then, expecting that was the end of it.
***
“Peter’s teacher wants to come and see me,” said David to Jen after dinner Friday. They were alone in the study going over a reading list. “I wonder why.” He frowned at David Copperfield.
“Mmm?” said Jen, absorbed. “Why does he want to come?”
“That’s what I just said—why? I hope it isn’t trouble. We seem to be on a fairly even keel right now and it’s very restful. Has Peter said anything to you about school lately?”
“No. He hasn’t said much about anything lately. When’s his teacher coming?”
“Tuesday afternoon after school. Didn’t say what he wanted, but said it was important. Oh, lord, and I thought Peter was sorting himself out at last!”
“Maybe he is and that’s why his teacher’s coming.” Even in her own ears Jen knew it didn’t sound convincing. She realized with a start that she and Peter had lost contact recently; they’d hardly seen each other except at breakfast and dinner. And no mention at all had been made of harp keys, magic, or superstition.
***
Peter’s mind was full of the sense of unrest among Gwyddno’s people. Uneasiness hung like a mist from the Bog over their villages. Men coming out of the north brought word of violence and fighting. The warriors of Maelgwn, Lord of the large and powerful Kingdom of Gwynedd above the Dyfi, were gathering at his court. There had been successful raids on the country to the east, outside Gwynedd. The raiders had come from Maelgwn’s fortress, Dyganwy.
Gwyddno’s melancholy face grew graver daily as he listened to reports brought out of Gwynedd by weary, travel-stained men. Not without cause had the monk Gildas called Maelgwn “The Dragon.” Now he was beginning to itch for activity after one of his periods of peace and contemplation. He was talking of battles and conquests and new lands again, talk that could only be dangerous, and the young men of Gwynedd were listening. Between Maelgwn and Gwyddno’s precarious kingdom lay only the Dyfi, all the defense Gwyddno could count on. His people were too busy with the tasks of keeping alive to build fortresses and earthworks. But Gwyddno had no choice; he began preparing his people for battle.
The singing of the Key shifted subtly; a thunderhead grew between the sun and the earth, darkening the summer sky. The days Taliesin and Elphin shared were lent an urgency. There was so much to speak of, to seek for, and to learn.
“Will there be war? If anyone knows, it must be you.”
“No, I do not know. I know no more than you of what will be, Elphin.”
“My father expects a war, and I shall fight beside him if there is one.” The young man’s eyes flashed even as Gwyddno’s must once have.
“So shall I,” replied Taliesin. “But only because there is no choice. I would not choose to fight if there were one. Life is too precious.”
Elphin regarded his friend thoughtfully. “You are not a coward, I know. Do you believe fighting is wrong, then.”
Taliesin smiled a little and gave his head a shake. “Some men fight, some do not. Of those who do, some have to, and some want to. Maelgwn is the latter, your father the former. But look at me, Elphin. I am a bard and it is in the calling of a bard to sing of kings and battles, to record great courage and glory in war. That is my work, even as a king’s is to lead his men and a taeog must work all his life plowing fields and growing vegetables.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Let us say then”—Taliesin’s smile deepened—“that if there were no fighting I would not have difficulty finding things to sing of.”
***
Peter was out all day Saturday, not telling anyone where he was going or when he’d be back. He ranged the high, windy cliffs south of Borth as far as Sarn Cynfelin, eating a lunch of chocolate biscuits and ginger beer. He managed to get back to Bryn Celyn a bare fifteen minutes before his father came in from Aberystwyth for supper. There were no awkward questions to answer; Jen and Becky were used to Peter’s absences and David was unaware.
But Sunday Peter was not so fortunate. He slipped out after breakfast. However, David stayed at Bryn Celyn, reading the newspapers and working on the article he was writing for publication: “Celtic Languages—The Revival of Welsh in Wales.”
Dinner was at one as usual. At one-fifteen Peter was still missing. He was not in the house; Jen tried his room, but it was empty. Becky said she remembered hearing him go out just before she went down for the papers, but no one had seen him since.
“He knows what time we eat dinner on Sunday,” said David, looking at his watch again. Jen watched helplessly as all the vegetables turned to mush in their pots.
“It’s all going to be horrible in a few minutes,” she stated.
“Well.” Irritation frayed David’s voice. “We’ll just go ahead without him and he can take his chances on what’s left over. Becky, are you sure he didn’t say where he was going?”
“No. He didn’t.”
So they sat down to eat without Peter, his empty place painfully obvious. Becky ate as slowly as she could. Jen knew she was hoping Peter would come in before they’d finished the main course. But he didn’t. Before dessert, Becky asked to be excused, saying she wasn’t very hungry. It was all too evident what David was thinking from his face. Jen’s own mind was full of wild thoughts. Peter was in for a good row when he did get back, but of course he was asking for it; and Jen found she was dreading the confrontation between her father and her brother.
At five there was still no sign of Peter, and Jen had begun to realize how truly worried her father was under his irritation. It was dark enough for lights in the house, and Jen made a pot of tea. When she took David a cup, she found him sitting in the study at his desk, not even pretending to work, just staring out through the curtains. She guessed what he was wondering and shivered involuntarily.
“I’m sure he’s all right, Dad,” she ventured. “He probably went for a walk and got further away than he’d realized.”
David sighed heavily. “I don’t know. Honestly I don’t. I thought he’d gotten over all this. He’s got me baffled. This is such a silly thing to do.”
“He can’t have done anything like run away,” said Jen, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
“For God’s sake, Jennifer, I’m sure he’s got more sense than that!” David exploded. “Where on earth could he go? He doesn’t know anyone very well and there aren’t any trains or buses from Borth on Sunday. No, I don’t think he’s run away, but I’d like to know what he is playing at. If he isn’t back by six, I’m going to have to call the police and begin looking for him—heaven knows where!”
Then, miraculously, they both heard the front door open and close. David was up like a shot and out into the hall, Jen close behind him. Becky had heard, too, and was in the lounge doorway.
Peter looked around at them with an expression of surprise, apparently quite unconcerned. Jen held her breath.
“Well, where the hell have you been?” demanded David, hiding his worry in anger.
“For a walk,” said Peter. Then he added as an afterthought, “Sorry I’m late.”
“Late? Have you any idea how long you’ve been gone? Why on earth didn’t you tell anyone when you left?”
Jen couldn’t remember seeing her father so furious, but she and Becky, who stood pale and wide-eyed across the hall, were more afraid than Peter seemed to be.
“I forgot,” he said.
“Did it never enter your head that what you were doing was dangerous? Where’s your sense, Peter! I had absolutely no idea where you’d gone.”
“I just went for a walk, I told you.” At last David’s anger was beginning to penetrate.
“Where?”
“Along the cliffs.”
“And suppose something had happened to you out there. Suppose you’d gotten lost or fallen and broken a leg? I wouldn’t have had the faintest idea where to begin looking for y
ou! For all I knew you might have been wandering on the Bog or down at Ynyslas. If you’d needed help, what would you have done—would you have known where to go? There are hundreds of sane, sensible reasons why you should never, never go off like that without telling anyone! Stop and think!”
Peter was silent, his face closed. He looked at none of them. Jen wondered if he did indeed know how long he’d been away. He didn’t seem to.
“With everything I have to worry about,” David went on, “I thought at least I didn’t have to worry about you three. You’re intelligent enough not to get yourselves into senseless trouble, or so I thought. Now I find I’m wrong. I didn’t think that by this time I’d have to spell it all out for you and make all kinds of rules, but I see I do have to. After this, Peter, you will not go anywhere outside this house without telling me first. Not Jen, or Becky, but me. Do you understand?”
Peter nodded sullenly.
“If you behave like a baby, I have no choice but to treat you like one. Now you’d better go to your room and do some thinking.”
“Yes, sir.” Peter’s voice was icy.
He really isn’t scared, thought Jen in amazement, as she watched him walk, unhurried, down the hall to his room. The anger went out of David as if he’d turned a switch. He just looked tired and unhappy. It was Becky who broke the immobilizing silence, her voice husky. “Could we have some more tea?”
“I’ll put it on,” said Jen, thankful for action.
“Yes,” said David. “All right.”
***
Whatever Peter’s teacher, Mr. Griffith, came to talk to David about on Tuesday, Jen knew from her brief glimpse of him on his way into the study, it wasn’t an improvement in Peter’s attitude. He smiled gravely and shook hands with Jen when David introduced her, then the two men retired behind the study door, and she was left wanting and not wanting to know what was going on.