A String in the Harp

by Bond, Nancy

  Time lay thick between the Castle walls, thousands of years of it enclosed in such a narrow space, so difficult to grasp. How did you ever really understand centuries and the layers of people who had all lived and walked in the same place? But Peter had made contact with those people; he couldn’t touch them, of course, nor they him, but those people were as real as the ones sitting in their deck chairs on this February afternoon in the twentieth century. Peter didn’t have to imagine Taliesin’s face—he knew it.

  David was waiting for them on the steps of the National Museum of Wales as he had promised. Jen and Becky were deep in a discussion of castle architecture and domestic problems and Peter was looking thoughtful.

  “Did you like it?”

  “Weird, but nice,” said Becky. “It really looks as if you could move right in.”

  “Yes, it’s been painted and restored and furnished with stained glass windows and paintings on the walls and ceilings. It looks like a giant toy, not so much a castle.”

  “I suppose you want dripping walls and damp tapestries,” said David. “All right to visit, but no fun to live in. The Marquis of Bute restored it in the nineteenth century—he had a lot of money and a good imagination, Gwyn says. We’d better scout up Dr. Owen before it gets any later. Come on.”

  The National Museum was a solid, gray stone building, simple and impressive, and as soon as he set foot across the marble threshold, Peter knew he didn’t want to go any further. It was as if an alarm went off in his head, unmistakable, a warning. It was odd because he could think of no reason. In fact, he’d been looking forward to this visit ever since his father had told him what was in the museum: Welsh folk artifacts of all kinds—pottery, ancient brooches, Roman coins, glass, metal work. And Dr. Owen was a friend of Dr. Rhys, just the person to answer questions.

  “You’ll get left behind, Peter, if you don’t hurry,” said Jen, and Peter couldn’t bring himself to say that he wouldn’t mind being left, so he took a deep breath and tried to ignore the warning.

  In the main hall, David found a guard to ask about Dr. John Owen. The man nodded gravely and led them off rapidly, like a small parade, down corridors, around corners, up stairs and through exhibit halls. The museum smelled of dust and floor polish.

  They came to a halt at the door of an office. “This will be Dr. Owen, then,” the guard informed them and left, touching his cap to David’s thanks.

  David knocked and a preoccupied voice said, “Come?” Behind the door lay a small, tidy office, furnished with a rug and several comfortable chairs and lined with shelves full of small objects in neat arrangement. The man at the desk was deeply absorbed in the typescript he was reading and for several moments, while the Morgans stood uncertainly in the doorway, he didn’t look up.

  “Yes?” he said at last, looking inquiringly at David. “Can I help you?”

  “Dr. Owen?” The man nodded and David introduced himself and Jen, Becky, and Peter.

  “Indeed yes.” Dr. Owen smiled in recognition. “Gwyn Rhys told me you were coming.” He rose and came around the desk to shake hands with them all, disregarding Peter’s obvious reluctance. He was a slim, sandy-colored man with a sharp, clever face, obviously younger then Dr. Rhys, and dressed in a brown corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches and a dark green turtleneck sweater, very cool and polished.

  “From America, Gwyn said, didn’t he? Ah, yes. He said you were spending a year at the University. Like it, do you? It’s quite a decent school, all things considered, though Aberystwyth is rather a dismal hole, don’t you find? Why on earth they put the National Library there, I cannot fathom—so damned inconvenient to get to. Sit down, do. Have we enough chairs for you? Yes, good.” He spoke in a smooth, precise way, giving various words particular emphasis, which made everything he said sound significant. He had only the faintest trace of Welsh inflection. “Now then, what can I do for you? Have you been round the Museum?”

  “Not yet,” said David. “We were hoping you would be able to tell us what we ought to see, so we came here first.” He added, with a glance at his subdued children, “We don’t have a great deal of time, I’m afraid.”

  “That is too bad.” Dr. Owen knit his long fingers together and rested his chin on them, regarding his visitors with pale green eyes. “We have quite a lot of very fine stuff here. I don’t know what Gwyn has told you, of course, nor what precisely you’re interested in.”

  “We’re open to whatever you’d recommend,” said David. “Just point us in the right direction.”

  Dr. Owen looked thoughtful. “Well actually, as it is, I can spare you an hour myself. Show you a few of the highlights as it were. Not terribly satisfactory, I know, but better than nothing, and it wouldn’t do to tire your—to tire you.”

  Jen and Becky exchanged an apprehensive glance. Something about Dr. Owen made them acutely uncomfortable. Peter had sunk down in his chair, his face expressionless, and seemed to be pretending he wasn’t there. The office felt very small and close. David must have noticed it, too, for he said quickly, “That would be very good of you, Dr. Owen, but we don’t want to disrupt your schedule. I’m afraid you must be very busy.”

  Their hopes were short-lived. “Oh, goodness, I can certainly take an hour or so to pilot you about. After all, Gwyn’s friends. I can’t have you thinking us inhospitable,” he said firmly. “But I do think we’d better get right to it if you don’t mind. We’ve an enormous amount of ground to cover. It’s David, isn’t it? Do call me John.” And he led the way out of his office without waiting for a reaction. David shrugged apologetically at his children—it couldn’t be helped, they’d have to make the best of it for an hour.

  Once set in motion, Dr. Owen was evidently difficult to stop, and the Morgans could only trail behind him, looking attentively at the objects he pointed out and pretending to absorb with interest everything he told them.

  Much to Jen’s relief, Dr. Owen addressed his remarks almost without exception to David. She and Becky were glad to let their father cope, for they were both somewhat in awe of the sharp, confident Welshman. Peter simply shut everyone out completely. He stayed as far from Dr. Owen as he could manage and looked at anything but what he was supposed to. This man was a threat; in what way Peter wasn’t sure, but he knew he wanted no part of Dr. John Owen.

  Archaeology was Dr. Owen’s special field of study; he could apparently talk with authority on it for hours. He took his captive audience through halls lined with cases displaying shards of pottery and glass, ancient weapons, rows of black and pitted iron objects, silver jewelry wrought in curious knots and woven patterns. All the while a battle raged in Peter’s head: on one side the power and magnetic attraction of these objects, and on the other the disturbing negative presence of Dr. Owen. He longed for freedom to wander through the rooms on his own, submerged in time. The layers were here, just as they had been in the Castle. Unobtrusively, Peter began to edge away from the others.

  “One of the fascinating things,” said Dr. Owen, “is that new objects are constantly turning up, often in the most unexpected places. The countryside is full of them, but the real trick is in unearthing them once someone’s made the discovery. There are scandalously few people with the training and experience to tell really valuable stuff from the junk, do you see. But it’s rather exciting to go into a farmhouse at the back of beyond—the hills of Brecon or up some valley in Carmarthen—and see something like this.” He indicated a large silver bowl that stood by itself in a glass case. Jen and Becky had been admiring its shape and intricate design.

  “Yes,” said David, “it must be.”

  “That was on the mantlepiece in a farmer’s cottage in Merioneth. The man had not the slightest idea what he had, of course, no idea at all. He couldn’t begin to tell me its age or value, only that he’d found it behind his cowbarn and he rather liked it. He kept fruit in it.” Dr. Owen shook his head in amusement. “An eighth century chalice full of apples and bananas tarnishing in a two-room farmhouse. If I hadn
’t seen it there, it would conceivably have been lost to historians forever.”

  “But if he found it,” objected Becky, “shouldn’t he have been able to keep it if he wanted? I mean, if it was behind his cowbarn?”

  “Keep it?” repeated Dr. Owen, looking at Becky as if he hadn’t quite heard right. “Good heavens, something like this doesn’t belong to any one person, you know, it belongs to Wales. It’s an important piece of history to be preserved and studied. It would be selfish to withold an object like the chalice.”

  “But what about the farmer?” Becky persisted in spite of a frown from David. “Did he get anything?”

  Dr. Owen gave a short, unamused laugh. “Oh, I see. Yes, he was compensated, of course, and that’s his name on the card: Ivor Davies, Abergynolwyn. And he has the satisfaction of knowing that he’s made a unique contribution to his country, which is no small reward in itself. This” —he looked fondly at the chalice—“is where it belongs, and he has something quite adequate but slightly less exotic to put his oranges in.”

  Becky opened her mouth and David said quickly, “What about these brooches over here? They look old.”

  “Indeed yes.” A nod of approval. “Exceptionally fine examples of late twelfth-century work. But you evidently know something about metalwork? It’s rather a pet subject of mine. I located three of those myself eight years ago on a working holiday in Cardigan.”

  “What if the farmer didn’t want a reward,” Becky whispered indignantly to Jen. “Suppose he just wanted the bowl?”

  “Shhhh,” hissed Jen. “He’ll hear you.”

  “No, he won’t. He’s much too busy talking to Dad. I wish we could get away from him before he ruins the whole day. I think we make him uncomfortable.”

  “He seems to like Dad,” said Jen, “and there’s nothing we can do. It’s nice of him to spend time with us when he’s probably got hundreds of other things he’d much rather be doing this afternoon. You’ve got to pretend to be interested even if you aren’t.” Jen felt strangely raw, irritated, herself, at the way the trip was turning out, aware they couldn’t change it, but cross. Becky always put her feelings into words before Jen could and that irritated her, too.

  And Peter. Jen glanced around for him and saw that he had wandered off to the other side of the gallery and was ignoring them. David was too busy listening to Dr. Owen to notice, and Becky was looking glum. It was unfair of Peter to escape.

  “Go tell him to come back here,” she ordered Becky.

  “What?” Becky followed her stare. “He’s being smart.”

  “He’s being rude. Tell him to come back before Dr. Owen misses him.”

  “But—” Becky was going to argue, but one look at Jen’s face and she went. Jen watched the two of them talking earnestly together. Peter glanced in her direction, then quickly away when he saw her looking. She felt left out. A brown head and a coppery one bent together in front of jagged chunks of rock, carved with strange symbols, and she, Jen, didn’t know what they were saying. For heaven’s sake, all Becky had to do was bring Peter back with her, thought Jen resentfully. But at last they came, Peter with reluctance, looking over his shoulder, then at his feet, never at Dr. Owen. Becky was composed.

  “What took you so long?” demanded Jen in a furious whisper. “What were you doing?”

  They weren’t going to tell her, and her resentment increased. Dr. Owen’s voice went on and on, quiet, self-assured, explaining the process of dating silver, and the day that had begun so beautifully was ending horribly. Jen didn’t want to let Peter and Becky off; she didn’t like herself much and she felt very isolated. They trailed behind the two men, from room to room.

  “And these are examples of early musical instruments. Some of the best in the British Isles. It’s rather a superb collection, don’t you think?”

  Jen sighed and glanced resignedly at the cases of crude flutelike instruments and small drums. Then a click in her mind; beyond the cases was a low platform on which were mounted harps of different sizes and shapes, the very simplest to the most elaborate.

  David noticed them, too, and remarked.

  “Ah, yes. But the earliest instruments are in the cases. Nothing among the harps earlier than seventeenth century, and precious little that old. They’re wretchedly perishable, of course. So far we’ve had to be content with descriptions and stone carvings, nothing more substantial. But, of course, that’s part of the game, isn’t it? There is always a chance something will turn up. Bit by bit, we’re completing our picture.”

  “I thought harps were Irish,” said David. “I mean originally.”

  “In derivation perhaps, David, but they’ve been used in Wales since the third and fourth centuries. At a conservative guess. Welsh harp music is quite famous, I’d have thought. And the bardic tradition is very strong here.”

  “Of course.” David nodded as if he should have known.

  “Not much of interest here actually,” said Dr. Owen, moving quickly down the row of harps. “Those on the end are quite modern. One needn’t look hard to find any number of them.”

  “What are these?” David paused in front of a case that displayed some small miscellaneous-looking objects.

  Jen’s heart gave a sickening lurch when she saw he was looking at half a dozen metal keylike things. Peter and Becky came close, as if drawn by a magnet. Becky bit her lip nervously, and Jen could feel the tension in Peter like a sudden charge of electricity.

  None was exactly like Peter’s, but the three children knew before Dr. Owen answered David’s question that they were looking at harp-tuning keys.

  “Modern tuning keys,” said Dr. Owen, without much interest. “For tuning harp strings. We have them here simply as illustration. It’s unlikely that they’ve changed a great deal through the centuries, but somehow we’ve never been able to locate a truly old one. God knows they should be relatively indestructible, but whether because they’re so small or because they were important enough to be buried with their owners, we haven’t turned any up.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t have them?” suggested David.

  “Oh, indeed they did, David. They appear in one of the earliest codes of Welsh laws. It was criminal to steal the tools of a man’s trade, do you see, and harp and tuning key were the tools of a bard’s trade. We know they existed.”

  Jen stared at the keys with unwilling fascination. Dr. Owen was right—they had changed very little. None of these were as elaborate as Peter’s, but the size and shape were right: three hollow metal arms joined in the middle to form a Y.

  How on earth had Peter found one? Where had it come from? Was it really old? Jen had to concede he knew what he had now, the proof was irrefutable.

  “Jen?” David was calling her from a great distance. “Dr. Owen has to get back to work. We all appreciate the time he’s taken with us, and I’m sure you want to thank him.”

  A hard, cold knot tied itself in her stomach. If she could just bring herself to do it, Jen could solve the problem of Peter’s key once and for all, right here, right now, with Dr. Owen. Very quickly, without turning around, she said, “What if someone found an early harp key? Could you tell how old it was?”

  “Jennifer—” began David.

  “Well, of course, we could tell how old it was. We have very sophisticated dating methods for pinpointing such things exactly. I ought to be able to tell within say fifty years myself merely by looking. It would be quite a find, but so far nothing.”

  “If there were an earlier one though, it would belong here, wouldn’t it? In the Museum.” Jen dared not look at Becky or Peter.

  “Without question. It would provide us with an invaluable link to a part of the past we still know sadly little about. It would be terribly important to historians and music scholars. But look here, I’m dreadfully sorry to have to leave you like this, but I really must get back to my office. So nice to have met all of you and I do hope you’ll enjoy the rest of your visit. Do give Gwyn my regards, David, will you?” />
  Jen faced Dr. Owen with a kind of desperation. She had to catch him now or lose her chance. “Suppose someone found something really old. It might be possible to find one of those keys, mightn’t it? I mean you might come across one lying around outside somewhere?” She couldn’t let herself think about what she was saying, she had to say it quickly. “Suppose I found it, or my brother, for instance. We ought to bring it to you, oughtn’t we? It wouldn’t belong to us, really. Any more than the chalice belonged to that farmer. It would be our duty to give it to you.”

  David was frowning at her in perplexity. Peter, behind him, had gone absolutely rigid, his face white, his left hand clenched in his pocket, his right clasped protectively to his chest.

  Dr. Owen, who had been rather absently answering Jen’s questions, his mind already gone ahead to the work in his office, brought his attention back sharply to her. His eyes narrowed speculatively; her desperation had reached him. “Now, what’s this? Have you actually found something? There’s a chance it might be important—worth a look anyway.” He glanced at David. “Naturally there are a lot of nonessential artifacts—spearheads, bits of pottery, now and then a coin—but we’ve got to check every possibility. Sometimes even children

  “It’s so hot in here!” said Becky suddenly, and burst into tears. Jen’s moment was gone, the focus shifted to her sister. Other people in the hall looked at them, then quickly away. David went down on one knee beside Becky, his hand to her forehead.

  “Don’t you feel well, love?” he asked anxiously. Becky shook her head, gulping with sobs.

  Dr. Owen was clearly not prepared for anything of this kind, but kept his composure. “Hadn’t she better go outside? Perhaps some air—?”

  “I’m sorry,” said David brusquely. “I’m sure she doesn’t want to upset anyone, she’s obviously not feeling well. I think fresh air would be a very good idea.” He turned back to Becky with concern. “Do you want a cold drink? Or something hot?”

  “No,” she said, her voice blurred with tears. “I’d like to go outside, please.”