A String in the Harp

by Bond, Nancy

  Dai frowned. “You’ll be back by tea.”

  “Aye.”

  “You going up Pumlumon, then?”

  “We might do. We’ll go that direction, anyhow.”

  He nodded. “I’ll not come hunting you, mind.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need us still?” asked Gwilym. “We did come to hunt sheep after all.”

  “And we have done!” exclaimed Rhian. “Them two won’t look any more—why should we? More than like, we’ve got them all now.”

  At the door Peter paused and turned back. “Becky?” But she was settled happily on the floor near the fire, her arms full of lamb as Bess Ellis held the bottle for it. “I’ll stay.”

  Peter went out after the others. Gwilym and Rhian were arguing amiably about the best way up the mountain, which they referred to as a hill.

  “Well, of course, it’s best if you go up from Ponterwyd,” Gwilym was saying, setting his spectacles firmly on his nose.

  “But we’re not in Ponterwyd then, are we?” said Rhian. “From yere, it’s much the best to follow the reservoir round to the right and go straight up. Quicker if you don’t mind a scramble. We’ve not got masses of time, see.”

  Nant-y-moch, the reservoir, was like a sheet of tin foil blown into wrinkles by a chilly wind. It made a great “U” between the hills where small rivers had incised valleys, then been flooded to make the hydroelectric reservoir. The road met Nant-y-moch at the bottom of the “U” and water spread away from it to both sides.

  They turned right off the road along a well-worn track between the shore and Pumlumon itself. Jen and Peter were accustomed to walking with the other two by this time and had no trouble matching Rhian’s pace. There were two streams to cross on overgrown footbridges, and they passed a deserted cottage. Jen spotted a kestrel just beyond it, standing on the air, its wings stroking fast, its tail angled downward and fanned to hold it still above some small creature. While they watched it, it closed its wings and stooped. When it rose again a moment later, something limp hung from its talons.

  “It’s sometimes called ‘windhover’ because it does that,” said Gwilym.

  “Windhover,” Jen repeated. “That’s lovely.”

  At the end of the reservoir the track led on under a dark, treacherous-looking slide of broken rock. Then at the next stream Rhian started up a footpath that followed the cwm onto Pumlumon itself. There was a magical feeling about setting foot on the massive bulk. They had been skirting it carefully until now—they hadn’t declared themselves. But once begun, they were committed to climb it. It had none of the rugged cliffs and pinnacles of the mountains further north, above the Dovey, but it had all the ancient force of a true mountain.

  The going was steep, but moderately dry, and the path quite easy to follow. The stream came down out of a round little lake, Llyn Llygad Rheidol. Gwilym consulted their map. It lay at the foot of the cliffs that guarded the summit of Pumlumon Fawr, its waters the color of pewter, echoing the metallic sky, but not reflecting it. A patch of white gulls on the far side flawed the surface.

  Rhian let the expedition stop to catch its breath here, before making the final ascent, and Gwilym declared he was starving to death. So Jen unpacked the rock cakes and Rhian dug four oranges out of her rucksack; Peter contributed a jacknife, and they settled themselves on a couple of boulders out of the wind. Jen and Peter cut holes in the tops of their oranges and squeezed the juice into their mouths.

  “What does Nant-y-moch mean anyway?” asked Jen after a bit.

  “Nant,” said Rhian, “stream. And moch is pigs, I think. Mmm. Did you ever make orange-peel teeth?” She slid a piece of peel between her lips and teeth and smiled horribly.

  Jen ignored her. “Pig Stream?”

  “Stream of Pigs sounds better,” corrected Peter, thoughtfully. “There’s a story about pigs in The Mabinogion, that book Dr. Rhys loaned me of Welsh myths. One of the heroes, Gwydion, I think, stole pigs from the king in the south and drove them back to his own kingdom in the north.”

  “You sound learned,” commented Jen.

  Peter shrugged. “He might have brought them through here. That would make the name very old.”

  “But the reservoir isn’t,” objected Rhian.

  “The name could be older than the reservoir,” said Gwilym. “Anyhow, the word is stream not lake. I suppose you could be right, Peter.”

  “It sounds good.” Peter stood up. “Well, come on, let’s get to the famous top of this famous mountain!” He flashed a glorious orange peel grin at them and scrambled over the boulders. “To the summit!”

  It wasn’t much further—over the cliffs and they were on top of Cardiganshire. Spread below, like a giant map, was the country they were familiar with. To the west, it ran out to the gray, hard line of the sea; north, it climbed to the peaks of Snowdonia, lost in cloud: Cader Idris and the Mountains of Eryri. Then, turning south, they could see the rounded humps of the Preselis, where the great blue stones of Stonehenge had been quarried. And finally, to the east, lay England’s border and the hills of Shropshire. Ages ago, before Christmas, Jen had traveled through them to Borth. From the summit of Pumlumon Fawr, they could see almost from end to end of Wales and right across it. Small and wild and old, thought Jen, the wind blowing her hair back from her shoulders, stinging her face.

  Silently, the four of them wandered about on the mountain top, thinking their own thoughts, while under the thick layer of cloud the light faded and the surface of Nant-y-moch turned black. What subdued color the hillsides held drained away leaving them gray, and down in Ponterwyd the first lights sparked. They made Pumlumon lonelier.

  At last with reluctance Rhian said, “We had better be starting down. I did promise Dai, and we will be late even now.”

  “Yes,” said Jen. She started toward the path, Gwilym behind her.

  “No!” called Peter. “Wait!” The command was urgent. They all turned to him where he stood, beside the highest cairn, his eyes fixed on something out across the reservoir.

  “What?” asked Rhian. There was nothing but darkness moving across the country, but Peter was quite still, intent, his body tense.

  “Peter—” began Jen uneasily.

  “Quiet, it’s coming!”

  Again a command. The words tightened around Jen’s heart like a cold iron fist. She gasped. No one moved, no one spoke, no one interrupted. In the vast spreading blackness three tiny cottage lights burned bravely beyond the water. And all around Pumlumon the wind prowled restlessly, neither living nor dead. Jen’s hands, clenched in her jacket sleeves, were clammy. She stared into the dusk until her eyes ached, searching—for what, she didn’t know. It was coming.

  An orb of light, bright, steadily moving, white and silent.

  “There!” cried Peter in a voice that was not his.

  The light came down out of the country, from Foel Goch. The watchers on Pumlumon saw it now in the open, now hidden by forest, lost in a hollow, coming over a rise. It moved like a lantern carried by men, not in a straight line, but following a path through the hills. It was far brighter than any lantern.

  Time wavered like reflections in a river—hours, years, centuries, only minutes, which? They could not take their eyes from the light. It reached the far shore of Nant-y-moch and came across the water without faltering as if it knew an ancient path, as if the reservoir were not there.

  The wind shifted. It blew up the mountain, and on it came a low rhythmic sound. Jen would have believed she imagined it except that it raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It was a mourning, aching moan.

  The light disappeared in the lee of the far shore, and still no one moved. They waited, hardly breathing. For an awful moment, Jen thought the light would come up Pumlumon, right to them, to Peter, when it reappeared, but it moved on only a few paces, then stopped. It hung in the air above the blackness of Nant-y-moch and the sound grew. It rose to an unbearable wailing crescendo, drowning the wind, filling the world until it must burst apart. />
  Darkness and silence. The light and the wailing were extinguished in an instant and Jen, Peter, Gwilym, and Rhian were alone on the windy summit of Pumlumon Fawr.

  Thunder grumbled in the distance, caught somewhere in Eryri. Without a word they turned down the trail, stumbling, hurrying, their eyes still seeing the light, not the path ahead.

  It wasn’t until they arrived breathless at the track along Nant-y-moch again that they paused.

  “What did we see?” asked Rhian in an awed voice. “What was it?”

  But none of them knew. Jen glanced at Peter and saw he had no answer; his face was pinched, his eyes uncertain. Up on the mountain, the Key had gone ice cold against his skin. It had burned him with its coldness. There was no song, but there was a presence so strong it seemed to possess him, willing him to understand. He didn’t.

  “We all saw it—it was there.” Jen was desperate for reassurance, and Gwilym offered it.

  “Yes. We did all see it. But it was Peter first—he knew it was coming. Why?”

  Peter did not respond, and with a mighty effort Jen pulled herself together. It was no good asking Peter questions he couldn’t answer. “Come on, for heaven’s sake. We must be hours late! It’s almost pitch black.”

  “No,” said Rhian. “It’s not so bad as that. It’ll be the storm partly.”

  As if on cue, the thunder shook itself free and rolled down over their heads, making them jump. “No good to wait for the rain!” She was off again, jogging along the reservoir track, and they had to hurry to keep up.

  They hadn’t as far to go as they’d expected, for at the paved road they found Dai and Becky waiting for them in the pickup. The sheep were baaing uneasily in the back.

  “Where have you been? Clear to Shrewsbury and back, is it?” exclaimed Dai. “Thought I’d have to come after you, me.”

  “Sorry,” called Rhian, swinging herself over the side and in among the ewes. “Pass your pack yere, Jen. That’s it.”

  Peter got into the cab next to Becky, who still held the orphan lamb, and left the others to cope with the livestock. Jen found herself sitting on the hump over one of the rear wheels, across from Gwilym, while Rhian crouched behind the cab.

  “If we’re lucky, we may yet beat the rain,” Rhian shouted over the roar of the engine. The sheep, unprepared for the sudden movement of the pickup, skittered about on stiff legs, staggering in terror. Jen fervently hoped they would beat the rain—dry sheep were infinitely preferable to wet ones.

  They almost made it, but as they were turning up onto the Upper Borth road, great hard drops of water hit them, flattening on the roof of the cab and drenching the unfortunates in back. The sheep cried in distress, and Jen felt like joining them, but Dai was stopping in front of Bryn Celyn and the front light was on. Through the uncurtained study window Jen could see her father at his desk. He must have been waiting for them and watching; the door opened before they got to it. Becky relinquished the lamb to Rhian who climbed in front. Dai was anxious to get his little flock back to Llechwedd Melyn and shook his head at Becky’s offer of a cup of tea. And Gwilym raced off to his own house, his windbreaker over his head, leaving the four Morgans alone.

  “I was just getting ready to worry,” remarked David mildly, surveying his damp offspring.

  “The storm came up so fast,” said Jen. “We were on Pumlumon and didn’t get down quickly enough.”

  “Fast? It’s been threatening here all afternoon. You must have been very intent on mountaineering not to have noticed it.”

  “I guess we were.”

  “I found a lamb,” Becky put in. “Its mother was dead, and Mrs. Ellis taught me to feed it. I didn’t go up the mountain, I stayed to look after it. Dai promised he’d look after it specially for me, and I can see it when I go to Llechwedd Melyn.”

  David smiled at her affectionately. “Sounds like a successful afternoon.”

  “It was. Dai bought a hunting dog, but he can’t have it until it’s eight weeks old.”

  “I hope you found the sheep you went for in your spare moments. And what was Pumlumon like? Worth the climb? Maybe I’ll get a chance to go up it sometime.”

  “The view was terrific,” said Jen quickly.

  “Yes,” said Peter. And that was all they’d say.

  ***

  Peter said, “I’ve got the answer—if I can just understand it, Jen.”

  “You mean yesterday, the light we saw?”

  They sat together by the lounge window, the rain outside rattling against the glass. It had rained steadily all day. In the kitchen Becky and Rhian were getting tea and practicing the book reports they had to make next day. Frequent gusts of laughter blew down the hall. Jen remarked that she’d never found book reports very funny, but Peter refused to be distracted.

  “If I knew what the light meant, I’d know what I should do with this.” He held the Key in his hands, turning it over and over, tracing its patterns with his fingers.

  “You’re so sure of that,” said Jen.

  “Aren’t you? You can’t possibly believe the light had nothing to do with the Key, Jen. Not even if you want to. It simply can’t be explained any other way.”

  “Well, no . . .” Jen was still reluctant to let go completely and accept Peter’s Key. But she was rescued by Becky, who yelled “Tea!” just then. The kettle began to shriek and Jen got up. “We’ll have to save some for Dad, I guess. I don’t know why he’s so late.”

  Rhian was slapping butter on slices of bread like a bricklayer shoveling mortar, but she stopped when Peter came into the kitchen. Without preliminaries she said, “I told Da about what we saw on Pumlumon yesterday.”

  “Wish I’d been there.” Becky dumped tea into the pot. Peter had told her what happened. It wasn’t fair not to when she was so much involved. Besides, it was hardly a secret: Gwilym and Rhian knew.

  “Da said he’s never seen one himself, but he knows others as have and he knew right what it was, too,” Rhian continued.

  Peter should have realized someone like Mr. Evans would know. The key to the Key! It was about to fall into Peter’s lap. “What?” he demanded. “What was it?”

  “Cannwyl corph,” Rhian answered, “a corpse candle.” Her effect was all she could have hoped, everyone’s attention was full on her, and she paused, enjoying herself, then added, “There’s all manner of odd things back there in the hills, but then you’ve been hearing my Da saying that.”

  “Corpse candle,” echoed Becky. “Doesn’t sound very nice, what does it do?”

  “Ah, then,” said Rhian. “It marks the path of a funeral, see. Goes just where the dead one goes and wherever cannwyl corph stops, there’s where the grave will be. Whosever it is will die within the year, so my Da tells it.”

  “Funeral!” exclaimed Peter softly. “That’s what it was, a funeral procession.”

  “And the sound—like people wailing,” Jen said. “But it stopped in the reservoir. How could anyone be buried there?”

  “If you could have heard Da and Aled having at each other over that one last night!” Rhian grinned. “A proper row, that was.”

  “But if you really saw it,” objected Becky, “Aled has to believe you.”

  “Not Aled! No fear. But I know I saw it right enough.”

  “All four of us did,” Jen said.

  “I wish I had,” Becky said again, envious.

  David didn’t get in until after six. He was tired and wet and sounded discouraged. “What a miserable day!” he exclaimed with feeling. “Almost not worth getting up for it. Peter, your friend Dr. Owen refuses to give up on us, and I’m afraid he can cause a good deal of trouble if he chooses.”

  “It’s none of his business,” said Becky. “Why doesn’t he just go back to Cardiff where he belongs?”

  “But you’re wrong, it is his business. That’s exactly why he can cause trouble about it. Oh, damn this whole mess anyway!”

  “Poor Dad,” said Jen. “Tell us what happened.”

 
“Gwyn came and talked to me at length this morning. It seems Owen has been making enquiries at the National Library as well as the University. He’s also evidently been doing some thinking. I suppose, Peter, you’ve still got this blasted object?”

  “Yes.” Peter bit his lower lip. “If I didn’t, do you think he’d leave us alone?”

  “Of course, he would. It ought to be very easy to convince him—he’d have to believe me. But as long as you’ve got it, I can’t lie to the man, and I wouldn’t expect any of you to, either. This is obviously terribly important to Dr. Owen. It’s his life in a real sense, and you can’t play games with it. I won’t let you.”

  “That’s not fair!” Peter’s face got suddenly pink. “I’m not playing games and I’m not laughing at anyone!”

  “I told Dr. Owen that Saturday. If you’d stuck around, you would have heard me,” said David impatiently. “But I’m afraid your time’s almost up, Peter. He’s decided you’re the one to talk to. This afternoon he called me and asked if he could see you. Just you.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone. And I couldn’t say no. He’s only going to keep on at us until he’s satisfied. He meant what he said about the investigation. He could do it and it wouldn’t do much for any of us.”

  Peter stared at his father, rebellion all over his face.

  “But that’s awful!” burst out Becky.

  Even Jen was horrified.

  David pushed back his chair and looked at their shocked faces. “All right! You tell me, what’s my choice? What have I got to go on? I honestly don’t know at this point who’s right. I’m not going to be pushed into anything by a man I hardly know and don’t much like, but on the other hand I do respect what he represents and I’ve been trying to teach you that respect. He has a lot of clout, you understand. Dr. Owen knows all the right people, he’s got authority, and I’m going to look pretty foolish if it turns out he’s right. But that’s not important. I’ve done my best to leave this your responsibility, Peter, and part of that responsibility is facing Dr. Owen. I’m sorry, but there it is. I’ve told him you’ll go in to Aberystwyth tomorrow to see him and I won’t listen to any arguments. I have other things on my mind just now. Understand?”