by Rhys Bowen
“Used to be a private estate, built by that crazy English lord. Tiggy, or something, isn’t that the name?” Barry asked.
“It’s Bland-Tyghe,” Charlie said, “and it’s pronounced ‘tie,’ you ignorant burke.”
Barry grinned. “They’re all round the bend, aren’t they? Didn’t the old man used to walk through the village in his pajamas, spouting poetry?”
“Didn’t I read that his daughter has turned it into some kind of hospital or sanitarium?” Charlie said.
“Loony bin, more likely,” Barry commented. “You want to watch out, Betsy. If they take you in there, they might never let you out again.”
“I’m not going to any loony bin,” Betsy said anxiously.
“No, you’ve got it all wrong,” Emmy interrupted hastily. “It’s a New Age center.”
“New age center?” Charlie asked. “Like an old folks home, you mean?”
“New Age,” Emmy repeated. Really, these people were just perfect. Totally clueless. “They’re into all kinds of cool stuff—alternative healing, psychic research. That kind of thing. I haven’t been there yet, but I’ve been in contact with them and they sound like they’ve got great facilities and staff.” She smiled hopefully at Betsy. “I’ve only just arrived in the area. I need to get settled in and then maybe you and I can go take a look down there. See if it’s the kind of thing you’d like to do, okay?”
“Okay,” Betsy said. “I don’t mind going to take a look.”
“I’d better get going,” Emmy said. “I’ve got a lot to do. I need to scout out all the other villages for people with psychic ability, and I need to find myself a place to stay. The hotel’s too expensive. You don’t know of any good b-and-bs that don’t charge an arm and a leg, do you?”
“We don’t go in for tourism too much up here,” Charlie said. “There’s the holiday cottages up on what used to be Morgan’s farm, but they’re not cheap, I hear.”
“I’d rather just find a room somewhere, and someone to cook me breakfast,” Emmy said. “I imagine I’ll be working pretty hard.”
“I know a room that’s going to be empty,” Betsy said suddenly. She gave the men an excited glance. “Well, there is, isn’t there? If Evan Evans moves into that cottage, Mrs. Williams will have a room free.”
“Has he really decided to move out?” Charlie asked. “I know he was thinking about it, but he might change his mind at the last moment, seeing as how Mrs. Williams looked after him so well.”
“If he says he’s going to do it, he will,” Betsy said firmly. “Anyway, we’ll ask him next time he comes in.”
“Fantastic,” Emmy said. “I’ve got your phone number, so I’ll call back and see. That would be so convenient if I could get a room in Llanfair.” She pronounced it Lan-fair.
The other occupants of the bar smiled.
“What?” Emmy demanded.
“It’s called Chlan-veyer,” Betsy said. “That’s how we say it. But don’t worry about it,” she added. “No foreigners can get it right.”
“Chlan-veyer,” Emmy repeated. “I’ll get it right next time. You’ll have to clue me in, Betsy.”
“Okay, miss.”
“Call me Emmy.” She gave another warm smile. “I’ll be in touch, Betsy.”
She had just come through the archway into the main bar when the door opened and the butcher came in, now without his blood-spattered apron. He looked around the room and his gaze fastened on Emmy. As he let out a torrent in Welsh, Emmy moved hastily out of the way. She had forgotten about this cleaver-wielding maniac, who might make living in this village hazardous.
Betsy answered him back in Welsh and he relaxed as he came up to the bar.
“Sorry, miss,” Betsy said, “but Evans-the-Meat is a little out of sorts this morning. A little matter of a bet we had over the football match last night. He was betting on Manchester United but Liverpool won, like I said it would.”
“A football match?” Emmy couldn’t help smiling.
“Mr. Evans thought the ref was unfair. He gave their best player a red card when it wasn’t a foul,” Betsy said. “But now he’s going to pay up like the gentleman he is.”
Evans-the-Meat gave a sheepish smile. “It breaks my heart to see a quality team like Manchester United beaten by a load of louts like Liverpool, that’s all. Oh, well, nothing we can do about it now, is there? So you’d better make it a pint of Robinsons then, Betsy fach.”
Emmy slipped out of the pub as Betsy poured the beer. She hurried up the village street, past the rows of identical gray cottages, each with a brightly painted front door, shining brass letter box, and white scrubbed front step. Some had boxes of spring flowers growing outside—splashes of yellow daffodils and blue hyacinths against the gray stone. All very nice and bright and quaint, she thought. Cut off from the real world. Wouldn’t he laugh when she told him they hadn’t even heard of New Age!
She passed a schoolyard with a school building beyond it. Through an open window she heard the sound of young voices chanting. It sounded suspiciously like times tables, although it was in Welsh, of course. Beyond the school were the last buildings in the village—two chapels. They stood across the street, mirror images of each other in solid gray stone. Each of them had a notice board outside, announcing them to be Capel Bethel and Capel Beulah. Each notice board had a biblical text on it. One said, “Whoever asketh, receiveth,” while the other stated, “Not everyone who says Lord, Lord will enter into the kingdom.”
Emmy smiled to herself as she walked past. They really were clueless up here in the boonies. Presumably they hadn’t even realized that the two biblical passages contradicted each other.
The hotel he told her about dominated the crown of the pass. It was, as he described it, a hideous giant chalet, complete with gingerbread trim and geraniums in boxes—completely out of place on a bleak Welsh mountainside. The discreet stone sign had the words “Everest Inn” carved in gold letters. The car park beyond was dotted with expensive cars so that the Jag didn’t look out of place. She walked up to the car and got in.
He looked up expectantly. “Well?”
She pushed back her hair and a big smile spread across her face. “We hit pay dirt in one. She’ll be just perfect.”
Chapter 3
Excerpt from the book The Way of the Druid, by Rhiannon
Who Are the Druids?
To many outsiders the word Druid conjures up a white-robed, bearded gentleman offering a sacrifice on Midsummer Night at Stone Henge. However, this picture does not represent the truth. Stone Henge was built long before the first Celts set foot in Britain and there have always existed Druid priestesses as well as priests. And while Druids did offer sacrifices, they were not blood hungry.
Who then were the Druids? In the golden age of Celtic spirituality, they were a priestly ruling class, advising warlords, predicting the future. They were the keepers of the ritual but far more than priests. They were involved in politics as well as sacrificial ritual, prophesy, and control of the supernatural world. They were the teachers, the keepers of the oral tradition. They were the philosophers, shamans, physicians, and judges. They were feared and venerated.
Julius Caesar wrote of them, “They have the right to pass judgment and to decide rewards and punishments.”
We know from ancient writings that Druids underwent a twenty-year course of study before they became fully fledged priests.
There were three subcasts to the order of Druids:
Bards who were the poets, singers, musicians, genealogists, and historians;
Ovates, who were the diviners and read the omens;
Druids, who were the priests and judges.
Caesar also wrote: “they know much about the stars and celestial motions and about the essential nature of things, and the powers and authority of the immortal gods, and these things they teach to their pupils.”
In many ways they were similar to the Hindu Brahmins and the Chaldean astronomers of Babylon. They were then, as they
are now, the bridges between the two worlds—seen and unseen.
“Please don’t cry, Mrs. Williams.” Constable Evan Evans reached out awkwardly and patted his landlady’s large shoulder. This gesture only made the generously built woman sob into her handkerchief even more loudly.
“I feel like I’m losing a son,” she said. “The son I never had, you were.”
“It’s not like I’m going far. Just across the street, isn’t it? And you’ll be able to see me every day. I might even drop in for a cup of tea and a chat.”
“But it won’t be the same.”
“Come on now.” He put a tentative arm around as much of her shoulders as he could reach. “It’s time I moved on, isn’t it? I can’t go on being spoiled by you all my life. I’ve got to learn to stand on my own two feet.”
Mrs. Williams made a supreme effort to collect herself. A big shuddering sigh went through her body. “I suppose so,” she said. “I knew it would have to come someday.”
“Believe me, I’m not completely thrilled about it either,” Evan said. He bent to pick up a cardboard box of possessions from the floor of his room. “Cooking for myself after eating your good food for over a year—that’s going to take some getting used to. I’ll probably be as thin as a rake within a month.”
“You could come back here for your dinner anytime you wanted. You know that,” Mrs. Williams said.
“I know.” He smiled at her fondly. “But that’s not the point, is it? Bronwen won’t make any commitment until I’ve had a taste of living on my own.” He hoisted the box onto one shoulder and started down the stairs. “She’s perfectly right, of course. I went from my mother’s cooking to yours. I’ve never really lived alone before. How can I hope to be a husband and father someday if I don’t know how to look after myself?’
“So you’ve made up your mind? You’re thinking of marrying Bronwen Price and settling down then, is it?” Mrs. Williams’s tears were forgotten. She hurried down the stairs behind him. “We all knew you were courting her, of course, but …”
“I’m thinking about it,” he said. “I’ve turned thirty, haven’t I? About time I settled down.”
“You could do worse, I suppose,” Mrs. Williams said grudgingly.
“Worse? I don’t think I could do much better. She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?”
“I won’t deny that. A nice-enough girl. Sensible too. But a little too serious, if you ask me. A man needs some fun in his life. He needs to go dancing from time to time. Let his hair down a little after a hard day’s work.”
“Are you saying I should be dating Betsy then?” He knew perfectly well what she was hinting. She had dropped the same hint, none too subtly, at regular intervals since he moved in.
“Betsy Edwards? Betsy-the-Bar? Escob annwyl! Indeed, I am not suggesting a thing like that. Betsy’s too flighty to make any man a decent wife. What you need is someone who is a good homemaker and knows how to have fun too.”
She reached around Evan to open the front door for him. A swirl of cold wind flapped the pages of a book on top of the pile. “Now, I know you haven’t liked to ask out our Sharon while you were living with me. I can understand that. A young man likes some privacy in his romantic dealings. He can’t go courting when the girl’s grandmother is supervising. But now you’ll be living on your own, why don’t you take her out—with my blessing? Then you’ll see—a lovely little cook, Sharon’s turning out to be, and a lovely little dancer too.”
Evan was glad his back was turned to his landlady so that she missed the involuntary wince. Sharon, Mrs. Williams’s granddaughter, giggled like a schoolgirl at everything he said, and she was too enthusiastic, all over him, constantly pawing at him. It was like fending off a Saint Bernard puppy.
“I’m sure she’ll make some man very happy, Mrs. Williams,” he said, “but you know me. I’m a quiet sort of bloke. I don’t go in much for dancing and that kind of thing. Bronwen suits me quite nicely, thank you.”
He stepped out into the blustery day, holding onto the objects on top of the pile that the wind threatened to snatch away. It was supposed to be spring, he thought gloomily, and yet there was another dusting of snow on top of Mount Snowdon last night. He glanced up at the mountain as he crossed the street, but the peak was hidden under a heavy blanket of dark cloud. On the other side of the street was a long row of terraced gray stone cottages, typical of any mining village. Evan put down the box outside the door of number 28. The only thing that distinguished it from numbers 26 and 30 was that it had a red front door. Such splashes of outlandish color were frowned upon in rural Wales. The last inhabitant, a widow called Mrs. Howells, had always been considered flighty on account of the red front door. She hadn’t shown any other signs of exhibitionism during her fifteen years of tenure, but the local women were still apt to speak of her as “Mrs. Howells Number Twenty-eight, you know, the flighty one with the red door.”
Now she had gone to live with her daughter in Cardiff, of all places—another sign that her judgment was slightly off. Evan had heard through the grapevine that the cottage would be vacant and he had jumped to take it. Not that there would have been too many others waiting to fight over it. The population of Llanfair, like that of most other Welsh villages, was aging and shrinking. No work since the slate mines closed and no prospects for young people apart from waiting tables and making beds at nearby hotels.
He fitted his key into the lock, turned, and pushed the door open. He picked up the box and stepped inside, conscious of the damp-cold feel of an empty house. It was so different from the warm friendliness of Mrs. Williams’s front hall that he looked back longingly across the street. He wondered how long it would be before he could turn this place into a home. So far he had a couple of saucepans and some mismatched china, courtesy of Bronwen, a vinyl-topped table, two chairs from the discount hardware emporium in Bangor, and a single bed. Hardly a promising start.
Evan carried the box through to the back room, which would serve as his living/dining room, and put it on the floor. The brown, pockmarked linoleum made the room feel even colder and gloomier. A rug would be one of his first purchases. Maybe he’d go down to Bangor or Llandudno this afternoon and do a rapid tour of the thrift shops. With his police constable’s salary he couldn’t afford to buy the kind of furniture he’d like all at once. He reminded himself this was just a temporary measure. With any luck the permits would come through for him to rebuild the old shepherd’s cottage in the national park above the village. This was his dream and he had been waiting patiently for several months with no word from the national parks people. When he finished building his own cottage, then he could start furnishing it the way he wanted—he corrected himself—the way Bronwen would want it. She had already expressed her willingness to live there, although she hadn’t mentioned anything about marriage. Neither had he, for that matter. It was still a hole in the ice around which they skated cautiously.
He wished that Bronwen were here to help him. But his department was on a cost-cutting drive and had started scheduling him to work every other weekend. This meant he was doing this on a Tuesday, when Bronwen was teaching at the village school. Evan took out a lamp, looked around the room for somewhere to put it, then stood it, for want of anywhere better, on the mantelpiece. He was just heading back to Mrs. Williams’s when the front door opened and Bronwen burst in.
“Haven’t got very far yet, have you?” She stood in the doorway, looking around disapprovingly. She was wearing a navy fisherman’s sweater that made her eyes look almost the same color, and her cheeks were pink from walking in the wind. Strands of ash blond hair had escaped from her long braid and blown across her face.
“What are you doing here?” Evan asked, his face lighting up. “You haven’t abandoned your pupils to come and see me, have you?”
Bronwen grinned. “It’s lunchtime and I’ve got two volunteer mothers on lunch duty, so I thought I’d pop over and see how you were doing.” She pushed back her wisps of hair as she surveye
d the room. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t remembered it as quite so dreary.”
“That’s because last time you saw it it was full of Mrs. Howells’s furniture. And this floor was hidden under a rug,” Evan said. “I think a rug better be one of my first purchases, don’t you? As well as pots and pans, chairs and tables, a wardrobe, chests of drawers—oh, and food.”
“They’ve given you a raise then, have they?”
“I thought I’d go down to Bangor this afternoon and have a look at the charity shops. It’s the only way I’ll get this place furnished.”
Bronwen nodded. “And you don’t want to spend a lot on stuff that might not fit in the cottage someday.”
“If the permission ever comes through.” Evan sighed. “There’s some old codger on the board who thinks that all national park property should be allowed to return to wilderness.”
Bronwen came across and wrapped her arms around his neck. “It will come through. Just be patient. And in the meantime you’ll be gaining valuable experience at survival techniques.”
“You make it sound as if I’m about to cross Antarctica on foot.” Evan chuckled. “Of course, with my cooking, I may die of starvation pretty rapidly.”
“Get away with you.” Bronwen released him and gave him a playful slap. “You know very well that you’ll be eating at my place half the time, and Mrs. Williams will be popping round every day with a little something she’s baked, just to make sure …”
“She already invited me to dinner any night I felt like it,” Evan said. “But I’m going to be strong and resist temptation. And no take-aways and frozen meals either. I’ve got that cookbook you gave me for Christmas and I’m going to learn to cook. You’ll see.”
“I’m very proud of you,” she said. “I shall expect to be invited to dinner in the—”
She was interrupted by the beep of Evan’s pager. He took it from his belt and grimaced. “Oh, no, that’s all I need. HQ on the phone for me.”