‘“I am content with my lot, Father, and to earn my bread in peace.”
‘“Peace! Contentment! What about when our enemies invade?”
‘“Our prime enemy has been neglect. And you have allowed it to prosper.”
‘Now Elffin was a kindly soul and, despite his honest tongue, it grieved him to disappoint his father. He tended his hives, herds and flocks always hoping to win a measure of approval. But Gwyddno Longshanks was a hard, exacting man and, no matter how plump Elffin’s cattle, nor how fine his fleeces, nor how clear and golden his honey, he took no pride in his son’s achievements.
‘“Tonight is May Eve,” Gwyddno announced. “The door to the otherworld will swing open. If you cannot make a fortune in my salmon weir tonight, I will wash my hands of you.”
‘Now the salmon weir was Gwyddno’s pride and joy. All day, Elffin toiled in preparation for the catch, resetting the weir poles and ensuring the wattle fences were in good working order. But his efforts were doomed from the outset. For that night, a vengeful witch cast her ill-born child into the sea. When Elffin and his father rode down to inspect the weir the following morning, they found nothing but a bulging leather bag hanging from its poles.’
‘“You have broken the luck of the weir!” Gwyddno sneered, turning away in disgust. “Was a son ever so unfortunate?”
‘Elffin’s eyes stung as he pulled the leather bag from the water. Why must it always be like this? Could not fortune once favour him? To his surprise, the bag squirmed in his hands. Opening it, he found a baby nestled in its folds, a baby boy so beautiful Elffin’s heart filled with love for him. Imagine his wonder and surprise when the child began to prophesy.
‘“Elffin of steadfast heart,
Be not dismayed,
For I bring blessing.”’
A shiver worked its way up Rhys’s spine as Siân took on the otherworldly voice of the child. She may not have been cast upon the sea by a vengeful witch, but she’d been abandoned at birth and raised by a wise woman, and there were rumours, terrible rumours that her birth was cursed.
‘“Small and weak, as I am,
Washed up by foaming waves,
In your day of trouble,
I will prosper you,
More than three hundred salmon.”
‘“Diawl!” Gwyddno lurched backwards, making the sign of the cross for protection. “The child is bewitched! Throw it in the water!”
‘Elffin turned, ready to fling the bag back into the weir. But as he looked down into the child’s innocent face, his breath caught. Such beauty, his eyes so deep, soulful. A poet’s eyes. How could they possibly abandon him?
‘“He may not be what you expected, Father. As I am not what you expected. But I will not destroy him. Look, how he smiles! His brow so radiant. I shall call him Taliesin.”’
‘Misty May morning,
Elffin’s misfortune,
Take this tale as your own,
Wisdom and wonder,
Wealth for the taking,
Find yourself in his story.’
‘As the child grew, it became apparent that he and Elffin were as unalike as earthenware and crystal. For although Taliesin possessed an honest heart, he showed no great talent for husbandry. He spun tales of flower maidens, bubbling cauldrons and otherworldly swine; named the stars from north to south; and wrote verse that none could ever rival. But although Elffin listened to these fantasies with wonder and pride, he doubted Taliesin would ever aid him in his day of trouble, let alone prosper him more than three hundred salmon.
‘It was not until thirteen years hence that the original prophecy was put to the test.
‘Having been summoned to Maelgwn’s Christmas court, Elffin took no pleasure in the invitation, remembering only his awkward years as a squire in which he’d failed to distinguish himself. But as Gwyddno bade him attend, he set out determined to make the best of the situation. This he might have done, if not for the straightness of his tongue. For when others complimented Maelgwn’s beautiful wife, Elffin pointed out that his wife, though not of noble birth, was every bit as pure and lovely.
‘“Furthermore,” the hapless Elffin ventured, “I have a poet at my hearth who outshines your learned bards in both wisdom and eloquence.”
‘On hearing Elffin’s boasts, Maelgwn flew into a rage. Summoning his guards, he had Elffin fettered in and thrown into a dungeon. He sent his son, Rhun, in search of evidence.
“‘Go! Find this upstart poet, seduce this man’s wife. If Elffin cannot support these claims, his life will be forfeit.”
‘But Maelgwn had not accounted for the poet being a thirteen-year-old lad. Nor that the wily Taliesin would hide his mother’s virtue behind the pots and pans of the scullery. He certainly didn’t expect that same lad to slip into Deganwy Castle and cause his bards to start babbling like fools.’
‘“What is this?” Maelgwn demanded. “Why do you utter such drivel?”
‘“We are bewitched.” The chief bard swung round, pointing at Taliesin. “The lad in yonder corner is a demon. Every time he plays blerwm, blerwm on his lips, our speech is confounded.”
‘“Who are you?” Maelgwn demanded as Taliesin walked towards the dais. “From whence do you hail?”’
‘“I am Chief Bard to Elffin,”’ Siân replied, in the boy’s clear unbroken voice. “My home country is in the region of the summer stars.”’
‘“I see you have some powers and there is no denying your eloquence. But tell me, what is your purpose here among us?”
“‘Elffin ap Gwyddno,
Lays in dark imprisonment,
Secured by thirteen locks,
For praising his bard,
I, Taliesin,
Chief Bard of the West,
Have come to release him,
From his fetters.”
‘“Chief Bard of the West, a bold claim indeed. How do you expect to release him, small one? With the strength of your song?”’
‘“Words will indeed prove the key. But where is my father? Fetch him, if you dare?”’
‘Here was sorcery indeed. Maelgwn’s thumbs pricked. But he daren’t refuse the challenge, lest he lose face before his subjects. Elffin was brought shackled from his prison.
‘“So Elffin, it seems your poet is more boastful than you are. I confess to a curiosity. I am therefore willing to indulge his claims. If he can release you from your fetters, you will be allowed to return home unpunished. If not, your precious poet will join you in the dungeon.”
‘Elffin trembled at these words. What a fool he’d been to speak out against Maelgwn. Taliesin would be imprisoned. There could be no other outcome. For no matter how profound his son’s words, nor how powerful his imagination, they could not unlock his fetters.
‘Taliesin was not so easily discouraged. He raised his arms and directed his voice above the roof trusses.’
“‘Come strong creature,
From before the flood,
Without flesh, or bone,
Without vein, or blood,
Come strong creature,
From field and wood,
Who is strong, and bold,
Who is dumb, and sonorous,
Come! From the earth’s four corners,
Mighty wind! Come!”’
‘As Taliesin spoke, a wind swept through the hall. The great fortress of Deganwy shook on its foundations. Circling his father, Taliesin touched a finger to each wrist and ankle. The fetters sprang open. Elffin’s chains fell tinkling to the ground. He rose, shaking his head in wonder and amazement.’
‘“My son, my clever son. You have won us our freedom.”
‘“A son is worth more than three hundred salmon. A poet’s soul is to be prized above riches. For knowing this, Elffin ap Gwyddno, you will now be rewarded. Go! Dig a hole in the place I command you. A cauldron of gold will be the recompense for your misfortune.”’
‘Misty May morning,
Elffin’s misfortune,
Take this ta
le as your own,
Wisdom and wonder,
Wealth for the taking,
Find yourself in his story.’
‘Elffin returned to his father’s estates a wealthy man,’ Rhys continued, as Siân’s voice dropped to a hum. ‘Though, he cared less about his new found prosperity than the son riding at his side. And although they were as unalike as earthenware and crystal, and although Taliesin showed no great talent for husbandry, they lived out the remaining days of his childhood in peace and prosperity. When the time came for Taliesin to take his place in the world of men, he did so without equal. So that Gwyddno never again doubted his son’s luck at the weir that misty May morning, or cursed his misfortune ever again.’
Satisfaction rippled through the crowd as the story drew to a close, followed by an eerie suspension of sound. Head bowed, Rhys lowered his fiddle and waited. The clapping started, slowly at first, ragged, as if people were waking from an enchantment. It gained momentum, like a wave. Rhys let it break over him. He’d done it. Danced in the face of his fear. He felt flushed, new born, curiously alive. If he could hold onto this moment, he might yet make it through the voyage.
He jumped down from the bench, held out a hand to Siân. She laughed, skipping down beside him and cupped his face in her hands. Her kiss was light, inviting, her eyes a wick of invitation. Rhys wove his fingers through the dark muss of her curls.
‘Arhoswch!’ he mouthed the word. Wait sweetheart.
Releasing Siân, he stepped back and raised the fiddle to his chin. What to play? A jig perhaps, to meet the thrum of his pulse? No. Siân liked ‘Ar Hyd y Nos’. He’d play a jig later, and a polka. He’d play his whole repertoire. Steerage would take an age to settle. He’d not be making love to his wife with his mess mates still seated at the table.
Through half-closed eyes, Rhys watched Siân shrug into her nightgown. Heard Pam’s muttered endearments as she tucked blankets around her children. Watched Alf’s final, plodding round of the deck. He was a good cleaning constable and, as far as Rhys could tell, a good stepfather. Though, Bridie clearly didn’t think so. Ignoring Alf’s ‘good night’, she crawled into bed beside Annie.
Only Tom Griggs remained at the table now. Why, at this late hour? What could the man possibly have to say to him? Rhys changed his tune, to Suo Gân. A lullaby. Surely Tom would take the hint?
No. Tom Griggs was like a dog with a bone. Once he had something in his mouth, he’d not let go. Rhys watched the privy line dwindle down to nothing, heard bedboards creak as people settled for the night, the watch officer’s slow, measured tread. Still Tom didn’t leave the table. Rhys turned slowly to face him.
‘Not bad, Welshman. Not bad, at all.’
Rhys nodded, unsmiling. How was this happening? He should be making love to his wife, not keeping Tom Griggs company.
‘Alf’s no prince. But he’s plain and honest. Not overly burdened by intelligence.’ Tom chuckled. ‘I liked that bit. And Bridie’s got her head forever in the clouds.’
‘Stories don’t come made to measure, Tom. I told you that at the beginning.’
‘A hard, cruel father? Disappointment? Seems there’s something of your own story in there too, Welshman?’
Rhys paused mid stroke, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. ‘Me? In tonight’s story? No, mistaken, you are, Tom.’
‘You can play the innocent, lad. But we had an old Welsh dairyman down our way, so I’ve heard that tale loads o’ times. I don’t recall much about fathers and sons in his version.’
‘Perhaps that is your lesson for tonight?’
‘Nah! My old man was as soft as soap.’
‘And mine was neither a landowner nor a fisherman.’
‘Nothing criminal, I’d stake me life on it. But you’re running. From the girl’s father, perhaps? Or something political? ’Ere! You ain’t been running round calling yourself Rebecca, ’ave you?’
Rhys grinned. He couldn’t help it. The man was sharp. And it seemed he had a knowledge of Welsh politics: the Rebecca Riots was a long-running protest in which the men of Carmarthen fashioned themselves as women.
‘No dressing up for me, Tom. In London, I’ve been, these past years, earning my bread in peace. Mind, Tad was a great one for politics. He’d not have found fault if I’d called myself Rebecca.’
‘But he did find fault? You’ll admit that much Welshman?’
Fault. Yes, his father had found fault—and he was running. As if the admission were a plug being lifted, Rhys felt the evening’s euphoria drain out of him, knowing he’d pace the deck again that night with terror squeezing his bowels, wondering whether this journey, his dream of a new life, was worth the struggle. Or whether he should have swallowed his pride, as Siân had urged, and found the courage to face his father.
No, there were still the rumours. Always the rumours.
‘We are all of us running, Tom, from poverty and disappointment, perhaps, some of us from cruel expectations. It takes courage to see ourselves truly, to take pleasure in our modest achievements. I’m not sure I have that courage. Or that I will ever now find it. Pray God, I am wrong. That like Elffin, I will one day find wealth where I least expect it.’
Chapter 8
He’d stood up for her! Rhys had stood up for her. Putting Alf in his place by telling the story of a big, dim-witted man who’d raised a child other than his own. And what a story! The change that had come over Rhys. Bridie couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment but, somewhere between Rhys’s awkward interruption of Alf and the final, soft-voiced conclusion of his tale, a transformation had taken place. Gone was the the white-knuckled clench of Rhys’s fists, the haunted uncertainty in his eyes. As he’d jumped from the bench, face alight, and held out a hand to Siân, it was like seeing the real Rhys for the first time.
As Bridie lay awake—eyes wide, skin tight, trying to capture each fluttering elusive butterfly moment of change—she found a new and fragile knowledge. She knew that this Rhys, the dark-eyed storyteller who had stood up to Alf, was the same young man who had helped her at the watergate and that now, despite every outward sign to the contrary, this Rhys, the real, storytelling Rhys, wanted to be her friend.
She woke the next morning in a flurry of excitement. Rhys wasn’t in steerage. But that wasn’t unusual. He often rose with the dawn. She gobbled down her porridge, grabbed her notebook, and scrambled up the hatchway ladder. She wouldn’t have to sit with the single girls anymore, or watch the sailors pick at oakum. The real Rhys would call out to her from the base of the main mast. Siân’s eyes would dance as they had during the story last night. There would be no more stilted conversations, no more answering on Rhys’s behalf. It would be like the last few weeks had never happened, as if they had always been friends and, as they spoke the language of friendship, then maybe, just maybe, Rhys would help with her notebook again.
On tiptoes, Bridie scanned the deck. Siân sat at the base of the main mast. But Rhys was nowhere to be seen. Not at the galley; the breakfast line had dwindled down to nothing, and the privy doors stood wide open. Where on earth could he be? Turning back to Siân, she felt a twinge of unease. The twist of the Welsh girl’s hands suggested she’d been sitting there for ages.
All through the long sweaty hours of the morning, Bridie waited for Rhys to reappear, ignoring Alf’s pleas for help and Annie’s beckoning hand. Not daring to turn her head or leave her place, lest she miss his return. She heard the ship’s bells toll the half hour. Saw the mate taking a noonday sighting of the sun. Still Rhys didn’t appear, not at dinnertime, or later on when Siân slipped behind the horsebox with a plate of food. Bridie watched another round of mess duties, the day’s shadows lengthening through the long, slow sand-trickle of the afternoon. When Rhys finally appeared at suppertime, his face had grown tight and white and sad again.
Bridie’s throat ached with unshed tears.
What had gone wrong? she asked in the toss and turn of that night. What terrible burden was Rhys carrying? Something so heavy
that neither Siân nor his stories could rescue him. When would the real Rhys come back again?
She worked like an automaton, all through the next day—and the ones following. Dragging a comb through the tangled mess of her hair each morning, toying with the food on her plate during meals. She found it so hard to concentrate during mess duties that she mixed the currants in with their pease ration.
‘What’s got into you?’ Ma snapped. ‘Anyone would think you were a child Lucy’s age.’
‘Sorry, Ma. I’ll pick the currants out.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. No one wants your fingers in their pudding.’
Bridie’s face burned. She bit her lip, as Tom Griggs made laughing jokes about their strange mixed-up dinner of currants and pease. Once the dishes had been cleared, Alf added to her woes by remembering their voyage log.
‘Right,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Enough silly mistakes. You need a project.’
Project! Bridie’s fingers curled.
‘You saw the men taking a noonday sighting of the sun, the ship’s boy up in the crow’s nest. He’s looking for something. Can you tell me what?’
‘No.’
‘Come on, you know the answer. We discussed this at breakfast time.’
‘A whale, p’haps?’
‘No, Bridie. It isn’t a whale.’
‘An albatross?’
‘It’s Corvo, remember? The northern most island of the Azores. You were going to write some observations. Have you done that for me?’
Bridie nodded, pressing her lips together. Why must Alf always do this? Why must he always be so mean? Hadn’t he learned anything from Rhys’s story? She didn’t want to write down his stupid earthenware observations, or talk to him ever again.
‘Well, where are they?’ Alf reached for her notebook.
‘No! Not in there.’ Bridie delved into her pinafore pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper on which she’d listed the nine main islands of the Azores. They belonged to Portugal, whereas the Canary Isles belonged to Spain. It seemed the sea was full of small, scattered islands, like a giant’s hopscotch, all belonging to different players. It might have been interesting if Alf wasn’t so intent on turning her notebook into a voyage log.
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