The Tides Between

by Elizabeth Jane Corbett

  Secrets! Bridie searched Siân’s face. From Rhys’s earlier response, she’d imagined the story was about the curse. Now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe it was also directed at her?

  ‘You needn’t fret,’ Rhys answered her thoughts. ‘You’ll soon realise I’m both the king and the barber in this story.’

  ‘The barber was a simple, honest man,’ Siân continued, ‘and, by-and-by, the weight of his knowledge caused him to sicken. What if he let the truth slip out? Would the king accuse him of treason? Eventually, he broke down under the strain. King March called for a physician. After careful examination, he made his diagnosis:

  ‘“You, my dear man, are labouring under the weight of a terrible secret.”

  ‘This was no surprise to the barber. But fearing for his life, he dared not breathe a word of the curse. Fortunately, the physician was wise as well as learned.

  ‘“I can see you are sworn to secrecy. Here, then, is my advice. If you daren’t tell a living soul, why not whisper your burden to the earth?”

  ‘The earth? Of course! The barber almost skipped for joy. On leaving the castle, he squatted beside a clump of reeds and whispered King March’s secret to the ground.

  ‘Not many moons afterwards, King March planned a feast. He summoned bards, tumblers and musicians for his guests’ entertainment. One of them, a piper, couldn’t help noticing his instrument was getting past its prime. On seeing a fine clump of reeds growing outside the walls of the Castellmarch, he decided to fashion a new pipe for the occasion.

  ‘The feast went well, for King March was both wealthy and wise. As knife went into meat and drink into horn, the hall filled with wonder and stories. At last, as the evening drew to a close, the piper stepped forward. Bowing to the king and honoured guests, he raised his pipe to his lips. But, oh, the horror! His new pipe was bewitched. No matter how he pressed his lips to the reed, nor how artfully he arranged his fingers, the pipe spoke with its own accord.

  ‘“Horses ears for March ap Meirchion,” it shrilled, over and over. “Horses ears for March ap Meirchion.”’

  Head in his hands, Rhys gave a low moan.

  Siân nudged him, her smile gentle. ‘Hist, cariad, it’s not such a bad ending.’

  Rhys didn’t look up, only shook his head.

  ‘King March rose, furious,’ Siân continued softly. ‘He drew his sword, determined to slay the piper.

  ‘“No! Please, sire? Have mercy. My pipe is bewitched.”

  ‘King March halted, lowering his sword. He had no desire to slay the innocent. Besides, only a fool would resist the promptings of such a powerful enchantment. King March raised his hat and exposed his hairy ears to his guests.’

  Siân reached out, lacing Rhys’s trembling fingers with her own.

  ‘And it didn’t matter, did it, cariad? After all his fear and shame, March didn’t lose the respect of his subjects.’

  ‘I don’t know, Siân. Like you, I can no longer see our journey’s end.’

  ‘Then you must choose, Rhys. Tell the story as you want it to finish.’

  Rhys raised his head, his eyes meeting Siân’s. As if they were alone, in private, the air between them static.

  ‘Some mocked the king, Siân. People can be cruel like that. But those who mattered stood beside him, seeing beyond the curse and the cruelty. For he was a good man, March ap Meirchion, though proud and foolish. He’d only been trying to do his best. In the end, those qualities mattered more than his deformity.’

  ‘You’re not the only one at fault, Rhys. I hid the stone, remember.’

  Rhys shook his head. ‘I knew, Siân. It seems to me I’ve always known. Right from the beginning. Yet I fought against the knowledge, thinking I could outrun a curse, forcing you to emigrate against your wishes, refusing to acknowledge the truth, even when it brought healing to others.’

  ‘And I knew you would take me away, Rhys, before you ever came back to Cwmafan. I looked into Rhonwen’s stone and foresaw a great journey. I’ll not live in fear, Rhys. Or deny my heritage. But,’ she reached out, cupping his face in her hands, ‘I’d rather be here with you, than anywhere else on the earth.’

  They had forgotten her presence. Eyes soft, foreheads touching, sunlight burnished their slender faces. Their hearts had gone to a land far away. Bridie hugged her knees, gazing up beyond the ratlines. She watched a white-winged albatross soar in the sky overhead, heard waves thud against the prow of their vessel, men whistling on the yard arms, the exultant cry of a cabin passenger wheeling in fish.

  Eventually, Siân yawned and stretched, wriggling her toes. ‘Move Rhys, this deck is hard.’

  ‘Rest for you now, is it, cariad?’

  Siân rose, touching a finger to his lips. She was close to her time and, though her ankles weren’t puffy like Ma’s, she often took to her bunk of an afternoon, leaving Rhys and Bridie alone with their stories.

  ‘There’s more to this tale, Rhys. You may tell it with my blessing. Bridie is woman enough to hear your confession. Perhaps, make one of her own? Like a pair of miserable old packhorses, you are, each carrying your own secret burdens.’

  Rhys tensed, holding his breath, as Siân stepped backwards onto the ladder. Bridie imagined him counting as her swollen belly negotiated each slippery rung. Four, five, six, there, she was down. He leaned back against the main mast and closed his eyes.

  ‘Right then, Bridie Stewart. Let’s have it.’

  ‘Have what?’

  ‘I don’t know what you made of all that, bach. But I’m sure you have questions.’

  Bridie didn’t know what to say. Of course she had questions—about the curse and how it was related to Siân. Why Rhys had been so set against Billy’s healing? But he looked so peaceful, shoulders soft, eyes closed, a half smile curving his mouth. She had no desire to bring the tension back to his face.

  ‘It’s all right. Tell me another day.’

  ‘It won’t be easy, bach. I’ll not lie to you. I’ll take no pleasure in the telling. But Siân’s right. It’s time I whispered my secrets to the ground.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t come out of a lake. I know that much. But she knows things, like Rhonwen. Things that have nothing to do with plants.’

  ‘Clever girl. What else can you tell me?’

  ‘You didn’t want Siân to know things, or to be magical, because you feared it was linked to a curse—a curse she somehow inherited at birth. But she is magical. No one can deny it, after what she did to Billy.

  ‘You are right. No one can deny it.’

  Bridie shifted, studying his face. Why wouldn’t he look at her? He wasn’t normally so evasive. It must be a terrible secret. Yet it had brought healing. ‘Please, Rhys, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Remember, I told you. Rhonwen was the seventh child of a seventh child.’

  ‘But … Siân was her mother’s first child. You told me.’

  ‘She was, indeed. I can’t fault your memory. With us, there are other ways for a child to inherit unnatural abilities.’

  ‘Through their father?’

  He nodded, opening his eyes. ‘Siân’s mam was young, Bridie bach, so very young. Shameful, it was, to conceive out of wedlock. Yet no one stepped forward to claim the child. Siân’s mam left the village, alone, and without a word. There was a reason, they said … a terrible reason for her silence … and her flight. Why else would a mother leave her child?’ He stopped, swallowed, sweat beading his forehead. ‘You’ll know the situation, perhaps? From the dragon story?’

  ‘Dragons!’ Bridie blinked.

  Rhys leaned forward, eyes intent. ‘Remember the boy considered a powerful, otherworldly sacrifice?’

  Myrddin? The boy with a poet’s soul like Taliesin? Who’d saved himself with words and magic? How did that relate to Siân? Taliesin had been conceived of a witch’s vengeance. That’s why he’d been thrown into sea. But who was Myrddin’s father? What had she written in her notebook?

  ‘“For hadn’t he been sired by his grandfather,’ Rh
ys provided the answer, ‘or indeed the devil himself?”’

  The devil! She stared open mouthed at him. No, that wasn’t possible. But a grandfather? How could a grandfather also be his sire? They were two separate people. Unless … oh, the meaning hitting her with a thunk. A father forcing his daughter! Bile rose in her throat. She’d heard whispers of such things, children born horribly malformed. But Siân was beautiful. Perfect. How could she spring from such a union?

  ‘And you believe this?’ Her voice shook.

  ‘You heard the story, bach. I’ve run myself half round the world in denial of the possibility. But, now Billy is healing. Yes, now, I have to believe.’

  ‘And it changes things, is that what you’re saying? It shames you?’

  Rhys shook his head. ‘I knew Siân before the words had meaning. So, in one sense, no, it doesn’t change a thing. But in another, it does, because she’s my wife and will bear my child. I don’t want them suffering. I thought if we stayed away from the Valleys, no one would know. But even in London the Welsh community is small. There were whispers. So, I thought, if we emigrated … sailed far across the sea, the whispers would cease. But fool me, even here I can’t escape. For the whispers are within me.’

  Whispers!

  Bridie knew all about whispers. Some days she didn’t know where to turn for the hissing questions in her head. She knew about fearing the truth, too, and being afraid to ask, forever weighing up words like given up, goodbye, and wanted to die. But a father forcing his daughter—that was horrible, too horrible to contemplate.

  ‘It’s a shameful secret, Rhys. Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘The shame isn’t Siân’s. I was a fool to try to make her live a lie.’ He raised his cap, his dark curls ruffling in the breeze. ‘What do you think, Bridie Stewart? Are my horses ears ridiculous?’

  She smiled, trying to match his mood. ‘Hmm … let me think, am I the reed? Or one of your subjects?’

  ‘You are the friend that matters, Bridie bach. Helping me see beyond the curse and the cruelty.’

  Bridie nodded, throat tight. ‘Then I think we can safely say your ears are perfect.’

  For a while, neither of them spoke. It was indeed a shameful secret, even if the shame wasn’t Siân’s. Many would despise her for the knowledge. Though it only made the Welsh couple more wonderful as far as Bridie was concerned. Rhys loved Siân so much he’d tried to rescue her from a curse—that was beautiful, so beautiful it made her throat ache and, although Rhys had dragged her half round the world, Siân hadn’t turned against him. If only Ma could have loved like that.

  ‘May I ask a question of you now, Bridie Stewart?’

  ‘Me?’ She gulped, looking up at him. Had he read her mind?

  ‘You needn’t look so concerned. I’m only wanting your help with the Christmas concert.’ He picked up her notebook, turning it over in his hands. ‘Siân may be confined, as you know. Our baby is due around Christmas time.’

  ‘And you want me to take her place?’

  ‘Why not? We could practise in the afternoons. While she is resting.’

  ‘But … what would we do? One of your stories?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t recommend it. People might compare.’

  Yes, of course, that would be dreadful, everyone whispering and pointing. There’s Bridie Stewart, with her bodice let out round the chest. Who does she think she is? A woman, now, with her monthlies. She ought to know better than to spend so much time with another woman’s husband.

  ‘I expect Siân will be fine.’

  ‘We could prepare an item anyway. Write a ballad, perhaps? Or a poem?’

  ‘A poem! What sort of poem?’

  Rhys shrugged, settling back against the main mast, and fixed his gaze on the pile of canvas at their feet.

  ‘Anything. A topic of your choosing. Though … I had the sails in mind.’

  She didn’t know anything about sails. Alf had wanted her to learn the names, write them in her notebook. But she wasn’t interested. Hang on a second? Alf? The sails! Her mind did a hop and a step. She jumped. ‘You don’t care about the sails!’

  ‘Your stepfather is a good man, Bridie.’

  Bridie looked from his not-quite-there eyes to his hands clutching her notebook, and saw him flush.

  ‘He’s annoying and interfering and always makes me do stupid things. I thought you understood.’

  ‘I do, but—’

  ‘You think it’ll be clever, me writing a poem about sails?’ She snatched her notebook back. ‘You think people will listen and enjoy it?’

  ‘Please, Bridie, you and me, together. It’ll be fun.’

  Why? Why was he even suggesting this? And why was the sun so hot? And why did her stomach swim? And what about Alf? Yes, Alf—this was all his fault in the first place. Everything was his fault—everything. It all came back to Mr-trying-to-be-a-good-stepfather, Alf.

  ‘Sometimes, when a thing means a lot to another person, it can be worth doing, bach, even when you don’t feel like it, and I’d be there to help you.’

  ‘He doesn’t care. You know that, don’t you? He and Ma can’t say a single good thing about my dad. They want me to hate him. As Ma already does.’

  ‘So you, in turn, must hate Alf.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Though he was a good friend to your father.’

  ‘So Ma says. That doesn’t mean I have to like him. Or let him guide me in the colony.’

  ‘Alf’s not a monster, Bridie bach. He knows how much you loved your dad and, although it may feel like he’s forcing a friendship, in his own way, he only wants to help. Only he doesn’t know how to go about it. So, I know this may sound difficult. But I think you may have to show him.’

  ‘Why?’ She turned furious eyes on him. ‘Why are you making me do this?’

  ‘Not making, asking. It would put my mind at rest.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘What do you care, anyway? About Alf and me?’

  Rhys sighed deeply, rubbing a hand across his face. ‘It’s for him and for you and, perhaps, also for me. I miss my own tad, see; I would do it for him.’

  ‘Why, did he make you do silly things?’

  ‘Tad was never silly.’

  ‘He wasn’t your stepfather either, was he, Rhys?’

  ‘Tad was strict man,’ Rhys continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Fair in many ways, but strict with it. Only one thing he asked of me, one thing I wouldn’t, well … I couldn’t do.’ He stopped, hugging his arms to his chest. ‘I’ve fear of enclosed spaces, surely, you’ve guessed.’

  She hadn’t. But it made sense. The hours he spent behind the horsebox, his nightly absence from steerage, his cheeks leaching of colour between decks. So much hurt this afternoon, so many secrets. But, no, she wouldn’t give in.

  ‘What’s it got to do with me, Rhys?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a liability, don’t you think? I’m a miner’s son.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I couldn’t work underground.’

  ‘Why didn’t you work somewhere else?’ It didn’t make sense. The fear did, but not Tad’s insistence, or the husky shame in Rhys’s voice.

  ‘Twelve, I was, Bridie. Tad wouldn’t allow it.’

  ‘That’s stupid.’

  ‘Not to Tad.’ Rhys’s anger rose to meet hers. ‘He was a miner and his father a miner before him. They worked the old Waunlas level, scraping a living from the valley before its wealth was uncovered. When the investors came, he saw it as a reward for his years of hard work. I was to work beside him, as my brothers did, as they are … even now.’

  ‘But … surely he wouldn’t make you? Not if you were frightened?’

  ‘You think not! He beat me, Bridie, locked me in the cupboard, took me down the pit regularly. Said it was a cowardice, something I must overcome.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I left, without a goodbye.’

  ‘Oh.
’

  ‘And I miss him, see, every day.’

  ‘How can you miss him? He sounds like a brute, worse than Gwyddno Longshanks.’

  Rhys shook his head. ‘Tad wasn’t a bad man. Only he cared what others might think more than he cared about the fear in me. In the end, he managed it the only way he knew—with prayer, his belt leather, and with an iron will. But if that makes him like Gwyddno, then, I too am guilty. For I did the same to Siân, forcing her to emigrate against her wishes.’

  Bridie didn’t answer. Rhys had good reasons for making Siân emigrate, even if she hadn’t welcomed them. They were nothing like locking a child in a cupboard, or forcing him to work underground.

  ‘People are not wholly good or bad, Bridie, like eggs and apples. Despite what your Ma says, they are more complex—like me and Tad, like Alf and your ma. Perhaps … even a little like your dad.’

  Still, Bridie didn’t say anything. Blood hammered in her ears.

  ‘I know you’d rather not talk about him, bach. I’ll not press you against your wishes. But Siân’s right. Some burdens are too heavy to carry alone.’

  This was it, a chance to whisper her secret to the ground. Rhys would understand, even if he couldn’t help her, and it would stop the churn of questions. But where to begin? With her dad giving up? Or Ma giving up on him? The reasons she’d given him to stay alive? The knowledge they weren’t enough—that she wasn’t enough. Or simply with the final, terrible words: my dad killed himself.

  No. She couldn’t say it—no matter how deep Rhys’s concern or how soft the sympathy in his kind dark eyes. For once those words had been spoken there was no turning away from them. They would be in the world, like a curse, or the thin reedy voice of a pipe, and, like Rhys, she would do anything, even run to the ends of the earth, rather than face that truth.

  ‘Did you see him, when you went back for Siân?’