The Owl Service

by Alan Garner

  There were three rooms over the stables, and because the stables were set into the hill the backs of these upper rooms had entrances at ground level. One of the rooms was used for table-tennis, and Roger had never been in the other two.

  “I’ve looked in the big room,” said Gwyn. “Huw lives next door and he has the only key, and the other’s padlocked: none of the house keys fit – I’ve tried.”

  “They ought to,” said Roger. “Let’s see.”

  It was a heavy brass Yale lock, and no key fitted.

  “You’ll not shift that,” said Gwyn.

  Roger put his ear to the door. He beckoned to Gwyn. They both listened.

  “There’s someone moving about inside,” Roger whispered. “Ali?” he called. “Ali?”

  “Is that you, Alison?” said Gwyn.

  There was no answer.

  “What did you hear?” said Roger.

  “Swishing,” said Gwyn. “No footsteps.”

  “How would she get in?”

  “There may be a connecting door from Huw’s place. But that’s locked.”

  “Ali,” Roger called. “Ali. Don’t muck about.”

  “Perhaps there’s a way up from the stable,” said Gwyn.

  They went to look but found nothing, although they still heard the soft movement over their heads.

  “I’m going to try the window,” said Roger. “Give us a hand with this ladder.”

  They reared the ladder against the wall in the yard, and Roger climbed up while Gwyn stood on the bottom rung.

  “I can’t see much,” said Roger. “The glass is all cobwebs inside. There’s the door opposite – and something square, not very big, a crate, I think: and something black in a corner, but I can’t see. It’s an old junk room, that’s all – nobody inside.”

  “It could be dead leaves in a draught,” said Gwyn. “There’s plenty by the door.”

  “Where’ve you tried?” said Roger when they put the ladder back in the stable.

  “I said – all over the house, inside and out: even the kennels, and they’re full of chicken wire.”

  “I’m going to use up my film by that stone,” said Roger. “Coming?”

  “What about Alison?”

  “She’s bound to be back for dinner in half an hour,” said Roger. “And if she’s not around the house we may find her by the river.”

  “But you don’t realise,” said Gwyn.

  “I do,” said Roger. “I was being dim on purpose. She couldn’t have stood much more this afternoon, didn’t you see? She was dead pale.”

  “What do you think it is?” said Gwyn.

  “I don’t know,” said Roger. “I do know I wasn’t imagining the row in her bedroom last night. The other business, when I thought I heard that shout – it could have been too much heat, I suppose. But last night was enough for me. If you’d seen it you’d have run.”

  “And this afternoon?” said Gwyn. “On the lawn?”

  “Freak squall?” said Roger.

  “Oh, man—”

  “All right.”

  “And the plates going blank?”

  “The glaze—”

  “And smashing? And the billiard-room? And the pellet in the trap? And the owls? And flowers? And The Mabinogion?”

  “The whation?” said Roger.

  “That book,” said Gwyn. “It’s called The Mabinogion:‘the clear-running spring of Celtic genius’, Dicky Nignog says. I used to think it was a load of old rope.”

  “Didn’t mean much to me,” said Roger. “What is it? Welsh myths?”

  “Sort of,” said Gwyn. “I wish I’d taken more notice.”

  “This is the stone,” said Roger, “and the hole goes right through it.”

  “And the meadowsweet grew all around-around-around,” said Gwyn, “and the meadowsweet grew all around. You say the hole frames the trees on the Bryn? By, it does, too!”

  “How is it you knew what the stone was if you’ve not seen it before?” said Roger.

  “I know every cow-clap in this valley,” said Gwyn. “I know where to look for sheep after a snowstorm. I know who built the bridge to Foothill Farm. I know why Mrs May won’t go in the post office. I know how to find the slates that point the road over the mountain if you’re caught in a mist. I know where the foxes go when they’re hunted. I even know what Mrs Harvey knows! – And I came here for the first time last week! Makes you laugh, doesn’t it? My Mam hates the place, but she can’t get rid of it, see? It feels like every night of my life’s been spent listening to Mam in that back street in Aber, her going on and on about the valley. She started in the kitchen here when she was twelve. There was a full staff in them days, not just Huw trying to keep the weeds down.”

  “Where’s everybody gone to?” said Roger. “Most of the houses in the valley look empty.”

  “Who’s going to rent to us when stuffed shirts from Birmingham pay eight quid a week so they can swank about their cottage in Wales?”

  “Would you want to live here?”

  “I ought to be in Parliament,” said Gwyn.

  He sat on the stone. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s a long way for a spear. But you heard it, didn’t you? And then he screamed.”

  “I don’t count that. I’m only going on what I heard last night,” said Roger.

  “And the lawn this afternoon.”

  “You think it’s haunted, then?”

  “Ghosts don’t eat mice,” said Gwyn. “Whatever chewed that mouse could chew me or you.”

  “I give up,” said Roger. “But if there’s any more of it I’m off, I’ll tell you.”

  “How will you manage?” said Gwyn.

  “Dad’s steerable when you know how.”

  “And the new Mrs Bradley?” said Gwyn. “A kind of family honeymoon, is it?”

  “Mind your own business,” said Roger. He spiked the tripod into the earth and set up the camera.

  “What happened to your real Mam?” said Gwyn.

  “I told you to mind your own business.”

  “She around then?”

  Roger looked over the camera at Gwyn. “I’ll fill you in,” he said. “If you open your big mouth once more I’ll fill you in.”

  “OK,” said Gwyn.

  “Right.”

  Gwyn concentrated on scratching his initials in the stone, and Roger bent to read the exposure meter, adjusted the lens.

  “Not haunted,” said Gwyn after a while. “More like – still happening?”

  “A tenth at f. 16,” said Roger. “I’ll go up and down either side of that: can’t afford to change the stop, though. What did you say?”

  “Gwydion. One of the Three Golden Shoemakers of the Isle of Britain. That’s him.”

  “What are you blathering at?” said Roger.

  “He was the wizard who made the wife out of flowers for Lleu Llaw Gyffes. It’s coming back to me. We had it read at school a couple of years ago. Gwydion made Blodeuwedd for Lleu, and she fell in love with Gronw Pebyr—”

  “That’s what Alison said.”

  “And Gronw killed Lleu here on this very spot: then Lleu killed Gronw, and Blodeuwedd was turned into an owl—”

  “The problem is to line the camera up with this hole, so that you can see the trees,” said Roger, “but you have to be at least seven feet away, or you can’t have the stone and the trees both in focus together. I want to use the rock texture as a frame for the trees in the distance. It should make an interesting composition.”

  “Think of it, man!” said Gwyn. “A woman made of flowers and then changed into an owl. The plates, man! It’s all there if we could see it!” He jumped down and ran towards the house.

  “Where are you off to?” shouted Roger.

  “Huw the Flitch! ‘Mind how you are looking at her.’ He knows! The flamer!”

  Roger went back to his camera. The light was fading quickly, and he decided to take the last frames of film on long exposures. He used the delayed setting for these. When he pressed t
he button the camera whirred for several seconds and then the shutter clicked. Whirr and click. Whirr and click. And the shadows seemed to come out of the river.

  “Taking photos, are you?”

  Roger yelped with fright. Huw Halfbacon was standing behind him. He was carrying some branches on his shoulder, and Roger had not heard him come along the river bank.

  “What do you think you’re doing, creeping up on me like that? I could have bust my camera!”

  “I was bringing sticks,” said Huw. “For the fire. Yes.”

  “Then why don’t you fetch them from the wood?” said Roger. “It’s choked with dead timber.”

  “We don’t go there,” said Huw.

  “Why not?”

  “Private.”

  “Private? Don’t be stupid: that notice is to keep hikers out, not you.”

  “It is private family why we don’t go in the wood,” said Huw. “That is all.” He swung his load to the ground and went down on one knee beside it. “You taking photo of the Stone of Gronw, are you?”

  “No,” said Roger. “The Albert Memorial.”

  “There’s clever,” said Huw.

  Whirr. click.

  “Do you mind?” said Roger. “I’m trying to finish this before dark. Gwyn’s looking for you.”

  Huw began to suck at an unlit pipe, turning the charred bowl.

  “It is old stone,” he said. “The Stone of Gronw.”

  “I said, Gwyn’s looking for you—”

  “Not a bad man,” said Huw. “He is not all to blame. She is setting her cap at him, the other man’s wife.”

  “The one who was supposed to be made of flowers?” said Roger.

  “Yes?” said Huw. “Blodeuwedd? You know her? You have raven’s knowledge? Yes, she is setting her cap at him, the fine gentleman: Gronw Pebyr, Lord of Penllyn.”

  “Don’t you people round here talk about anything else?” said Roger. “You’d think it was the only thing that’s ever happened in this valley.”

  Whirr.

  “That is right,” said Huw.

  Click.

  “Finished,” said Roger.

  “Lleu is a hard lord,” said Huw. “He is killing Gronw without anger, without love, without mercy. He is hurt too much by the woman and the spear. Yet what is there left when it is done? His pride. No wife: no friend.”

  Roger stared at Huw, “You’re not so green as you’re grass-looking, are you?” he said. “Now you mention it, I have been thinking – That bloke Gronw was the only one with any real guts: at the end.”

  “But none of them is all to blame,” said Huw. “It is only together they are destroying each other.”

  “That Blod-woman was pretty poor,” said Roger, “however you look at it.”

  “No,” said Huw. “She was made for her lord. Nobody is asking her if she wants him. It is bitter twisting to be shut up with a person you are not liking very much. I think she is often longing for the time when she was flowers on the mountain, and it is making her cruel, as the rose is growing thorns.”

  “Boy, you’re really screwed up about this, aren’t you?” said Roger. “And you’d have me as bad. I’ve been here a week and I’ve got the ab-dabs already. There’s a world outside this valley, you know. It’s not cherubs blowing their gaskets and a whale in the top left-hand corner.”

  “I been outside the valley,” said Huw. “Once. That’s why I’m Huw the Flitch.”

  “I don’t see the connection,” said Roger. He telescoped the tripod and slung the camera round his neck. “I must go,” he said. “I’ll be late for dinner.”

  “I am coming up the house,” said Huw. “So I can tell you.”

  “All right,” said Roger. “I’ll buy it. Why are you called Halfbacon?”

  “We are very short of meat in the valley, old time,” said Huw. “And there is a man in the next valley. He has some pigs. But he is not letting anyone have them.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I go to him and I ask him to let me take the pigs in exchange for what I will give him.”

  “Fair enough,” said Roger. “Did he agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you took the pigs, and that’s how you got your nickname.”

  “Yes.” Huw laughed. “I am tricking him lovely.”

  “What did you give him for the pigs?”

  “Twelve fine horses,” said Huw. “With gold saddles and gold bridles! And twelve champion greyhounds, with gold collars and gold leashes!”

  Huw staggered with his laughter.

  “You did that swap for a few greasy pigs?” said Roger.

  Huw cackled, showing his teeth, and grabbed Roger’s arm for support.

  “You’re mad,” said Roger. “You’re mad. You’re really mad.”

  “No, no,” said Huw. He wiped his eyes. “I am tricking him!”

  “Then I’m mad,” said Roger. “Mad for listening to you.”

  “No, no,” said Huw. “You see – them greyhounds, and the horses, and the trappings and all – I was making them out of toadstools!”

  CHAPTER 10

  T owards the end of dinner Gwyn stacked the plates in the hatch and then went to light the fire in the sitting-room. He fiddled with paper and twigs and fed them strips of birch bark. Then he rearranged the logs in the basket by the hearth. Then he lit the lamps. He propped more wood against the fire back, trying not to send smoke into the room.

  Roger and his father came through from the dining-room and settled themselves in easy chairs. Gwyn put the hanging lamp on the chimney. He had to work it gently into place inside its shade so that the asbestos mantle would not break. He kept the wick low to warm the glass. Then he rearranged the logs in the basket and brushed the hearth. He turned the lamps up slowly in case they flared.

  Then he put more wood on the fire and rearranged the logs.

  “I think we’re suited now,” said Clive. “Thanks a lot.”

  “I’ll make sure the lamps are right, Mr Bradley,” said Gwyn.

  “They look fine to me,” said Clive.

  “And I’d better bring you some logs.”

  “We’ll manage,” said Clive. “I’d toddle along now, if I were you.”

  “Oh – Yes—”

  “Good night, Gwyn.”

  “—Good night, Mr Bradley.”

  “One small point, old son.”

  “Yes, Mr Bradley?”

  “If you’ve anything you want to tell my daughter, let’s all hear it, shall we? Let’s have the brussels sprouts served straight, without notes inside them, eh?”

  Gwyn stood in the dark at the foot of the stairs between the dining-room and the sitting-room. He dragged his fist against the wall, trying to hurt himself.

  “Had any luck with the snaps?” he heard Clive say through the open door.

  “I don’t know,” said Roger. “I’ll see tomorrow when I develop them. If they come out it’ll be no thanks to that Halfbacon moron. He was trying to louse it up all the time. Honest, Dad, you’ll have to do something about him. What I was telling you—”

  “Yes, I know,” said Clive. “But he’s harmless.”

  “Is he, though?” said Roger. “He’s as strong as an ox. And he’s a real nutter.”

  “Yes, but he’s been here all his life: he knows the ropes. And where would we find anyone for the job? The place would go to pot.”

  “I’d not lose sleep over that,” said Roger.

  “And there’s Margaret, too,” said Clive. “She wouldn’t have much of a holiday if we had to go scrounging for a new man.”

  “Of course,” said Roger. “I was forgetting Margaret.”

  Gwyn stepped back into the shadow as someone came down the stairs. It was Alison. She carried a small lamp, and when she reached the bottom of the stairs Gwyn moved forward so that she could see him. He waved towards the dining-room. Alison hesitated. She looked at the open sitting-room door. Clive and Roger were still talking. She looked at Gwyn, and again at the doorwa
y, and then Gwyn watched her pass by him, within a yard of him, into the sitting-room, and watched her close the door.

  “Hello, old stick,” said Clive. He rose when Alison came in. “Now where is it? Aha. Here’s a little nonsense I picked up in town today. Thought it might amuse the lady. And I managed to get you your tracing paper, by the way.”

  “Oh Clive, how sweet,” said Alison. She took the box. “You are a darling.”

  Gwyn ran through the dining-room and the lamp-room to the kitchen, and stopped when he came up against the sink. He stood still. Then he turned the taps on, and leant with his hands flat against the sink and watched the water rise. He squirted some detergent into the sink, picked a dirty wineglass from the draining board, and began, slowly, methodically, to wash up. Then he dried everything and put it away. He made hardly any sound from start to finish and it was only when he went to hang the cloth to dry that he noticed his mother by the stove.

  She sat on a kitchen chair, gazing at the closed firedoor. One hand gripped the towel rail, her wrist flexed as if she was trying to unscrew the rail, but her fingers slipped on the bright steel.

  “Hello, Mam,” said Gwyn. “Didn’t see you there. Shall I light another lamp?”

  “No, boy,” said Nancy. “Leave it.”

  “Not like our own fire at Aber,” said Gwyn. “Is it, Mam?”

  “I should never have come,” said Nancy. “I shouldn’t have come. It’s not right. Never go back, boy. Never go back.”

  “What’s the matter, Mam? Got a bad head?” said Gwyn. He could not see her eyes, but he heard the rasp of her breath that was as close as she ever came to tears.

  “If there was justice in Heaven,” said Nancy.

  Gwyn put his arm round his mother’s shoulder.

  “What’s wrong, Mam?”

  “I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Then why did we?” said Gwyn. “How did they find our address?”

  “He gave it her. Then she wrote.”

  “We still needn’t have come.”

  “It’s good money, boy,” said Nancy. “But I should never have listened to her soft soap.”

  “Who had our address?” said Gwyn.

  “That idiot outside.”

  “Huw? Why should he have it?”

  Nancy’s hand worked on the rail.