The Owl Service

by Alan Garner

  “This hut.”

  “What is outside this hut?”

  “Everything.”

  “Stop that!” said Gwyn. He shook Alison. “Don’t play spooks with me! It’s hysterics, man! Come up the house, now, and get some sleep.”

  “Gwyn! No! I daren’t! I’m safe here.”

  “You can’t spend your life in a hen hut, can you?” said Gwyn. “If you let yourself go you land up paralytic. You have to get a grip. Think of cold kippers.”

  “Oh, Gwyn!”Alison nearly laughed.

  “I mean it. It’s a creepy old wood – so think of cold kippers. It’s all in the mind.”

  Gwyn took Alison’s hand, and pushed the door open with his back. He saw Alison stare past his shoulder.

  “Gwyn.”

  “Cold kippers, remember?”

  “Gwyn. Look.”

  The smile stuck on his face. He looked.

  A column of light stood at the end of the causeway, under the tree by the gate in the boundary fence. The column was tall, and narrowed at its top and base, and ridges of flame hung like draped cloth.

  Alison began to moan.

  “It’s OK,” said Gwyn. “Alison, it’s OK. It’s what I was telling you.”

  She pulled back towards the hut. “No,” she said. “Look.”

  “It’s only marsh gas,” said Gwyn. “You find it in places like this, where plants rot under water. It’s harmless.”

  “No,” said Alison.

  “It’s methane. You must have heard of it. It’s a simple compound of carbon and hydrogen, and it’s not poisonous. Come and see.”

  “No. You don’t understand,” said Alison.

  “Shall I blow it out for you?” said Gwyn. “Or jump on it?”

  “No! Gwyn! Please!”

  “It’s only marsh gas.”

  “It may be marsh gas,” said Alison. “It doesn’t matter what it is. Can’t you see? It’s being used!”

  “All right, Alison, back we go,” said Gwyn. “It’ll be daylight soon. We’ll sit it out, and I’ll tell you about kippers, shall I?”

  They sat on the floor of the hut, and Alison hid her head in Gwyn’s shoulder, and he talked to her until the sun cleared the mountain. Then he had to wake her.

  They stepped from the hut into rainbow dew and walked together up to the house through the midsummer dawn.

  Huw Halfbacon was scratching the gravel of the drive with a rake. He pushed his cap back on his head when Gwyn and Alison appeared.

  “She’s come,” he said.

  CHAPTER 12

  G wyn went with Alison as far as the cloakroom door. Huw Halfbacon was leaning on the rake, and took no notice when Gwyn came back. Gwyn walked up to him and kicked the rake away, so that Huw fell forward. Gwyn picked up the rake and carried it to the stables. One of the garage doors was unlocked, and he went in and hung the rake on the wall. He faced Huw Halfbacon, who had followed him without speaking.

  “Are you on piecework?” said Gwyn. “Or is raking the drive your answer to the problem of leisure?”

  “There’s a lot to be done,” said Huw. “And I don’t have help.”

  “So you start at four o’clock every morning.”

  “Only in summer,” said Huw.

  “Don’t put that tourist trade look on for me,” said Gwyn. “Keep the simple peasant for the other mugs, Mister Huw, not me.”

  Huw said nothing. Gwyn noticed that his arms were the same thickness from shoulder to wrist, and hung motionless.

  “Alison’s finished tracing the owls on that dinner service. She makes them into paper models.” Gwyn felt in his pocket: frowned: then turned his pocket inside out. “I had one of them,” he said. “Never mind. She makes these owls. Then soon after, it seems the pattern vanishes off the plates. First question, Mister Huw.”

  “She wants to be flowers,” said Huw, “but you make her owls. Why do we destroy ourselves?”

  “I’m asking the questions,” said Gwyn. “What have those plates to do with Blodeuwedd?”

  “She is the lady,” said Huw.

  “So?”

  “And she has come.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mister Huw,” said Gwyn. “I’ve just seen Alison so frightened she was as big an idiot as you pretend to be, and I think you know about it, and you’re going to tell me. What’s wrong with the plates?”

  “My grandfather made them.”

  “So?”

  “He went mad.”

  “Right, we’ll play it your way for a bit,” said Gwyn. “Why did he go mad?”

  “Down in the wood,” said Huw.

  “I said ‘why’, not ‘where’ – but that’s nothing. Where in the wood, Mister Huw?”

  “There’s a causeway over the swamp to a gate in the fence on the river bank,” said Huw. “He saw the lady made of flowers, but he was not strong enough to keep her, and she changed into – he would never say what happened. Down in the wood. We don’t go there.”

  Gwyn had lost his colour. “By the gate,” he said. “At the end of the causeway, under a tree, close to the hen hut.”

  “How do you know that?” said Huw. He bulked against the open doorway. “How do you know? We don’t go there.” His arms swung forward, and held Gwyn. “I’ve told you, we don’t go there.”

  “Who’s ‘we’? You’re not my boss. I’ll go where I like,” said Gwyn. “Lay off, you’re hurting.”

  “We are not free,” said Huw. “We have tried too many times to be free. No lord is free. My grandfather tried, my uncle tried, and I have tried to end it, but it has no end.”

  “Lay off!”

  Gwyn twisted out of Huw’s grip, but could not reach the door. He vaulted over a chest of drawers and took hold of it by the corners, ready to dodge if Huw moved. But Huw stayed in the middle of the floor, and spoke as if nothing had happened.

  “She wants to be flowers, but you make her owls. You must not complain, then, if she goes hunting.”

  “Talk sense, man!” cried Gwyn. “Please! I’ve got to know!”

  “You do know,” said Huw. “Lleu, Blodeuwedd and Gronw Pebyr. They are the three who suffer every time, for in them the power of this valley is contained, and through them the power is loosed.”

  “What’s this power?” said Gwyn.

  Huw did not answer.

  “Huw. Is it ghosts?”

  Huw shook his head.

  “Is the power in the plates?”

  “Some of it,” said Huw. “For a while, and a while.”

  “And that picture in the billiard-room? You know, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Huw. “My uncle painted that.”

  “When?”

  “Oh, years ago.”

  “But it’s centuries old, man!”

  “Yes, my uncle painted that.”

  “But he can’t have done.”

  “And he found peace, too, that way before he died. You see. Grandfather and uncle were great men, and they thought they could tame her. They thought they could end the sorrow of this valley. But they made her owls, and she went hunting. They rid themselves at last by locking her in plate and wall – and then they sought a quiet grave.”

  “What’s it to do with you, or your grandfather, or your uncle?” said Gwyn.

  “We have the blood,” said Huw. “And we must bear it. A lord must look to his people, and they must not suffer for his wrong. When I took the powers of the oak and the broom and the meadowsweet, and made them woman, that was a great wrong – to give those powers a thinking mind.”

  “You didn’t do that,” said Gwyn. “You’re mixed up. It’s a story, Huw, in books – about the old days, long ago, and it was a man called Gwydion who made Blodeuwedd: not you. You’ve got to straighten yourself out over what you know and what you’ve read or been told. It’s a muddle inside you. You didn’t make anybody out of flowers, and your uncle didn’t paint that picture, for a start.”

  �
�What do I know?” said Huw, and Gwyn was frightened by the fear in Huw’s eyes. “What do I know?… I know more than I know … I don’t know what I know … The weight, the weight of it!”

  “Huw! Stop acting simple! They think you’re off your head, and Roger’s trying to have you sacked. I’ve heard them.”

  “They’ll not do anything,” said Huw.

  “They’ll give you the push, all right, if it suits them,” said Gwyn. “Try, man. Don’t play up so – that guff about toadstools and pigs – that was another story about Gwydion, not you. Alison’s been reading those old tales, and when Roger was on about you last night she came out with it. It’s one thing to put on the wizened retainer act if it brings in a few quid, but this lot here think you’re taking them for a ride. You’ll be out on your neck. You don’t own the place, man.”

  “Don’t I?” said Huw. “Oh, their name is on the books of the law, but I own the ground, the mountain, the valley: I own the song of the cuckoo, the brambles, the berries: the dark cave is mine!”

  “You won’t see it, will you?” Gwyn pushed past Huw. “Out of my way, you daft devil! – And get that cover made for the trap door,” he called back over his shoulder, “or else!”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Y ou’re looking a bit peaky this morning,” said Clive. “Sure you’re OK? Mustn’t overdo things, you know. Not good for a young lady.”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” said Alison. “I’m not properly awake yet, that’s what’s wrong. I’m always like this if I oversleep.”

  “Shall I rustle up old Nancy to do you a poached egg?” said Clive. “We kept your breakfast as long as we could, but it turned nasty.”

  “No. Honest, Clive, I’ll be all right. I think I’ll go for a breath of fresh air.”

  “That’s the stuff,” said Clive.

  “Where’s Roger?” said Alison.

  “He’s down in the cellar with his films: developing, I think. Anyway, he said not to disturb him. He’s locked the door to stop us from walking in at a crucial moment – you know what these darkroom fanatics are.”

  “Never mind,” said Alison. “I shan’t be long.”

  “Um – remember what Margaret said, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Clive.”

  “Mothers can’t help worrying—”

  “No, Clive.”

  “I mean, she has your best interests at heart—”

  “Yes, Clive.”

  “She – we want you to enjoy yourself, you know. We want you to be happy, that’s all.”

  “You’re very sweet, Clive,” said Alison. “See you at lunch.”

  “Cheers,” said Clive.

  Alison walked along the river path below the terrace. The heat of the day was already uncomfortable, but under the trees the air was still cool.

  The path went into the marsh at the hen hut. Gwyn was sitting on a stump by the path.

  “Hello,” said Alison.

  “Hello.”

  Alison climbed on to a rock.

  Gwyn pointed through the trees. “See that dark line going up the mountain?” he said. “That’s the old peat road. Every summer the people from the valley went up the top to cut peat. Four days it took them.”

  “How did they carry it down?” said Alison.

  “Horses,” said Gwyn.

  “But it’s so steep.”

  “They used sledges. And see that scar above the stream there? That was the quarry for building the house. All the good slate is that side of the river: over this side it’s very poor stone. Have a look at the road bridge next time you go to the shop. It was made of the bad slate, and it’s falling to bits. But the house is like new. It’ll never wear out.”

  “I wish I was like you,” said Alison. “You belong here.”

  “Me? This is the first time I’ve seen the place—”

  “That’s it,” said Alison. “You came a week ago, and you know everything as if you’d always lived here – while I’ve been spending holidays at the house all my life, and yet I don’t belong. I’m as useless as one of those girls in fashion photographs – just stuck in a field of wheat, or a puddle, or on a mountain, and they look gorgeous but they don’t know where they are. I’m like that. I don’t belong.”

  “It’s your house,” said Gwyn.

  “That doesn’t count for much at the moment.”

  “How long has your family owned the place?”

  “I’ve no idea. Daddy inherited from a cousin who was killed.”

  “When was he killed?”

  “Ooh, ages ago: before I was born. I’ve seen pictures of him – he was very good-looking. His name was Bertram.”

  “But it is your house.”

  “—Yes.”

  “If you really put your foot down, would you have your own way?”

  “Mummy and Clive run the estate now. It’s not easy. Why? What’s the matter?”

  “I’m worried about Huw,” said Gwyn. “You won’t sack him, will you?”

  “They’re talking about it,” said Alison. “But there’s no one to take his place. Clive’s bothered about him being dangerous. Is he?”

  Gwyn shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s too much that’s screwy with him – and too much of it is sense. He talks so elliptical, even in Welsh, you just can’t make him out. I’m feeling bad about it, I suppose, because we had a set to after you went in, and I lost my temper. But now I’ve been thinking, and what he says could be true.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Come and look in the hen hut,” said Gwyn.

  “I’d rather not,” said Alison. “I’ve been thinking, too.”

  “It won’t take a moment,” said Gwyn. He opened the door. “There. One dinner service, plain white, smashed: ready for instant disposal. What am I offered?”

  “No, Gwyn. I’m scared again. And the tight feeling inside.”

  “Don’t worry. The pattern’s gone and every piece is bust. You can tell yourself we broke it when we were scrapping last night, if you like. I don’t know how you cope with the pattern. And where are the owls you made?”

  “Gwyn, don’t go on at me, please! Not you. You’re the only one I can talk to.”

  “You wouldn’t think it,” said Gwyn. “What about when I needed to talk to you? – The way you swept past and went in: ‘Oh, Clive, how sweet!’ – and me out there. How do you think that felt?”

  “I had to,” said Alison. “Mummy was coming down any second, and we’d had the most awful row about that message you put in the sprouts.”

  “Well, so what?” said Gwyn.

  “Saying you had to see me. Mummy was livid. She said some hateful things. I didn’t know she could be like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can’t tell you, Gwyn.”

  “Thank you very much, Miss Alison. I’m sorry I spoke.”

  “Don’t, Gwyn. It’s not me.”

  “Who is it, then?”

  “I – Well—”

  “I only want to talk to you, girl.”

  “Me too. You’re the only one who’s ever called me ‘Alison’.”

  “That’s your name.”

  “But I’m always called ‘Ali’. It’s horrid. Ali Alleycat.”

  “I just want to talk to you,” said Gwyn. “With you it all goes how I mean it. Have you had your breakfast?”

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “Neither could I. It was like sawdust. I couldn’t swallow.”

  Gwyn went back to the tree stump.

  “We must talk about these plates.”

  “Why?” said Alison. “They’re broken. I don’t care two hoots – oh! Two hoots!” Alison laughed, covering her face with her hands. “Two hoots!”

  “Steady,” said Gwyn. “Come on, Alison, that’s enough now. Come on, girl. I’m sorry. I should have thought.”

  “Hello,” said Roger. He was leaning against a tree. “I wondered where you were. I’ve been shouting after you. I’ve some prints I want you to see.”

>   “In a minute,” said Gwyn.

  “Come and see, Ali,” said Roger.

  “I told you in a minute,” said Gwyn.

  “Ali,” said Roger. “Your mother’s knocking around. Don’t you think—? Remember?”

  “What’s he on about?” said Gwyn.

  Alison looked at him. “Gwyn – don’t come to the house with us. Gwyn, I tried: but Mummy said I wasn’t to talk to you.”

  “It’s quite in order, Miss Alison,” said Gwyn. “And I’ll use the tradesman’s entrance in future.” He walked briskly along the path and then up through the wood towards the back drive.

  “Gwyn, I daren’t!”

  “That fellow’s got a chip on his shoulder a mile high,” said Roger.

  CHAPTER 14

  “O f course if I’d had the proper stuff: I could have blown it up as big as the wall,” said Roger. “As it is, I’ve been sweating in that cellar all morning trying to balance out, but it’s murder to use that film and paper for really detailed work. Still, there’s enough to give you some idea, and perhaps you’ll be able to tell what it is: a fresh eye, and all that.”

  “Not now, Roger,” said Alison.

  “The prints are on the dining-room table. They’ll be a bit damp, so mind you don’t flap them about.”

  “No. Later. Not now.”

  “Didn’t half give me a shock at first, I’ll tell you,” said Roger. “It’s the last two, when that great hairy Welsh freak was watching. Gwyn was there when I took most of the others. You can see his hand. He was sitting on the stone before he went off to find his mate. But the point is, Ali, the pictures were all taken within five minutes, once I’d set the camera up, and I was looking at the Bryn pretty well all the time. Anyway, see for yourself. They’re in here.”

  But as soon as Roger opened the door Alison ran past him and up the stairs.

  “Oy! Ali!”

  Her door banged and he heard a muffled chime of bed springs.

  “Women!” said Roger, and went into the dining-room. His photographs were piled on the windowsill in full sunlight. The top prints had rolled themselves into tubes. Nancy was laying the table.

  “Who’s moved my prints?” said Roger.

  “They was on the table,” said Nancy.