by Pauline Fisk
We made off through the forest, following the sun. I was full of questions and didn’t know where to start. I wanted to ask Pawl about the red judge’s court and how he’d come to be there, about my mother and their lives together and about the accident that hadn’t killed my father, like I’d always been told, but had turned him into Pawl Pork-pie.
When I tried to ask, however, Pawl started looking confused again, as if he didn’t know what I was on about. In the end I gave up trying and we walked in silence, drinking in the cold, crisp air. Maybe answers weren’t always necessary, I told myself. Maybe, especially on days like this, it was good enough just to be alive.
We passed silver ponds, freshly frozen over in the night, and wooded copses so deep and hidden that the frost hadn’t found them and neither had the sun. We climbed hills full of spruce trees, decorated with real-life Christmas baubles fashioned out of ice, passed beech trees, oak trees, ancient hollies, young, sweet chestnuts, aspens, alders, birch trees.
The list went on and on. The landscape of the forest was changing all the time. Sometimes we were in deeply wooded areas, with not a sign of human life, but other times we came across worn tracks with heavy tyre marks, and stacks of felled logs, ready for transportation. Sap oozed out of their sawn-off ends, sparkling in the sunlight like clusters of polished diamonds. I remember brushing against it, and its scent was like the perfume of the forest – something to take away with me and remember the day by, when we finally went our separate ways.
I think I always knew, right from the start, that we would end up going separate ways. I didn’t say a word about it and neither did Pawl, but I think he knew it too. I remember us reaching the edge of the forest, and standing there knowing that our time had come. We’d climbed a hill and found the river on the other side, running like quicksilver through a salt marsh estuary. A town lay nestled at the bottom of the hill, and the sea sparkled in the distance. I stood looking at it all, thinking that this was as far as my journey would take me.
Then Pawl and I headed down the hill, not a word said between us. We entered the town and made our way through its streets, which were mostly empty because it was the first day of the new year. There were no buses at the bus station, or taxis in the rank outside the railway ticket office. But we walked on to the platform as if we knew the station was open really, and stood waiting for our trains to come along.
That they would, we had no doubt, even though it was a public holiday. Mine came first, and nobody got on it except for me. I slammed the door behind me, and we stood facing each other through the open window, still not a word between us. It was as if we were both afraid of spoiling the moment by saying the wrong thing. Then Pawl thrust some money at me through the open window. ‘For the journey …’ he said. ‘Happy New Year.’
My train pulled out, and he disappeared. The least said about that the better. After I settled down, I found a photograph amongst the handful of notes that he had given me. It was of him and my mother. He wore a white carnation in his lapel and she wore a white dress and held a bunch of flowers. She was smiling. They both were. They were very young, and both looked pretty different to the people they were now.
I sat looking at them throughout my journey back to Pengwern. Sometimes I dropped off to sleep, but they were always there, right in front of me, when I opened my eyes. By the time I reached my destination, I knew every detail of that photograph so well that I can recall it without difficulty, even now.
It must have been mid-afternoon when Pengwern’s spires and rooftops finally appeared. I put away the photograph and watched the castle drawing closer as the front of the train pulled over the railway bridge. My heart started thundering. The conductor’s voice informed all passengers that they should make sure not to leave any baggage behind. But I was the only person who got off the train, walking empty-handedly down the platform, head down, collar up, fearful of being recognised.
Not that I needed to worry – one look at the stranger reflected in the ticket office window and I wouldn’t have recognised myself. Who was this gaunt, thin, hollow-eyed boy in his big black flapping coat? I turned away from him with a slight shudder, and set off into town, not knowing what I was doing here, and rather dreading finding out.
When I hit the main shopping streets, I found that, though I might have changed, nothing else had. The Christmas decorations were still up and the people still the same. I saw my sister’s cello teacher, Mr Bytheway, on Pride Hill. But he didn’t see me, and neither did our dentist, Mr Jenkins, who drove past in his car.
I turned my head away quickly, but I needn’t have worried. It was as if I’d acquired the knack of invisibility, walking through the streets of Pengwern without anybody looking my way. I spent the rest of the afternoon in town, hanging around the High Street and Pride Hill, buying food and drink in the few cafés that were open, using the money that Pawl had given me.
Finally they closed and the empty streets looked like a ghost town. Not knowing what else to do, I headed for Swan Hill. Here I found a couple of our house lights on, but my parents’ cars gone from the garage. Sighing with relief, because I wouldn’t have to face them yet, I located the spare key, let myself in and headed through the scullery towards the back stairs.
Pengwern mightn’t have changed, but our house had. Before I could get far, I quickly discovered that something was up. Boxes were stacked up everywhere, and cupboards had been emptied. Paintings had been removed from walls. Books had been removed from shelves. Statues had been wrapped up carefully and labelled. Dustsheets had been thrown over the furniture.
I went from room to room, and everything was the same. What was going on here? Down in the kitchen, my mother’s pots and pans had been packed away. In the drawing room, the Christmas tree and all its decorations had been taken down. In my father’s study, dustsheets had been thrown over his desk and chair, and his shelves emptied of books. In the rubbish bin I found the photographs and broken frames where I had thrown them and the bunch of mistletoe that I’d hung over my father’s desk, knowing that it would irritate him.
Now I took it out, thinking how childish I had been. I’ve changed, I thought. I’m not the boy I used to be. No wonder I can’t even recognise myself!
I turned to leave the room, but my mother stood in the doorway, car keys in her hands, a coat thrown over her shoulders. I hadn’t heard her drive up, but now here she was, staring at me in surprise.
I guess I was surprised as well. We both blushed, and I can’t remember what we said to each other, only that we ended up in the kitchen, drinking warm white wine because that was all my mother could find. The fact of my banishment was brushed under the carpet. My mother didn’t mention it, and neither did I. Neither did she mention anything that had come between us since, from the phone messages she’d left because she didn’t want to speak to me, to the way she’d washed her hands of me in the red judge’s court.
Perhaps she doesn’t know about it, I thought. Perhaps it’s been wiped from her memory. Or perhaps it was a dream, and never really happened. Or perhaps it did happen, but in another place and time and she doesn’t even know that she was there. Or perhaps she does know somewhere deep inside, but she’s so upset that she simply can’t bear to mention it.
I wanted to ask her, just to hear what she would say. But my mother talked at me non-stop and I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. It was as if she was afraid of what would happen if she stopped. She didn’t mention my changed appearance, and I didn’t mention it either. I was on my best behaviour, nodding like the perfect house-guest as if fascinated by the things she said.
‘Did we tell you that we’re staying at your Fitztalbot grandmother’s house?’ my mother said. ‘At least we are until your father can make other arrangements. He wants to sell this house because he says it is unlucky. He won’t come back to it, not even for a night. He’s a deeply superstitious man, although you may never have realised it. Beneath his calm exterior, he’s full of feelings and strange fears. He says h
e’s always been uncomfortable living here, and we’ve never been happy, and he’s convinced the house is cursed.’
She shrugged and smiled, as if the whole thing was ridiculous, but what could you do? People make their own curses, I thought. They curse themselves – and they take their curses with them when they move.
But I didn’t get the chance to say so, for suddenly my mother was on her feet, declaring that she had to go and pulling on her coat. She looked round at all the boxes piled up everywhere, and you could see from her face that she was deeply afraid. Her old life was crumbling away, and she was over the abyss and in free-fall – and I knew how that felt!
What I might have said or done, spurred on by fellow feeling, I’ll never know. Maybe I would have given her another chance – shown her the photograph and asked her if there was anything she wanted to tell me – but the phone rang and it was my Fitztalbot father wanting to know how long she’d be.
‘I’m just coming now. Yes, right away. I’ve got your books – I haven’t forgotten them. Of course I’ve remembered to turn off the lights. See you soon. Goodbye. Yes. Yes. Of course. Love you, too.’
It struck a sad note, that word of love hanging in the air with nothing to cling on to. I looked at my mother, and she looked at me. ‘Your grandmother serves dinner at seven-thirty,’ she said. ‘You can have a lift with me if you want to eat.’
Then she turned towards the door and I knew that, never mind the dinner, I was being offered back my old life, no apologies asked for and certainly none given. It wasn’t much, but it was all my mother had to give.
I took a deep breath. Swallowed hard. ‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry. I think I’ll pass,’ I said.
27
Phaze II
My mother would never know what my refusal cost me – nor what it would have cost if I’d answered yes. After she had gone, I went from room to room one final time. A strange silence seemed to follow me around. I ended up in the kitchen again, standing at the table on my own, staring at the empty wine glasses, thinking nothing in particular. Finally I left, banging the front door behind me, knowing that I’d never come back.
I went up to the hospital, which was what I should have done in the first place, to find out about Cary. By the time I got there, however, visiting time was over. I took the lift to Intensive Care, but my sister wasn’t there. The main lights were out and the corridors were empty. Occasionally nurses could be seen trailing between beds or sitting at lonely desks. I’ve no idea how they failed to see a late-night visitor creeping through the shadows, but I went right through the hospital and nobody noticed me.
Finally I found Cary in a private ward, which, knowing our father, is where I should have looked first. Her name was on the door and I slipped inside. With thick pile carpets, flowers on a plinth, leather armchairs and a telly, it could have been a hotel bedroom. I tiptoed to the bed and looked down at Cary’s face against the pillow. Her eyes were closed and a little scrub of hair was growing back. I could see the scar where the light bulb had been glued to her head, but the bulb itself had gone.
The monitors had gone as well, and so had most of the tubes. I remembered what Pawl had said about the fight being Cary’s, and hers alone.
‘Well done,’ I whispered.
Immediately, Cary’s eyes opened, as if I’d woken her. She looked at me and neither of us spoke. I knew that she recognised me, even if I scarcely recognised myself. I also knew that, in the morning, she’d tell herself I’d been a ghost, come to say goodbye. She’d think that I had died sometime over Christmas, lost in a blizzard on Plynlimon Mountain. My father would think so too, and even my mother would think it, despite the evidence of her own eyes. She’d convince herself that she’d never really seen me at Swan Hill tonight, but had imagined it. Either that or, like Cary, she’d think I’d been a ghost.
My sister fell back to sleep, her eyes closed again and a little smile around her lips. I dug down in my pocket and pulled out the photograph of our parents on their wedding day, which I propped up by her bed where she’d see it first thing in the morning. Then I left the room, knowing that this was the real reason why I’d come back to Pengwern.
Outside the hospital, with nothing left to keep me here, I walked back to the railway station. I’d catch the first train out, I decided. Buy a ticket with the remains of Pawl’s money, and get as far away as possible.
When I arrived, however, I found the station locked for the night, all the platforms empty and not a hint of a train in sight. Unable to think of anywhere else to go, I squeezed in through a side gate that had been left unpadlocked, and found myself a night’s shelter in a boarded-up building at the end of all the platforms, behind a row of advertising hoardings.
The smell that greeted me in there was rank, but it was warmer than outside, and at least I’d be ready to catch the first train in the morning. I pushed my way back into the darkness, looking for a corner to curl up for the night. But the building went back further than I anticipated, and it was darker too. As soon as I dropped the board back over the window, I was lost. I couldn’t find any walls. Couldn’t find any corners. Couldn’t even find the window any more, in order to get back out.
I stumbled through the darkness, but it went on and on. All hopes of finding somewhere that felt safe enough to sleep quickly faded. Sometimes I fell down steps. Sometimes I hit my head. Sometimes I thought I saw lights, but then realised that I hadn’t. Sometimes I heard noises too – rumbling noises that I couldn’t figure out, and scuffling noises, as if I shared the darkness with rats and mice.
Finally I found myself on a ledge with water running under it. I could hear the sound of pigeons overhead, and make out what definitely looked like lights in the distance. At first I couldn’t figure out what those lights might be but, as I worked my way towards them, I realised that I could see moonlight reflected in the river.
I carried on until I could see stars reflected too, and streetlights and even house lights. It was if I’d stumbled upon a mirror image of the whole town. I stood looking down at it all, realising that I’d somehow worked my way into the underbelly of the railway bridge. The river flowed away beneath me, and the town rose overhead until it reached the spires and castle walls that formed its skyline.
I stayed awake all night, looking at that skyline and the moon above it, caught in a limbo-land between the bridge and the town, and my old life and a new one. I sat on a girder, my legs swinging over the edge, watching the river flowing out of sight, and remembering that day when I’d come up here to spray a zed. Then I’d wished, against all odds, that I could shake off being a Fitztalbot.
And now I had.
I sat there until morning, wondering who I’d like to be instead. The sun rose. The streetlights went off. The moon waned over the castle and morning broke in the sky over the English Bridge. I thought of all the things that had happened to me. Some made sense, but some were still a mystery. There were questions that I couldn’t answer, and didn’t know if I ever would.
But one thing was for certain.
There really was a red judge’s court, I thought. And I really was on trial for my life. I didn’t just imagine it in some state of crazed exhaustion. I really did cross swords with the Red Judge of Plynlimon. And I really did defeat him. At least for now.
I shivered at the thought of him out there still, maybe plotting his revenge, maybe looking for another victim. But that was someone else’s story, not mine. The time had come to put the past aside. My life was on the turn. It was changing, like the moon over the castle, passing from one phase to the next.
Finally I pulled my coat around me, and struggled to my feet. It was time to go. I should have felt excited, but all I felt was sad and lonely. People passed beneath me on the river path, never looking up – cyclists on their way to work and early-morning walkers with their dogs, all with lives to live and homes to go to.
But what did I have?
In the end, scarcely knowing what I was doing, I drew myself a
map. I drew it inside my head because I didn’t have a pen, and put Plynlimon at the top and the sea at the bottom, with the two rivers flowing into it – the Afon Gwy and the Sabrina Fludde. Then, as if the rivers marked the boundaries of my memory, I drew in my whole journey.
Everything was on it, from Swan Hill to Clockvine House, Plynlimon Mountain to the Speech House Hotel. And there were people on it too. Grace and Pawl. Cary and my mother. The red judge as himself, and in the guise of Dr Katterfelto. And Gilda was there, even though she wasn’t real. And the Fitztalbots were there too, even though I’d rather not remember them. And the boy bishop was there, and the seven strange sisters who’d healed me by turning scummy river water into wine. And the man in Llewellyn’s Cave was there – the one I’d thought must be a pilgrim, but who could have been anyone, even Prince Llewellyn himself.
All of them were there, and the creatures too. I drew in the Cŵn y Wbir because, as with the Fitztalbots, my story wasn’t complete without them. And I drew in Harri and Mari in memory of a friendship that I swore I’d never forget.
Finally the map was finished. My whole story, mapped out in my head so that I’d never forget it, whatever happened next. And that’s the story I’m telling you now. Maybe it’s getting rusty and its finer details are beginning to fade. But everything that matters is still there. And I’m there too – drawn in with the rest of them because the map is big enough for everything.
You can even find my name on it, if you know where to look. Not my old one, Zachary Fitztalbot, because that boy has gone, and so has that old life. But the name I chose that morning, standing on the girders facing daybreak over Pengwern.
Phaze II – spelt with a zed.
About the Author
Pauline Fisk grew up in London, but has spent most of her life in Shropshire. She started making up stories for her friends and neighbours at the age of three and made her big career decision to become a professional writer at the age of nine. She has five grown-up children, an architect husband and a dog. She loves living in Shropshire, which she thinks is the most beautiful county in England, with some of the most interesting legends and history.