by Sarah Mussi
And push.
I can feel veins popping; I’m trying so hard. George gasps as he struggles up on to the stone’s level top.
At last, he’s there.
Rhiannon screams, ‘Now ME!’ She scrabbles at the rock front. ‘ME!’
George reaches down, grabs her hand, hauls. I push her from below.
More veins pop. I’m sweating. I swear Rhi weighs a ton! She slips. Hits my shoulder. Ouch! That hurt. I shove harder.
At last.
George and Rhiannon are safe above me. I glance behind into the gloom. White shapes race up the mountainside. They’re through the last fence, over the stone wall. A few more seconds and they’ll be here.
Groping for a firm hold with hands, and bracing my feet beneath a sea of bracken, I too look for a way to climb up.
‘Grab my hand!’ yells George. He leans over, reaches out.
In reply I pick Ceri up and throw her into George’s outstretched arms. She scrambles to safety on the rock.
Now me.
The wolves come, skimming up towards the bog, flattening the sedge grass. They find it difficult to check their speed, when they see that beneath the bog is a mountain stream. One spins out of control on a patch of iced-over swamp; it somersaults. The rest change tack, splash and skid through then race across to intercept me.
‘ELLIE!’ yells George.
Quickly I bend down, fingers fumbling beneath the heather. I scoop up rocks, pull up something out of the bracken – a length of stunted hawthorn. I yank it free and swing it straight at the lead wolf.
It gives me a second.
In that one split moment gained, George lowers half his body down, stretches out his arms. I jump and hang on. George yanks me towards him. I drag his arms, pull on him. I can feel the breath of wolf warm against my leg. Teeth snap shut.
Missed. Thank God.
My face scrapes stone. My feet scrabble at the rock surface. Please let me make it to the top. George pulls. The sinews in my shoulder stretch. Owwwww.
I’m on the top of the boulder, weeping and panting with George beside me. He bends over me, whispers, ‘Thank God! For a minute there I thought you were going to have to miss your court appointment.’
Above us a bird cries harshly three times – sour, angry. The wolves circle the stone with vicious yelps. I lie there, face pressed against stone, gasping.
‘Sucks to be them,’ says George.
‘I can’t get a signal on my phone!’ shrieks Rhiannon.
‘They’ll wait us out,’ I wheeze.
‘I’m cold, George,’ whispers Rhiannon.
George puts his arm round her. Rhiannon smiles.
I straighten up, pull myself into a sitting position. Ceri whimpers and inches across the rock. She lays her head on my lap. We made it. We’re safe.
For now.
Safely marooned on an island of rock.
Suddenly the slopes ring with the distant sound of bells. Llanberis church maybe? Sound travels in the mountains. Bells, sweet and lovely on the cold evening air.
Of course! It’s still the 1st of March – St David’s Day. People in the village will be heading down to chapel, wearing their leeks, giving thanks, going to dinners, parties, eisteddfodau … 1
Rhiannon starts sobbing. ‘I’m gonna miss all the fun at the hotel!’
The wolves whimper. Something about the bells seems to spook them. A weird light spreads down the mountain. I look up towards the summit. The sun is setting fast. A curious rosy glow fills the air over the Devil’s Bridge. My breath is all white clouds. The air smells sharp, of frost and cold mountain.
And there on the bridge: dark against the mist; tiny, yet surrounded by a halo of light, a figure stands. My heart misses a beat. Henry? I remember how yesterday I looked up and was sure I saw a figure there on the Devil’s Bridge too.
Whoever it is, the wolves don’t like it.
As if to drown out the bells or discourage the figure, they point their muzzles at the mountaintop and set up a continuous howling. Then they circle the stone and leap up at it, howling all the while.
One of them tries to jump high; its claws scratch on the stone as it slithers back. I cross my fingers and send up a silent prayer: ‘O great Snowdon (let it be Henry). Please don’t let these things get me. Take care of your friends, Ellie and George and Rhi. Please, don’t let any of the wolves jump high enough to land up here.’
I look out, over the heads of the creatures. What if it’s not Henry? We’re miles away from anywhere. And the High Magick is broken. God knows what things will stir and walk abroad tonight.
I shiver. The sun is nearly gone. A rosy glow spreads out across the sky, like the glowing coals in Gran’s hearth. All that running has made me sweat, and now the sweat is icing up. The rosy sky actually looks a lot more like the open mouth of hell than any fireside.
We can’t last out here all night. We’ll freeze to death.
Ceri whimpers. I cuddle her close. I squint up at the glowing figure.
I nudge George. ‘Look,’ I point at the Devil’s Bridge. Please let it be Henry.
The figure moves closer. Seems to be almost floating. Not clambering over rock and heather. The wolves howl louder. What dreadful thing can spook the Cŵn Annwn?
What if it’s not Henry?
Wildly I look around. Gone is any last hope of reaching safety; all about us are only mountains.
Soon it will be pitch dark.
And at our feet, are wolves.
1 An eisteddfod is a Welsh festival of literature, music and performance. The tradition of such a meeting of Welsh artists dates back to at least the twelfth century. Smaller-scale local eisteddfodau are held throughout Wales. A popular time for this is on Saint David’s Day.[back]
SIXTEEN
ELLIE’S PHONE 1 March 17.58
Status: No coverage … No coverage … No coverage …
All around the great rock, the wolves circle. Their baying echoes from the mountainside, drowning out the bells, drowning out even Rhiannon’s sobbing. Their howls, spooky, malevolent even, seem like they’re planning some unholy fate for each of us. Their wailing bores in to my bones and makes my teeth ache. Rhiannon is trembling all over. I put my arm around her too. She snuggles down between George and me. ‘Hang on Rhi,’ I say.
I don’t bother to try and explain anything. I just say: ‘This is what happens when you do stupid witchy stuff.’
I know. It’s a bit finger wagging, but hey, she asked for it.
Then I feel that she needs a bit of encouragement, so I add, ‘Don’t give up hope. Hope is what keeps us going, yeah?’ And I squeeze her, and add, ‘And don’t dangle your legs over the edge like that.’ She doesn’t answer, just presses her trembling shoulders closer to me and pulls her feet in a few inches. I tighten my hug around her.
I look up towards the Devil’s Bridge again. I don’t know what I’m hoping for, what I’m not hoping for.
The fiery light still hangs around the figure. It looks like it’s moving closer. Could be a trick of the light. I really hope it’s not Y Cythraul (the Devil). Maybe it could just be a red dragon?
My heart pounds, doing some mad, fluttering dance. Against all reason, I’m still hoping to see him.
I know, don’t say it: How can it be Henry?
But love makes you hope, whispers crazy stuff in your ear. It’s nuts of course. And if I really did see him there yesterday does that mean he’s been standing there on the Devil’s Bridge during the whole of the night and all of today? Waiting for me?
Where there’s love, there’s hope, right? It could be him. The witches have messed time up. And the Devil’s Bridge was our special meeting place.
I remember how I first saw him, in the mist, up there on the Devil’s Bridge on Christmas Day …
It’s kind of like déjà vu. So it kind of could be true?
I squint into the gathering gloom right at the glowing spot.
‘George,’ I grab his shoulder. ‘It’s moving
towards us, isn’t it?’
George looks at it, then back at me, his eyes wide, like, ‘now what?’ But all he says is, ‘We didn’t use the copper piping’. He shifts slightly on the cold stone. ‘It’s my fault. The whole of Snowdonia must know absolutely everything about everything by now.’
Of course! Of course!
Smack self on head!
That’s why the wolves were waiting for us at the farmhouse. That’s why that crow was perched in the field, waiting to tip them off as soon as it saw us pass.
A new ominous growling comes from the wolves. They seem uneasy about the glowing figure.
NOTE TO SELF (in caps & underlined): Always Pay Attention To Gran And Do As She Says.
‘They can’t climb up here, can they?’ shrieks Rhiannon.
I look back down to the base of the rock. The wolves are gathering at the side furthest away from the light. As they pass the lowest edge of the rock, they rise up, stand straight on their back legs. Stiff claws scratch stone. Their eyes are weirdly pale, polar blue; the insides of their ears, blood red. There’s something about them that’s revoltingly creepy. A prickly feeling shoots up my spine. The wolves run their muzzles over the stone, sniffing the surface and then give forth long, drawn-out howls. They raise their snouts and nose the air, breathing up at us. They stink!
One of them – foul, horrible, disgusting, jaws slick with spit – takes a running start and leaps up. Its back legs are so majorly powerful, the stone actually shakes. It lands only a metre below us. Its pale lips pulled back in a snarl.
For a moment it hangs there, and in that moment I see its pale eyes seem totally blind. They have no centre. Nothing is looking out.
A shriek escapes my lips.
I hear Rhi cry out.
I feel a yank on her body, the heavy weight of human and wolf half pulls me over.
It’s got hold of her leg!
Frantically, I grip at her arm. It slithers through my hold.
‘HELP!’ she screams.
‘Pull!’ yells George. I grab her jacket. The material starts to rip.
I can’t hang on. I can’t balance on the top of the stone. More wolves come. I’m being pulled off. They jump, tug, snarl.
I hear the swish of George’s axe. I hear the crunch of steel on bone. A fiendish yelp. These nightmarish things, can they feel pain? The thing slides backward, its paws unable to find any hold on the smooth rock surface. I hear the slow screeching of claws, like nails on glass. Its body twitches. It flops to the ground with a thud.
‘George!’ I can’t see what’s happening. He must have hacked the thing in half. The pull on Rhi stops so abruptly, I almost catapult back over the other side of the stone.
‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ sobs Rhiannon.
We haul Rhi back on to the top. She’s as white as a ghost. One of her boots has disappeared completely. Thank heavens she’s OK.
We drag ourselves right to the very top and huddle together.
I turn my head towards the summit again. ‘O Snowdon, greatest of mountains,’ I pray. ‘Please make this stop.’
We can’t last the night. Sooner or later one of these creatures is going to scramble up and overpower us. I look up towards the Devil’s Bridge again. If only.
That figure is definitely closer.
‘O Snowdon,’ I groan. ‘Pleeeease?’
‘I’m sorry, Ellie,’ George says. ‘I should’ve known better. Gran always drilled it into me that when she gives advice, I Must Follow It.’
‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,’ whimpers Rhiannon.
The glowing shape on the mountain glides down the hillside towards us. It’s obvious now it’s not Henry. My stomach knots up. Who is it?
Things can’t get much worse though, can they? Stranded on a rock, saturated in witches’ curses, surrounded by hellhounds; a ghostly apparition bearing down on us; Sir Oswald somewhere up there, beating his skeletal wings, spying with his dragon’s eyes; and the Coraniaid listening, snitching and smiling.
‘Come on,’ says George, ‘don’t give up.’
I shiver.
He slips his arms out from his jacket. He puts it round my shoulders.
‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but I think Rhiannon needs it more.’ I remove it from my shoulders and place it around hers. She’s trembling so hard I can feel her heart pounding against me.
‘Try to rub your hands to warm them, Rhi,’ I say.
The figure glides relentlessly towards us. The light around it starts to dim. The wolves begin to slink back from the rock. They form a semicircle on the far side. Their bellies press close against the turf. Their tongues loll out. Specks of spittle tinged with lambs’ blood fleck their muzzles. It creates a revolting, thick, pink cream, which dribbles on to the bracken.
They press their tails against their haunches. One of them starts a wailing noise – not the shrill bark of the chase – it’s more like a summoning cry, calling other hideous things out of the shadows.
Rhiannon moans in a distressing, broken way.
George tries to send me a hopeful smile through the darkness. He doesn’t say, This is all your fault, Ellie. I told you, we should’ve gone back to Gran’s.
He just puts his arms around us both, and says, ‘Hey girls, I’ve got to be the luckiest guy ever, marooned out here with the two most beautiful girls from Llanberis and a whole night ahead of me!’
Oh George.
SEVENTEEN
The figure moves forward. It glows. It seems to emit a small, high-pitched noise.
I peer into the darkness and listen. It’s just under the shadow of the mountain.
The moon rolls in the mist above us, luminous, powder blue. I imagine the stars shining behind the clouds right up to the Pole Star.
For the first time ever, I send up a prayer to the Great Draco, ‘Mighty dragon who lives in the sky, just take care of Henry,’ I say, ‘and please spare us’.
The figure increases in brilliance. The wolves stop their wailing. They back away, silent. They huddle on the dark side of the stone, their pale polar eyes reflecting back the moonshine.
A pillar of fire rises above the approaching figure.
A pillar of fire?
Hang on, perhaps I’m wrong! Not a pillar of fire, but the mouth of hell? Perhaps that figure really is the Devil fresh off his bridge! After all this is the Black Stone, the Maen Du’r Arrdu, where all evil things are bound to gather.
And then everything becomes odd.
It’s like I hear singing. The church bells start pealing again. It’s like a bird swoops down from the sky and aims straight at the figure.
But it’s not a dragon. And it’s not a crow – it’s too small and light. It sort of … hovers. The beauty of a dove descending.
Why do I think of that?
A bird, white like a lamb, but with a golden beak.
I look again. It’s just a bird. Duh. And it’s not a pillar of fire glowing around him either, only the last rays of the setting sun bouncing off the clouds.
And then everything seems to slow down.
Like in a trance he comes, like in a dream of stardust, dressed in a robe of pure white, his light playing over the darkness.
Where the heck are these thoughts coming from?
Get a grip, Ellie, I tell myself.
Don’t let any creature take over your mind.
I swallow. It definitely isn’t Henry. But it isn’t the Devil either.
The figure hovers slowly towards us. I narrow my eyes and try to make it out. Reality check one: it’s a he and he’s not gliding at all; he’s clambering laboriously over frozen clumps of sedge. Two: he’s not mystical or shining white either; it’s just a trick of the light.
A lost hiker perhaps? But what the hell is someone doing out, after dark, off the path, walking straight towards us. He’s lost. That’s why. He’s looking for help. I panic.
He doesn’t know about the wolves.
He hesitates.
‘Wild dogs!’ I yell. ‘GO BACK! CALL FOR HELP – WE’RE STUCK.’
The wolves sound out a queer yelping. The three of us start yelling and waving from the top of the Black Stone of the Darkness.
‘Whaaaat?’ he calls. And carries on coming.
‘STAY. AWAY!’ I holler, my throat suddenly hoarse.
‘GO BACK!’ shouts George.
‘GET HELP!’ squeals Rhiannon.
NOOOO! – He’s going to get mauled right in front of us.
‘Wait,’ whispers George, suddenly tightening his grip around me. ‘He could be anyone, could be anything … He could be some kind of ghoul. With the High Magick broken and the gateway to the Olde Deep Magicke thrown wide, anything can come through, anything can manifest out of the dark and totally be here … ’
He doesn’t look like a ghoul. Actually he looks a bit like a teenage Jesus, with hair down to his shoulders, a bit of a beard and, perhaps a scattering of acne.
Jesus with pimples?
I stand up. I balance on the rock, straining to make him out.
‘Don’t look into his eyes,’ warns George. ‘Gran says never accept food from supernatural beings – or look into their eyes.’
Rhiannon whimpers. Ceri starts thumping her tail feverishly against the rock.
The person reaches the stone. And from the darkness, his voice rings out. ‘Since when have the wolves of Cŵn Annwn chased youngsters across the slopes to the Black Stone?’
The wolves, already silent, now draw back, blink and slowly snarl. One tries to growl, but its bark is too high and it sounds more like a whine. The rest cringe even further away. Then they waver, turn tail and flee.
Just like that.
Soon there’s only the rattle of stones from the opposite slope of the mountain. Then nothing.
The glow around the rock and around the hiker, if that’s what he is, seems to shimmer and die.
The hiker comes right up to us, places his hand on the stone. Looks up at us.