by Sarah Mussi
George smiles and throws back his covers. ‘Understandably,’ he says.
And that’s how day two starts.
—
Outside, a gale is definitely howling. It’s like that up in the mountains. I personally think Snowdon has a thing about being the second highest peak in Britain – so it’s continually trying to prove a point, like staying forever icy and living up to its English name with overkill.1 And that’s before Oswald gets going.
The gale is thick with driven snow; it’s nearly a total white-out. I struggle to stay on my feet. Can’t even see the Land Rover. It’s not funny! The icy air actually makes it hard to breathe.
I’m out and into the snowstorm before George though, and I find the Land Rover half buried in a drift. I manage to get the door open and climb in. I turn on the engine, fingers crossed, praying the weather won’t have drained the battery or frozen any vital bits.
Like a trusty friend the vehicle responds and coughs into life after a few tries. Then I start revving it up.
I’m not allowed to drive the Land Rover. I’m still waiting for my licence (as soon as I’m seventeen – yay – here I come!) but Mum’s taught me anyway, just in case, seeing as we live in the back of beyond, and you never know when you might need to go for help.
But I’ve only ever driven during good weather. I wouldn’t dare try and take it out during a storm like this. I peer anxiously back at the cottage, to see if I can make out anything through the snow. I turn on the headlights. They bounce back at me from the white-out. I put the car heater on and sit and shiver while the engine turns over. I double check that we’ve got the first aid stuff and emergency kit and additional coats and thermal blankets – I think about hot coffee in a flask … that’d be nice … At last the shadowy form of George staggers out through the snow and bashes on the door of the Land Rover. Behind him I see Gran, wrapped in her shawl, battling through the storm towards the wood shed.
‘Cripes!’ he says, as he climbs in. ‘It’s rough out here and getting worse by the minute.’
I slide across to the passenger side. He shoves the Land Rover into gear.
‘Gran getting logs in?’ I ask.
‘Getting the hens in from in the henhouse. She’s scared they’ll freeze if they stay out any longer.’
I think of my poor lambs. Yes, best to get the hens inside.
‘Told your mum we took her Land Rover?’ he asks.
I shake my head. No point now. She’ll already have noticed I suppose, plus right now she’ll be fast asleep, and what good would waking her up do?
‘You sure it’ll be OK?’
‘Course,’ I say. Mum won’t mind – though she might demand a full explanation later, which could be awkward.
George releases the handbrake. Snowflakes whirl down in mesmerising patterns. The engine pulls. The wheels spin.
I bite down on my lip and start restlessly kicking my heel in the front footwell.
‘Just a bit of wheelspin,’ George reassures.
‘OK,’ I say tightly.
He revs the engine again. The clutch whines. The wheel spins faster, and the back of the vehicle slews round.
‘Don’t stress,’ he says. ‘It’s just a bit of ice – I might need to tighten the snow chains.’ He saws the wheel slightly from left to right, tries a higher gear, lowers the throttle.
Question: how can you stop being stressed, when you are stressed?
‘Don’t s’pose this Land Rover comes equipped with sand ladders or anything useful like that?’ he asks.
I shake my head. It’s not going to move, is it? We’re snowed in. We have only two days left to save Henry/Wales/the universe and the freaking Land Rover won’t move.
‘Cheer up,’ says George. ‘I’m making up a silly limerick to take your mind off things.
A limerick? Is the boy normal?
He tries again, but the wheels just dig more firmly into the snowdrift.
Of course. Oswald wasn’t going to let us go for help was he? No. He wants the heart back. And he wants me dead. Instinctively, I clutch at my breast pocket. What if he’s around planning an attack? Beneath its wrapped layers, my fingers close around Henry’s heart.
‘Here’s what I’ve got so far: there was a young Ellie, called Madam.’
‘You mean there was a young madam called Ellie,’ I say.
What if Oswald is up there right now, hiding behind the clouds?
‘Yeah, but it doesn’t rhyme like that.’
Suddenly I get a horrible feeling. It crawls down my spine and into the pit of my stomach.
George yanks the wheels left and right again. ‘There was a young Ellie called Madam.’
‘But – ’
‘Just listen.’
‘OK.’
He slams the gears into four-wheel drive. ‘Who fell in love with a dragon.’
‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘That’s ghastly!’
‘Wait – listen to the rest.’ Gently, he releases the clutch.
The back wheels engage, gain traction. I try to swallow. I cross my fingers. The feeling of impending catastrophe grows stronger.
‘There was a young Ellie called Madam,
Who fell in love with a dragon,
But he was stuck in a cave,
And couldn’t be saved … ’
The Land Rover starts to pull forward.
I’ve left my silver charm in the house … If Oswald strikes now …
‘That doesn’t rhyme, either,’ I snap at George.
‘Does nearly.’ George eases out the throttle.
I hold my breath, cross my fingers. Let the car work. The wheels drag. Please. The engine races. And no Oswald.
‘Anyway I couldn’t think of a last line. Luckily for you.’ The back wheels stick, spin again, keep spinning.
‘Plus it’s not funny. It is so not funny IT. IS. NOT. FUNNY.’
The Land Rover slides sideways.
‘Just off to check,’ says George. He jumps out. I watch him through the frosty glass. I realise I’m gritting my teeth far too tightly.
George checks the wheels. I hear him pulling on the chains.
‘Oh God,’ I say.
I’m sure I can hear the flap of skeletal wings.
George pulls open the door. A blast of polar strength chills my face. George sticks his head back in, shakes the snow off himself. ‘This car isn’t going anywhere, Elles,’ he says sadly.
Biting my lip, I get down from the car. If we can’t use the Land Rover, how the heck are we going to get anywhere?
From inside the cottage, Ceri starts making desperate high-pitched yelps.
The sky above us seems to darken.
Why is Ceri making such a noise?
A smell, putrid, nauseous, abruptly wafts over us.
The air crackles.
A tonne of snow suddenly gusts upwards.
And George, with the speed of a skydiver, rugby tackles me.
A flurry of snow. White everywhere. Ceri barking. And I’m rolling over and over, winded, gagging.
‘What the … ?’
A huge shape swoops down.
I knock my head on something. I think it’s George.
The snow swirls.
Snow in my mouth. Snow in my eyes. Snow up my nose. I gasp, splutter. Cold. Wet. A hand drags me sideways. I blink. I drag my sleeve across my eyes. Blink again.
Oswald.
‘DOWN!’ yells George.
A huge staring dragon eye.
An arctic blast.
‘NO!’ Someone is screaming.
Vaguely I hear Ceri barking louder. The door of the cottage slamming against the wooden trellis of the porch.
A jet of ice hits the Land Rover.
For a moment it glitters, as if all its metalwork has been caught in the silver light of a disco ball. Then there’s a cracking and a crackling. The windscreen crumbles into ice cubes of glass. The metal of the door shrieks and splits. The wing panels buckle. The front bumper curls, twists and falls
off. A curious knocking starts – which I realise is the whole chassis of the car shattering to bits.
A moment ago, I was sitting in that car.
I twist my face upwards. There he is! Oswald. His glittering eye, his spiny neck. He’s drawing his head back ready to strike again.
I’m not wearing my charm!
George drags me towards the cottage but I spot Gran; she’s trudging through the snow trailing her hens after her.
‘GRAN!’ George yells.
In a split second she looks up, raises her hand, makes a sign in the air and screams ‘SARFF FELLTIGEDIG, EWCH I FFWRDD!’2
And Oswald strikes.
Down tunnels a tornado of twisting ice. It seems to hit some invisible barrier. It deflects, spins to the side, strikes wide of the mark.
Hits the little clutch of hens scrambling through the snow.
All of them.
Icy feathers flutter in the gale.
Torn little bodies.
A frozen spray of red blood.
‘INSIDE, BOTH OF YOU!’ yells Gran.
I scramble to my feet, still gasping, still half blinded by snow, and stumble through the front door of the cottage.
George follows and doubles up, breathless.
Gran is right behind him and intoning (shrilly): ‘Yn enw’r Ddaear, Gwynt, Awyr a Thân. Yn enw perlysiau Blodeuwedd a sêr Draco. Am dri diwrnod a nos, ni allwch gyffwrdd yr hyn sy’n perthyn i mi.’3
—
For a minute we remain half doubled up, sucking air into our lungs.
Those poor hens.
‘That was close,’ says George.
‘You saved my life,’ I say.
Poor Gran. She loved her hens.
‘I guess we won’t be getting to Cadair on wheels then,’ murmurs George.
Poor Mum. Her poor Land Rover.
That was terrifyingly close.
My heart starts thudding all over again at how v v v v v close that really was.
‘But at least I’ve cracked it!’ George grins a bit hopelessly at me.
‘Cracked what?’ We’re trapped. We’re stuck here. Unless you’ve cracked that, we’ll never save Henry.
‘There was a young Ellie called Madam,
Who fell in love with a dragon,
But he was stuck in a cave,
And couldn’t be saved,
And then it all went Armageddon.’
Oh boy.
Oh no.
And such lousy rhyming.
Trust George.
Armageddon.
The end of the flipping world.
1 Snowdon in English is ‘Snow Hill’. In Welsh, Yr Wyddfa, meaning: The Burial Den.[back]
2 ‘AVAUNT THEE CURSED SERPENT!’[back]
3 ‘By Earth, by Wind, By Air, by Fire. By the herbs of Blodeuwedd and the Stars of Draco. For three days and nights, you cannot touch my domain.’[back]
TWENTY-SIX
ELLIE’S PHONE Second Day of the Magic – 10 March 06:39
Status: on a mission
For the next ten minutes Gran scolds us about going outside: Without Telling Her and Without ADEQUATE PROTECTION.
With no mention of the fact she saw us.
And followed us.
And didn’t say a word.
I think she is very upset about the hens.
After blasting us thoroughly, she rushes off to the kitchen. George and I just look at each other. Try not to think about another encounter with Oswald. Try not to think about those poor Rhode Island Reds.
George opens his mouth, has that look in his eye – I’m sure he’s about to say something about ‘frozen chicken legs’.
Which would NOT be funny. Gran reappears, potion in hand, marches to the front door, flings it open, and whistles at us to follow.
I mean it. She actually whistles.
She then proceeds to sprinkle the potion in little dribbles all around her house and garden.
We stand there shivering, trying not to look at the wreck of the Land Rover (now almost completely covered in snow) or the little snowy graves of the hens.
‘I’ve prepared a solution,’ she calls, as she splatters a bit more of the brew over the path to the wood shed.
‘No escaping Plan B then,’ whispers George.
‘Last night I went up on to the mountain and whispered our needs through my piping into the wind,’ says Gran.
As you do.
Gran tightens her shawl around her. ‘And now, we will see whether the mountain’s been listening.’ She lifts up her head and calls out in Welsh: ‘Merlod mynydd. Mae arnom angen eich cymorth. Rydych wedi addo dod yn ein hawr o angen.’
‘Oh crikey,’ says George, going a bit yellow.
‘What?’ I say. My Welsh is definitely not as good as his.
‘Merlods,’ says George. ‘All the way on merlods.’
‘What are merlods?’ I say.
‘Just wait.’
The snow lets up a little. There’s a break in its swirling. Far away in the distance I hear the sound of something drumming on frozen ground.
‘Oh no,’ I groan. What has Gran gone and done now?
The drumming gets louder. It sounds like the footfall of something familiar. Then I hear the high call of a pony. And down the mountain, out of the mist, race a herd of fleet-footed, sleek-backed Welsh mountain ponies, with manes flying and nostrils flaring.
Through the garden at the back of the cottage they pour. They stamp and steam to a halt at Gran’s front door.
Fearfully I glance up at the sky. Gran rests a hand on my arm. ‘T’will be all right. He cannot come here again.’
The lead pony, a bright chestnut, whinnies, tosses his head and pounds at the frozen soil.
A window from the cottage is flung open. ‘Oh My God!’ yells Rhiannon at the top of her voice. ‘We’re not going to have to ride all the way on horseback, are we?’
I look up at her. She’s such a drama queen.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘If you’re still determined to come, you better cowgirl-up!’
With a bit of luck she’ll decide not to.
‘On those?’ Rhi points very rudely at the little ponies, stamping their hooves and shaking out the cold in front of Gran’s cottage.
‘Rhiannon!’ Gran’s voice is sharp. ‘You need to be appreciative of what Snowdon has provided for you. In the days to come, any small offer of help should be treasured.’
‘Plus, you can always go home,’ I say. Tee hee.
My phone pings. I pull it out hoping for some good news. Pleeease. After all, I think I deserve a break. Something good, like the police have dropped the charges, or Llanberis Council has decided to send a snowplough up the mountain.
Instead I read:
Random texter +44 7654 111156
I told you Hands Off or it was WAR. So don’t be surprised.
My heart sinks. It has to be Sheila. I’m not taking that. I start pinging.
Recent updates between Ellie and Sheila:
Ellie
Sheila? Please stop mucking around. You’re freaking me out.
Sheila
Whaaat?
Ellie
I just got a weird message. I thought it was you. Was it?
Sheila
Are you saying I’m a weirdo and I get my kicks trolling you?
Ellie
No. I’m not. I’m sorry. I’m just a bit stressed with all that court case and things. Anyone can get it wrong.
Sheila
Some friend.
Now I feel bad. That wasn’t fair of me. Just because Sheila made a mistake last new year (albeit a rather huge mistake; one which nearly ended up with me dead in a cave), I’m being unforgiving. And with Rhi too.
I will try to be nicer.
If I can.
But I am stressed. About Henry mostly.
I text the number back. I probably shouldn’t. It’s probably best to ignore texts like that.
But I am a flawed character, obvs.
Recent up
dates between Ellie and +44 7654 111156:
Ellie
Look, I don’t know who you are, but just back off.
Random Texter
You don’t know who I am?
Ellie
No, and I don’t want to.
Random Texter
Oh you’ll want to know all right. I am your worst nightmare. You can call me the SUPREME ONE.
I brush the snowflakes off my phone and put it away. The Supreme One. What a stupid name. Worst nightmare, my foot. Pathetic little witch.
I check I have the heart and the mirror safely in my pocket.
Davey joins us. He’s pulled a thick jacket over his hippy outfit and looks, if anything, even weirder than ever. He smiles and nods his hello.
I smile hello back to Davey, then look up at Rhi again. ‘Yes, you can go home,’ I mouth. Instantly forgetting about being much nicer.
Rhiannon mouths back: ‘Oh shut up’, from the cottage window.
Gran beckons me over.
‘Let Rhiannon go with you,’ she says. ‘One of the ponies has volunteered to carry her, and there must be a reason for that, even if we do not see it straight away.’
‘OK,’ I sigh, ignoring her claim that a pony has ‘volunteered’ something.
‘You take the chestnut,’ Gran continues. ‘He is called Keincaled.’
The pony rolls a wild eye at me, then plunges nearer. He tosses his silky mane. Little flakes of snow caught in the strands of his hair sparkle like diamonds.
‘Davey, take the bay – there – the one with the star on his forehead. His name is Bayard and he is willing to carry you.’
And George?
Already I have caught sight of a slightly taller than average pony, more like a cob, sparkling white, bold.
It pushes forward, nudges others aside and comes to a standstill in front of George. George smiles. The cob stretches his head, and lets out a long happy snort.
‘Ah, it looks like Sior has been chosen,’ says Gran, ‘by Graine, the best of horses.’