by Sarah Mussi
And there we are, chasing our own shadows on the mountain below, and diving amongst the clouds.
Heat rushes up from Henry’s body, warms me. I cling to him as he glides and swoops, the land below a blur; the skies above pale swift shadows.
Way down below is the Pass of Arrows. We circle over Snowdonia. Far away to the south, I think I see the shadow of a tall man, his head buried in his hands, looking out across a wide saddleback ridge towards a barrow and a stone and a pool of golden sun …
I think of him, of Idris, and how he will sit on his mountain and how his love is buried in her cold tomb. I think of Angharad and how she was so cursed and so beloved, and died because of it. And I think: if Angharad can bear it, so can I.
We alight on the summit of Snowdon. I climb down from Henry’s back and we sit there, as the morning seems to go on forever and ever.
Together we look out across the range. Henry puts one wing around me. I lean my head on the scales of his crimson shoulder. There are clouds: pink and green and blue slowly turning in bright air.
There, below us, is the cafe. Beside us the circular stone pinnacle at Snowdon’s very peak. I settle against him. The wind is blowing up at me, driving sunlight into my eyes. I squint through the pure light; below us, the valleys tumble away.
Hearts beating, we cling together, the clouds at our feet, the mist swirling up, until I can hardly even see the cafe.
With one taloned limb, he pulls me even closer against him. He holds me. He presses himself to me. Gently. Kindly.
He says, his voice tight and hard, ‘Be brave, beautiful Ellie. I should never have involved you in the way of dragons … may the stars forgive me.’
I won’t think about tomorrow.
A part of me will always be here.
Always.
‘Be brave, my love,’ he repeats. ‘When nightfall comes, Oswald will seek me out; for as you know, it is our destiny always to do battle. By then he will be stronger, for he draws strength from the darkness. I will wait over by Dinas Emrys. I will go there very soon to prepare everything: the pit, the stones, the landslide, the burial.’
‘No!’ I say. ‘Please not that.’
‘It must be so,’ says Henry, ‘and so I choose it. But I will not be buried there under any spell again, but by my own choice – for Merlin was right to constrict us – it is only like this that I can protect you and mankind from Oswald, for I will drag him down and bury him with me forever.’
‘There must be some other way,’ I say, jerking to my feet.
‘None that I know of, or can bring about so quickly. For every day he is free, you are in mortal danger. You heard him curse you. You know how devious he is. You know how his ambition drives him. Granny Jones can weave strong charms, but the hour will come when he will break through all protective enchantments and strike you down, and … ’ Henry’s deep dragon voice breaks.
A cloud sails across the face of the risen sun.
Henry inhales. Small eddies of mist spiral around us. ‘I can’t bear that to happen,’ he says quietly.
I sit back down again; wearily I lay my head against his.
‘But in your hour of great pain,’ he says, ‘I have brought you this.’
Henry pulls out a small phial, tucked behind a flashing crimson scale. Inside it, something swirls and glitters.
‘What is it?’ I ask, as I take it.
‘Stardust,’ says Henry. ‘I collected it as I winged my way through the cosmos. All you need to do is dust it over your eyes – it will bring the gift of forgetfulness.’
‘I don’t want to forget,’ I say breaking into tears.
‘One day,’ he says, ‘one day you might.’
FORTY-NINE
ELLIE’S PHONE 20 March 11.50
Status: So SAD.
On the slopes of Yr Wyddfa the sun is risen, George waits for me just above the upper pasture on our side of the mountain. He gives me his coat, wraps his arm around me. Far away, hidden by the turn of a mountain spur, is the ancient fort of Dinas Emrys. I know by now Henry is there, digging out the pit, preparing the trap – the burial chamber for himself and Oswald.
‘Don’t take it too hard,’ says George. ‘We did our best. Nobody can change the way it has to be.’
I say nothing.
‘Elles?’ says George.
I put my head on his shoulder.
‘You owe me a snog, you know.’
I sigh.
‘Two actually. And if it’s not pushing my luck, another new axe would be handy – the Husqvarna’s a bit blunted.’
I barely hear him.
‘I’ll come with you to Caernarfon.’
My mind is far away, on the other side of the mountain.
‘Elles?’
I will see you again Henry. I won’t rest until I do.
‘I called your mum. She says they’ve dropped the case, but you still have to show up – something about procedure. Your statement about calling the police from Pen-y-Pass about the landslide checked out. Watertight alibi apparently. Plus all the witnesseses seem to have disappeared – or given false addresses – or weren’t contactable – or something. Anyway, she’s going to pick us up at my place.’
I bring up my chin and straighten up my shoulders, though my mind is far away …
‘Elles?’
In my imagination, I see what will happen. Dusk will fall on the first day of spring. Henry will wait in the deep cavern under Dinas Emrys; the White Dragon of Wessex will find him, furious, filled with venom.
Icy sheets of white will bloom on the rocks. The Red Dragon of Wales will roar, instantly the ice will melt. The rocks will glow red.
‘I wish you’d say something,’ says George.
And eventually Oswald will pounce on Henry, blasting his polar breath straight into Henry’s face. There, trapped in the confines of the pit, the clash of their two huge wills will shake the mountain as they dodge and weave and strike and dive.
‘Rhi’s OK to come to court too. She’s down at mine, waiting for us. She says she’ll speak up in person and admit she made a false statement. She is trying hard to put things right, you know.’
Henry will take Oswald’s blows, wearing himself out, trying to lure Oswald in deeper. Huge exhalations of flame. Stalactites blossoming in white-hot silhouette. Oswald’s breath of death, freezing rock and lichen, crystal and crevasse.
Until …
‘Oh and I sent Sheila a text earlier. You’re gonna love this!’ George holds up his phone and shows me.
GEORGE’S PHONE 20 March 09.03
Updates beween George and Sheila
Get back OK? Did you have to walk? Or did you use your broomstick?
‘Not funny? I was just trying to make you smile.’
The whole side of the mountain will give way.
It will all be over.
And it will be too late.
Down will topple the hillside, down over the Worms of Dinas Emrys.
Fin
SO MOTE IT BE
Later that spring – 30 April
The Eve of Calan Mai1
ELLIE’S PHONE 30 April 11.30
Status: In a committed relationship
This morning the sun is shining. I’ve biked all the way up to the top of Pen-y-Pass.
I rest briefly. I check the straw man I’ve made is safe inside my pocket.
Then carry on with my plan.
I’m going to Dinas Emrys for the first time since March.
My heart pounds. I bite my lip. But I’m ready.
‘I’m coming Henry,’ I whisper.
Going downhill from Pen-y-Pass is scary. The road falls away in front of me, there’s a hairpin bend just ahead, so I cling on. The road drops and drops away, and I have that feeling, as if I’m flying off into nothingness.
I hold my breath. I tear through the sunshine, all the way down to the junction, on to the Beddgelert road. Then I race through the morning like the wind. The bike flies beneath me. I want to reach
Dinas Emrys quickly. I want to lay my charm on Henry’s lair, before Sheila or anyone else tries their magick there again.
I hit the Beddgelert road at speed. Air whips my hair back, stings my eyes. The sky is as blue as blue. Sunlight slants off everything. The sides of the mountain lie covered in thick purple heather. The air is charged with such sweetness.
I shoot downhill, all the way to Llyn Gwynant.
The water on the lake stretches out shining black. Sundrenched slopes rise from its shores. The road lies totally deserted; the mountain is all mine. Sometimes I like it best that way – just Snowdon and me.
I race past Llyn Gwynant crouched low. Just the grey road, winding on down alongside the Afon Glaslyn, down to Llyn Dinas.
I squint into the distance. My heartbeat jumps about. The fortress of Dinas Emrys lies smack ahead.
I think of Henry lying curled under the earth, so near, so far.
He’ll be there.
I need to keep it that way.
What did George say?
‘Be careful Elles. Tonight – May Eve – is auspicious. Gran says you must lay a charm to protect Henry.’
No more witchy stuff with covens. No more trying to wake up my Henry.
An image of Sir Oswald flashes across my mind. Pale eyes. Hooded eyelids. He’ll be under the mountain too.
I slow down.
I swing off the road and cycle up towards a lush green pasture.
I take my shortcut, through a turning to a farm, behind a row of mobile holiday homes, where I can scramble up a steep slope between trees, and get to the fortress from the back. The bracken is tight and scratchy, but it’s really not too far and saves a good three-mile hike.
I go through the farm gates; it’s private property, but there’s no need to worry about the holiday homes now. They’ll be full of tourists at this time of year. They won’t give me a second glance.
I chain the bike to a handy sapling behind the first chalet.
In front of me rises a steep bank, covered by spindly trees. Thick green moss coats every patch of bark. Their roots are tangled knots of black. In parts, the rocky hillside is almost sheer. High above, a skylark trills out short, rapturous notes. I hoist myself up from trunk to trunk. I try to stay strong.
Since the spring equinox, I’ve stayed away from here, too many memories, too much sadness, but I guess I’m needed today.
I climb up to the top of Dinas Emrys. Pause. Pant. Just breathe in warm air.
Since the second landslide, the hill is not much changed. That is the way Henry planned it.
I turn to look up towards Snowdon. Everywhere is thick with brilliance, but through the blinding sunshine, blurred by the shimmer of late spring warmth, I think – no – I’m certain, I see a figure.
There he is: the figure of a young man poised on the edge of the mountain.
I smile.
I rub my eyes. Is it really a figure? Or just a trick of the light? A memory perhaps? Or George checking I made it safely? Rays of sunlight dazzle me. By the time I look again, he’s gone.
My heart starts pounding.
I squint just to be sure.
I wish so much it were Henry.
Nothing.
But then this is Snowdon.
Yr Wyddfa.
The great burial den of the dragons.
Here anything can happen.
Especially on May Eve.
Yes, May Eve and I have come here for crogi gwr gwellt: ‘hanging a straw man’.
It’s a tradition on May Eve that when a lover has lost their sweetheart, they make a man out of straw and put it somewhere in the vicinity of where the lover sleeps.
The straw man represents the enemy, the one that seeks to take the heart of the beloved away.
I find the right spot.
Just where I stood with Rhi.
Just where half of the north face of Dinas Emrys split open.
A vision flashes before me … trees uprooted, boulders cracked; great half-broken tree trunks sticking up in the air. That overpowering smell of crushed foliage, that sickly scent of damp earth, that great scar, huge open depths …
The vision passes.
I pin a note to my straw man.
Gran helped me craft the words:
‘By water and fire, earth and air,
Let Henry’s enemies beware.
Let the words of my charm,
Protect his heart from any harm.
Let the power of my love,
Strengthened by the stars above,
Keep him safe, keep him secure,
Keep his heart forever pure.
By the flowers of Blodeuwedd
Let none attempt to breach his bed.’
—
I place the adder stone on the note.
I sprinkle the place with a potion Gran brewed for me.
I look up to the mountains.
‘I will find a way to be with you again, Henry,’ I whisper.
Then I pray to Snowdon to keep him safe, out of the reach of any evil.
Until I can keep my promise.
1 Calan Mai (or Calan Haf), the first day of May, is a holy day in Wales. Celebration bonfires start on the evening before, known as May Eve. This night is considered an Ysbrydnos or ‘spirit night’ when spirits are out and about, and divination is possible.[back]
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks and appreciation goes to:
Jon Barton
Jane Beagley
John Coefield
Anna Coombes
Joy Coombes
Ruth Eastham
Lorna Hargreaves
Sophie Hicks
Caroline Johnson
Christine M’Baye
Nathan Ryder
Susie Ryder
The staff of Llechwedd Slate Caverns
All of my readers who have encouraged me
And all of the very helpful and informative residents
of Llanberis, Beddgelert and Blaenau Ffestiniog.
Diolch
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Sarah Mussi is an award-winning author of children’s and young adults’ fiction. Her first novel, The Door of No Return, won the Glen Dimplex Children’s Book Award and was shortlisted for the Branford Boase Award. Her second novel, The Last of the Warrior Kings, was shortlisted for the Lewisham Book Award, inspired a London Walk, and is used as a textbook in Lewisham schools. Her thriller, Siege, was nominated for the CILIP Carnegie Medal (2014) and won the BBUKYA award for contemporary YA fiction. Her thriller, Riot, was longlisted for The Amazing Book Award amongst many others and won The Lancashire Schools Award. In 2015, Hodder Children’s Books published her novel, Bomb, followed shortly after by Here Be Dragons, the first book in the Snowdonia Chronicles trilogy, published by Vertebrate Publishing. Here Be Witches is the second title in the trilogy.
Sarah was born and raised in the Cotswolds, attended Pate’s Grammar School for Girls, and graduated with a BA in Fine Art from Winchester School of Art and an MA from the Royal College of Art. She spent over fifteen years in West Africa as a teacher and now lives in London where she is the current Co-Chair of CWISL (Children’s Writers and Illustrators in South London). Sarah splits her time between writing, visiting schools as an author and promoting creative writing for children. Sarah also teaches English in a Lewisham School.
Also by Sarah Mussi
The Door of No Return
The Last of the Warrior Kings
Angel Dust
Siege
Riot
Breakdown
Bomb
Here be Dragons
Here be Witches
Sarah Mussi
First published in 2017 by Shrine Bell, an imprint of Vertebrate Publishing
Shrine Bell
Crescent House, 228 Psalter Lane, Sheffield, S11 8UT, UK
www.shrinebell.com
Copyright © Sarah Mussi 2017
Sarah Mussi has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Designs
Cover design by Nathan Ryder
Cover photo by Keld Bach, www.keldbach.com
Author photograph © Roger Bool
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-911342-33-5 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-911342-32-8 (Paperback)
All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic, or mechanised, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without the written permission of the publisher.
Vertebrate Publishing
www.v-publishing.co.uk
www.shrinebell.com