by Jenny Nimmo
She passed the cottage slowly, trailing her fingers along the top of the stone wall. Sprays of snow flew onto her sleeve, and she never took her eyes off the light in Nain's downstairs window.
Gwyn was tempted to take the girl in to meet his grandmother. But it was getting dark, and they still had to pass the furrows of snow that had drifted into the narrow path further on. He wondered how on earth Eirlys was going to get home. "What will Mrs. . . . What's-'er-name say, when you're not on the bus?" he asked.
"Mrs. Herbert? She's kind. She'll understand," Eirlys replied.
They held hands when they reached the snowdrifts, Gwyn leading the girl to higher ground at the edge of the path. Once again he gasped at the icy touch of her fingers, and when Eirlys laughed, the sound was familiar to him.
She was reluctant to come into the farmhouse, and when Gwyn insisted, she approached it cautiously, with a puzzled frown on her face. Every now and then she would look away from the house, up to where the mountain should have been, but where, now, only a moving white mist could be seen.
"Come on," said Gwyn. "Mam'll give you a cup of tea."
He opened the front door and called into the kitchen, "I'm back, Mam. Sorry I'm late. I had a bit of trouble with the snow."
"I thought you would," came the reply.
His mother was stirring something on the stove when he went into the kitchen. She turned to speak to him but instead cried out, "Your face! What's happened?"
"I had a bit of a fight. It's not anything, really!" Gwyn said.
His father got up from the chair by the kitchen table, where he had been mending some electrical equipment. He was about to be angry, but then he saw Eirlys standing in the doorway. "Who's this?" he asked.
"Eirlys!" said Gwyn. "She helped me. She walked up from the bus with me to see I was all right."
"That was kind of you, Eirlys," said Mrs. Griffiths. "Take your coat off and warm up a bit. I'll make a pot of tea."
She began to help Gwyn with his coat, exclaiming all the time at the state of his muddy clothes and the bruises on his face.
Eirlys came into the room and took off her hat and coat. She drew a chair up to the table and sat down opposite Mr. Griffiths. He just stood there, staring at her, while his big hands groped for the tiny brass screws that had escaped him and now spun out across the table.
The girl caught one of the screws and stretched across to put it safe into his hand. Gwyn heard the sharp intake of breath as his father felt her icy fingers. He laughed. "She's cold-blooded, isn't she, Dad?" he said.
Mr. Griffiths did not reply. He sat down and began his work again. Mrs. Griffiths poured the tea and brought a fruit cake to the table. They discussed the snow and the school and the fight. Mrs. Griffiths asked how and why the fight had begun. Although Gwyn could not give a satisfactory explanation, Mr. Griffiths did not say a word. He did not even seem to be listening to them, but every now and then he would look up and stare at Eirlys.
When it was dark Mrs. Griffiths said, "You'd better ring your mam, she'll be worrying."
"She hasn't got a mam," Gwyn answered for the girl. "She's living with the Herberts."
"Oh, you poor love." Mrs. Griffiths shook her head sympathetically.
"They're lovely," said Eirlys brightly, "so kind. They won't mind. They'll fetch me. They said they always would if I wanted, and it's not far."
"No need for that." Mr. Griffiths suddenly stood up. "I'll take you in the Land Rover."
Gwyn was amazed. His father never offered lifts. "You're honored," he whispered to Eirlys as Mr. Griffiths strode out of the back door.
By the time Eirlys had gathered up her hat and coat and her schoolbag, the deep throbbing of the Land Rover's engine could be heard out in the lane.
"Good-bye," said Eirlys. She walked up to Mrs. Griffiths and kissed her. Mrs. Griffiths was startled. She looked as though she had seen a ghost.
She remained in the kitchen while Gwyn and the girl walked down to the gate. The door of the Land Rover was open, and Mr. Griffiths was standing beside it. "You'll have to get in this side and climb over," he told Eirlys, "the snow's deep on the other side."
Gwyn had never known his father to be so considerate to a child.
Eirlys stepped out into the lane, but before she could climb into the Land Rover, Mr. Griffiths' arms were around her, helping her up. For a second the two shadowy figures became one and, for some reason, Gwyn felt that he did not belong to the scene. He looked away to the frozen hedges glittering in the glare of the headlights.
Inside the house the telephone began to ring. Then the Land Rover's wheels spun, and Gwyn had to back away from the sprays of wet snow. It was too late to shout good-bye.
He turned to go back into the house and saw his mother standing on the porch. "Mrs. Davis, Ty Coch, was on the phone," she said gravely. "She wants to talk to us tomorrow. It's about Dewi's nose!"
Chapter 6
A DROWNING
"We've left Dewi with his auntie," said Mrs. Davis.
Dewi had many aunties. Gwyn wondered which one had the pleasure of his company, and if Dewi was to be envied or pitied.
The Davises had come to "thrash out the problem of the nose," as Mr. Davis put it.
It was six o'clock. The tea had only just been cleared away, and Gwyn's stomach was already grumbling. Mr. and Mrs. Davis, Gwyn, and his parents were sitting around the kitchen table as though they were about to embark on an evening of cards or some other lighthearted entertainment, not something as serious as Dewi's nose.
"The problem, as I see it," began Mrs. Davis, "is, who's lying?"
"Gary Pritchard, Merfyn Jones, and Brian Roberts, all say that they think they saw Gwyn throw a stone," said Mr. Davis solemnly. "Now, this is a very serious business."
"Very dangerous too," added Mrs. Davis.
"That goes without saying, Gladys." Mr. Davis coughed. "Now, the situation is," he paused dramatically, "what's to be done about it?"
"How . . . er, how bad is the nose?" Mrs. Griffiths asked.
"Very bad," replied Mrs. Davis indignantly. "How bad d'you think your nose would be if it had been hit by a rock?"
"Now wait a minute!" Mr. Griffiths entered the conversation with a roar. "First it's a stone, now it's a rock, and we haven't yet established whether anything was thrown. Perhaps Dewi bumped his nose. We haven't heard his explanation."
"That's the problem." Mr. Davis banged his fist on the table. "Dewi says he did bump his nose, but the other boys say Gwyn hit him with a stone."
"Dewi's frightened of him, see!" Mrs. Davis pointed an accusing finger at Gwyn. "He's afraid your boy'll do something worse to him if he tells."
"Bloody nonsense!" Mr. Griffiths stood up, his chair scraping on the tiled floor. "Let's hear your side of it, Gwyn."
Gwyn looked up. He was unused to having his father defend him. He felt that he could take on any number of Davises now. "I didn't throw a stone," he said.
"There!" Mr. and Mrs. Davis spoke simultaneously.
Mr. Griffiths sat down and the two sets of parents eyed each other wordlessly.
"He's lying, of course," Mr. Davis said at last.
"He ought to be punished," added his wife. "The principal should be told."
"It's a pity they don't thrash kids these days," growled Mr. Davis.
This time it was Mr. Griffiths who banged the table. Gwyn got up and began to pace about the room while the adults all talked at once. He had a tremendous desire to do something dramatic, and the knowledge that he probably could made the temptation almost unbearable. What should he do though? Box Mr. Davis's ears from a distance of three meters? Pull Mrs. Davis's hair? The possibilities were endless. And then he remembered Nain's warning. He must not abuse his power. It must be used only when there was something that he truly needed to do.
"It's not as if your son is normal," he heard Mrs. Davis say. "Everyone's been talking about his being peculiar, if you know what I mean. Ask any of the children."
For t
he first time his parents seemed unable to reply. Mrs. Griffiths looked so miserable that Gwyn could hardly bear it. She had known for days that something was wrong, and now she was going to hear about his "stories."
"It seems," Mrs. Davis went on, "that Gwyn has been saying some very peculiar things, if you know what I mean. And why? If you ask me, your son's not normal."
Gwyn had to stop her. Contemplating the generous curves that overflowed the narrow kitchen chair supporting Mrs. Davis, his eyes alighted upon a large expanse of flesh just above her knee that her too-tight skirt could not cover. He flexed his fingers, pressed his thumb and forefinger together tight, tight, tight!
Mrs. Davis screamed. She glared at Mr. Griffiths and then asked haughtily, "Have you got a dog?"
The two men frowned at her and then frowned at each other. Mrs. Griffiths said, "Yes, he's in the barn."
"A cat?" Mrs. Davis inquired hopefully.
"A black tom." Mrs. Griffiths nodded towards a dark form sitting on the sill outside the kitchen window. "We call him Long John," she said, "because he lost a leg on the road when he was just a kitten. It's wonderful what vets can do these days."
Mrs. Davis glanced at Long John and then quickly looked away, her pink lips contorted with distaste. "I think we'll go," she said and stood up.
Her husband looked at her but did not move.
"Get up, Bryn!" Mrs. Davis commanded. "I want to go!"
Mr. Davis followed his wife out of the kitchen with a perplexed expression on his face, as though he could not understand why the interview had ended so abruptly and wondered if the situation had been resolved without his being aware of it.
Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths were as perplexed as he. They silently followed their unwelcome guests to the front door. There the whole unpleasant business might have ended, had not Mrs. Davis been heard to mutter darkly, "Someone pinched my thigh!"
Mrs. Griffiths gasped. Her husband roared "What?" But Mr. Davis, having opened the front door, thrust his wife through it before she could cause the affair to deteriorate further. He then followed quickly after her, and the wind parted the two families by slamming the door.
Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths retreated into the kitchen and slumped battle-weary beside the table. Then the humor of the situation overcame them and they began to laugh with relief.
"Thanks for sticking up for me, Dad," said Gwyn, when his parents had recovered. He felt awkward and not at all sure that he had done the right thing in the end.
"If you say you're innocent, that's all I need to know," said Mr. Griffiths gruffly.
Gwyn looked hard at his father. He could not understand this change of attitude. A week ago his father would neither have believed nor defended him. In all probability he would have been sentenced to a weekend in his room and a meal of bread and water. "I'd better get on with my homework," he said shyly.
He was about to leave the room when his father suddenly said, "Is that girl coming again, then?"
"What girl?" Gwyn asked.
"You know what girl. The one that was here yesterday. I can always run her home if . . ." his father hesitated and then added diffidently, "if she wants to come."
"I don't suppose she will," said Gwyn. "She's a girl. She only came because I was hurt."
"Oh, that was it?"
Gwyn thought he could detect something almost like regret in his father's voice. What had come over the man? It was quite disturbing. It had nothing to do with himself, Gwyn was sure of that. He knew, instinctively, that he could not, should not, use his power to influence thought.
The pinch had been satisfactory though.
Gwyn realized that his father's mood had changed when Eirlys appeared. If that was the case, then she would have to come again, if only to keep his father happy. And so, although it was against his principles to have girls at Ty Bryn, the following day he asked Eirlys if she could come to the farm on Saturday.
"Of course," Eirlys replied. Her eyes shone with pleasure.
"Mam and Dad want it," said Gwyn, by way of explanation, "and . . . and so do I, of course!"
The weather changed. December brought sun instead of snow. The wind was warm and smelled of damp leaves and overripe apples.
Gwyn took Eirlys on his mountain, and she saw it in sunshine. Before she had only glimpsed it at dusk, through a mist of snow. Now she saw the colors that he loved, the buzzards hunting low over the fields, the rosy clouds drifting above the plateau. Gwyn had not realized that he would enjoy the company of a girl. But then Eirlys was not like other girls.
They leaped and sometimes slipped upon wet stones in the tumbling streams. They ran, arms outstretched, along the stone walls, scattering the sheep that dozed there. They chased crows that hopped like black thieves behind the leafless trees. And somehow Gwyn's father always seemed to be there, watching them from a distance or walking nearby with his dog and his blackthorn stick, listening to their voices. After tea he began to whistle in his workshop, and Gwyn realized he hardly recognized the sound. Even his mother looked up, astonished, from her ironing.
In the evening, while it was still light enough to see the trees, the children walked in the orchard. Gwyn told Eirlys about Nain and the five gifts, about the power that had come to him from Gwydion, and how he had hit Dewi Davis without a stone. He told her about the silver ship that had caused all his trouble at school. Unlike Alun, Eirlys believed him. She did not think it strange that a ship had fallen out of the sky. Even so, Gwyn did not mention the snow spider. He was still wary of confiding too much. "I'll take you to see my grandmother," he told the girl. Nain would know whether he could tell Eirlys about the cobwebs.
Later, he asked his parents if Eirlys could come again, so that they could visit Nain.
"Why can't she stay the night?" Mr. Griffiths suggested. "She can sleep in Bethan's room."
"No!" cried Mrs. Griffiths. And then more quietly she added, "It's . . . it's just that the room isn't ready!"
Nothing more was said just then, but when Mr. Griffiths had returned from his trip to the Herberts he suddenly remarked, "Shall we ask the girl for Christmas? She can stay a day or two, and there'll be time to get the room ready."
"No!" his wife said again. "No! It's my Bethan's room."
"But she isn't here, Mam," Gwyn said gently.
"It's waiting for her, though," his mother reproached him.
"But Eirlys could sleep there," Gwyn persisted. "The room is ready—I looked in. The bed is made, and the patchwork quilt is on it. The cupboards are shiny and all the dolls are there. It's such a waste!"
"Yes, all the dolls are there!" cried Mrs. Griffiths. She sank into a chair and bent her head, covering her face with her hands. "You don't seem to care anymore, either of you. It's my daughter's room, my Bethan's. Her bed, her dolls, her place."
Her husband and her son stood watching her, sad and helpless. How could they tell her that it did not matter if Bethan was not with them, because now there was Eirlys?
"We won't discuss it now," said Mr. Griffiths. "But I've already agreed to fetch the girl tomorrow. Be kind while she's here. She's an orphan, remember."
"I won't upset her," Mrs. Griffiths said. "I'm sorry for her. She's just not my Bethan."
When Gwyn took Eirlys to visit his grandmother the following afternoon, Nain was waiting by the gate. She had dressed carefully for the occasion in an emerald green dress and scarlet stockings. Round her neck she wore a rope of grass green beads long enough to touch the silver buckle on her belt. From each ear swung a tiny golden cage with a silver bird tinkling inside it.
Eirlys was most impressed. "How beautiful you look," she said, and won Nain's heart.
Gwyn noticed that his grandmother could not take her eyes off the girl. She watched her every move, hungrily, like a bright-eyed cat might watch a bird. "Eirlys!" she murmured, "that's Welsh for 'snowdrop'. So we have a snowflower among us!"
After they had sipped their tea and eaten cake that tasted of cinnamon and rosemary, Gwyn told his grandmo
ther about the ship and about Dewi Davis's nose. Eirlys wandered round the room, touching the china, the beads, and the plants. She studied the pictures in the dusty books and tied colored scarves around her head.
Nain was not surprised to hear about the silver ship. She merely nodded and said, "Ah, yes! You have nearly reached what you wanted, Gwydion Gwyn. But be careful! Don't do anything foolish!"
"Shall I tell Eirlys about the spider?" Gwyn asked his grandmother. "Should she know about the cobwebs and that other world?"
"Of course," said Nain, "though I believe she knows already."
They left the cottage before dark. Nain followed them to the gate, and as they set off up the path she called again, "Be careful!"
Gwyn was not listening to his grandmother. He had begun to tell Eirlys about the spider. He realized that he had not seen Arianwen for several days and wondered where she was.
When they got back to the farmhouse, Mrs. Griffiths was upstairs, sewing the hem on her new bedroom curtains. Her husband was cleaning the Land Rover. He had used it to transport a new batch of pullets from the Lloyds' that morning, and they had made more of a mess than he had bargained for.
Gwyn told Eirlys to wait in the kitchen while he fetched the pipe and the spider from his attic room. When he returned she was sitting in the armchair by the stove. The light was fading, but a tiny slither of winter sun had crept through the swaying branches of the apple tree and into the kitchen window. The light glimmered on the girl in the armchair, and Gwyn had to stop and take a breath before he said, "You are the girl in the web, Eirlys!"
"Am I?" she said.
"Yes, it was you! I knew it all the time, but I couldn't see how You're like my sister, too. Where have you come from, Eirlys?"
The girl just smiled her inscrutable smile and asked, "Where is the spider?"
"I don't know," he replied. "I looked in the drawer, on top of the cupboard, and under the bed. I couldn't find her."
Eirlys looked concerned. "Where can she be?"
Gwyn shrugged. "I don't know. She's been gone before, but only for a day. I haven't seen her for nearly a week."