Guardian Angel

by Brian John

  I went to bed that night feeling utterly miserable, convinced that my freedom was about to come to an end and that my insane enterprise would collapse around my ears, probably on the morrow. I could not sleep, and in the small hours I conceived a further mad plan which would certainly have been instantly stamped upon by any of my fellow conspirators, had they been consulted. But they were in Newport and Dinas and assorted other places in North Pembrokeshire, and I was all alone in Cardigan. So I determined to carry it through as a last act of defiance. On looking back, I now think that what came into my head was guidance from somewhere -- not the profound guidance I was looking for, relating to my destiny, but at any rate something far better than introspection and inactivity.

  On a bright and calm morning I rose early, and told Mrs Ifans at breakfast time that I was minded do some shopping. I said that I was also intent upon certain investigations into my family history which might take me out of town. So off I went at eight o’clock with a wicker basket over my arm, and a promise that I would return by dinner time. There was no sign of Iago when I stepped out onto the street, and I concluded that he would not be on duty until 9 o’clock at the earliest. I was cautious nonetheless, and after walking along the High Street and crossing Cardigan Bridge, I turned near the warehouse and strode off towards St Dogmael’s. A big ship was being unloaded at the quayside, and there was much noise and activity, with horses and carts coming and going, and merchants and seamen rushing about. Just in case I was being followed I turned a corner, dodged into an alleyway and waited in the shadows. Sure enough, after a couple of minutes a tall man with a woollen frock coat and muffler walked past, hesitated as he realized that he had lost sight of me, and then walked on more quickly up the winding hill towards the village. I knew it was Woodward, dressed in new or borrowed clothes following his ignominious descent into the river. I waited till he was out of sight, and then, with my heart racing, I doubled back and crossed the bridge into town.

  I turned into Stryd y Castell and entered Billings Superior Gentlemen’s Outfitters just a couple of minutes after it opened for the day. Half an hour later I came out again, carrying in my basket a parcel containing a long black cloak, a heavy black muffler, and a wide-brimmed black felt hat. I bought some hot pies, cheese and fruit from a market stall. Then, without further ado, I hired a covered chaise and instructed the driver to head for Newport, telling him that I would need him for the whole day, and that he would be required to wait for me for a couple of hours while I attended to certain business. He was a young fellow called Bobby who had never been west of Eglwyswrw before, so the trip was an adventure for him. As we trotted along, I sat quietly inside the chaise, dressed in my mourning clothes and with my veil over my face. I felt a sort of quiet satisfaction, since I knew that I would not be followed in this enterprise by my enemy, who would hopefully be spending an unproductive day hunting for me in the streets of St Dogmael’s. After an hour or so I caught my first glimpses of my beloved mountain, prominent on the western skyline, and looking for all the world like a mighty volcano about to erupt. In reality it is quite a little mountain, barely over eleven hundred feet high, but therein lies a part of its charm and its magic.

  As I made my plans I entered a state of calm resolution spiced with just a little apprehension. What I was about to do was, after all, very risky indeed. There was virtually no traffic on the road, and we reached Newport before 11 o’clock. I asked the driver to continue through the town and to turn left up the Bedd Morris road. He needed my instructions in order to reach the old standing stone at the highest point on the road to Pontfaen. According to legend, it is the place where a notorious robber called Morris was captured, hung and buried. There, in the middle of a wild moorland with no sign of human habitation, I alighted from the chaise with my parcel and told Bobby to wait for two hours. I gave him the larger part of my picnic supplies, and told him that I was going to visit a relative who lived in a very remote cottage which could only be reached on foot. He released the horse from the chaise, wiped it down after the long journey, and tethered it to the standing stone. Then he settled down in the spring sunshine to eat his lunch, to listen to the skylarks, and to read a penny dreadful.

  I walked eastwards along the mountain track towards Carningli, filling my lungs with the sweet fresh mountain air and obtaining a temporary release from my imprisonment within the persona of Mrs Susanna Ravenhill. There was no sign of any other human being, and there were very few sheep on the mountain since I knew that they would be down in the fields of Dolrannog, Penrhiw and the Mountain West farms for the duration of the lambing season. A few shaggy mountain ponies, which I recognized as belonging to Gelli, moved reluctantly out of my way as I walked past. When I reached Carn Edward, a prominent crag of bluestone with great boulders scattered around it, I disappeared among the rocks with my basket, dressed as an old woman in mourning, and emerged a few minutes later as a mysterious figure draped in a long black cloak, with a muffler over my face, and with a wide-brimmed black hat upon my head. I continued along the footpath, just out of sight of the Plas and the cottages and farms of Cilgwyn, with invisible skylarks carolling in the sunshine high above my head. At last I reached the rocky outcrops of the mountain itself, and followed the track that led into the tumbledown old fort inhabited by Druids and other ancient people many centuries ago. The approach to the summit was easy from this side -- a great deal easier than the steep ascent from the Plas, which lay to the south.

  I suddenly realized that I was enjoying myself. True, life might become difficult if I was spotted by somebody or -- even worse -- apprehended by somebody who might be out and about on the mountain in the middle of the day. But I thought that if I was to meet anybody, it would most likely be Will, Gerallt or one of the other Plas Ingli servants, and since they were fellow conspirators I would be content to reveal my identity if circumstances allowed. Otherwise, I was well protected by my disguise, which was calculated to give me the appearance of the Nightwalker, that mysterious figure who had walked upon the mountain many years ago and who had caused me, and many others, a good deal of distress. He (for it was a man, and not a ghost or a devil dressed in that long black cloak) had wandered about on the mountain, watching the Plas and reserving his closest attention for me personally, sometimes making frequent appearances over weeks, and then disappearing for months on end. At last, so concerned had people become about his hauntings that some local squires had even organized a hunt with horses and hounds, but he was never found; and in the end he had revealed himself to me, shortly before his death, as Iestyn Price, the natural father of my adopted son Brynach. He had loved me from afar, but he was a tragic and reclusive figure, terribly disfigured because of a wartime accident with an exploding cannon, who had every reason to hide away from the prying eyes and crude judgements of the world. But there were, I knew, still dim memories of the Nightwalker in the community, and those old enough to remember him still thought of him as a ghost. My own grandchildren certainly knew about him, having picked up greatly exaggerated tales of him flying through the air and appearing and disappearing at will. I recall that when he was young, Abel recounted for me a most remarkable tale of the Nightwalker flying over the mountain on a wild evening towards a red sunset, revealing through his long tail and prominent horns that he was really Satan out and about doing devillish things. I smiled as I recalled his wide-eyed boyish wonderment and his relish in the telling of the tale, as I accepted all his nonsense with grandmotherly good grace. I thought that if I was spotted, it would be most likely that my observer, being local and well-informed about local phantoms, would run away in a state of panic -- and that suited me well enough.

  The old blue rocks, encrusted with lichens and mosses, smelt warm and even welcoming as I followed the twisting path to the summit. I was too warm for comfort in my heavy disguise, but I knew that I had to keep my cloak tightly wrapped about me, my hat pulled down over my eyes, and my muffler over my face. When I reached the grassy patch near the summit
I was ecstatic. I was at home again, on my mountain, beneath a spring sun, with the world beneath my feet. Was this heaven, or was I still bound to the earth?

  But then my mood was transformed, as memories flooded into my mind: of the occasions when I had come here with my children at sunrise on Easter Sunday for the scattering of the Easter Water; of flying kites and winter gales; of love-making with my wonderful husband David, who died too young; of chance encounters with Owain Laugharne and Amos Jones, both now dead; of picnics with my grandchildren on balmy August afternoons; of the fateful evening, just over a fortnight ago, when I had lain just here beneath the cold crisp stars and fallen asleep, content that my life was at an end. How could I put all of that out of my mind in some idiotic attempt to “be” somebody else? Should I now attempt to empty my head and my heart of all the things that gave Martha Morgan life -- her virtues and her vices, her mannerisms and ways of speaking, her foibles and her little secrets, her grand designs and high aspirations? Impossible! How, I thought, could I scrub away my love for my grandchildren and my children, and even for my servants and friends? Impossible! Could I ever meet them face to face again without demonstrating my affection and concern for them, or acknowledging, through words and gestures and glances, the bonds which gave us our strength and which were unique to the Morgan family of Plas Ingli? Impossible! It was all very well for me to have made plans, and to have talked of theoretical situations with my fellow conspirators shortly after my miraculous recovery in the kitchen of the Plas, but how would I cope with encounters in the real world? Could I come face to face in public or in private with my little great-grandson Levi, the child of Rose and Henry, without wanting to embrace him, or hold him on my knee? I could not.

  As I wiped away my tears on the hem of my black cloak, I knew, without any feeling of arrogance, that the Plas, a place inhabited by angels, was at least partly my creation. Could I now turn my back on it, and pretend that it did not exist? Impossible! Some of my friends, in their innocence, were mourning for me still, and I felt more acutely than ever the outrage that I had committed against them. I felt a black, terrible despair, and I was overwhelmed by the thought that I had committed a cold, cruel and calculating act of deception on people who had done nothing to deserve it. I knew that towards them, and towards all those who had walked from the Plas to Cilgwyn Church in Martha Morgan’s funeral procession, I should have shown nothing but respect and affection. Now, in pursuit of I knew not what, I had lost everything -- family, friends, possessions, home, security, and even identity. I was penniless, and dependent upon the charity of others, and especially upon Wilmot. I could not presume that his generosity would last for ever. I would never again be able to socialise publicly and comfortably with my own family and friends. I realized that I missed Bessie dreadfully, and longed to sit down by the Plas Ingli kitchen fireside and to talk to her of old times. Worst of all, I would never again be able to walk freely and openly on the slopes of Carningli, or talk to the ravens, or listen to the skylarks.

  And who was I now? A phantom, a fantasy, with a name dreamt up in a moment of madness and a history invented as one might invent a bedtime story for a small child. I felt that I had no more substance than a wisp of sea mist curling over the summit of the mountain on a summers day, to be melted away by the heat of the sun. Oh, that I could take the place of those stones in the coffin in Cilgwyn Churchyard! Oh, that I could join David, Owain, Iestyn, Joseph, Caradoc and Amos in the warm embrace of the Good Lord in his heaven! Six good men who had loved Martha Morgan of Plas Ingli in spite of her many vices and her strange and childish changes of mood, her moments of panic and indecision, and her predisposition to mistrust those who should be trusted. Martha Morgan -- who was she, and where was she now? My head was spinning, and I felt sick.

  Then in the midst of this black and terrifying episode I opened my eyes and saw that the sun was still shining, and I heard that the skylarks were still singing their praises of the God that gave them life and music. And there, just a few feet from me, perched in a row on the highest summit rock of the mountain, sat six ravens. They were black and beautiful, and they watched me unblinkingly and impassively. They knew who I was, even if I did not, and they were back on the mountain as they had been, according to reports, on the morning of my reported death. I knew that when other people walked on the mountain and invaded their kingdom they were cautious and even irritated, flying about and giving vent to their feelings with that strange and unlovely combination of calls that I had grown to know and love. I think I even understood them. These angels who guarded the mountain said to me, without making a sound, that I was still Martha Morgan, that I was still loved and capable of loving, and that I still had work to do. So as they watched me I got up from the ground, brushed the mud off my cloak, and decided that I might as well enjoy being alive. I thanked them for their kind intervention in my affairs, and peeped over the edge of the bluestone crag down towards the Plas. The old place looked as comfortable and familiar as ever. Will and Gerallt were working in the farmyard and others whom I could not recognize from a distance were harrowing and planting in the fields of Penrhiw, Gelli and Dolrannog. Two small children were running around in the farmyard. I did not recognize them, and thought they might be the grandchildren of Wilmot and Delilah. One of the sheepdogs was barking. Blodwen, thick-set and ungainly in her movements, came out of the dairy and fetched a bucket of water from the big tank fed from the sacred spring of St Brynach. My mind turned to sacred things, and I remembered that this mountain was holy, and deserving of my respect and reverence. It was, after all, my cathedral, and the place where I worshipped, as others worshipped in the cathedrals of St David’s, and Canterbury, and Salisbury. And at the heart of my cathedral, I had my cave, used long ago by St Brynach, its location known only by one person now living -- namely Mistress Martha Morgan of Plas Ingli.

  The cave! That was where the body of my beloved Amos Jones, saint and preacher, had been laid to rest, with its entrance then sealed by a great boulder. And the earthquake! What might that have done to the cave? Might it now be open to the elements, allowing the rats and the foxes to consume his body as they had consumed the body of Moses Lloyd? In a brief panic I looked around me and saw that the mountain summit had been rearranged, exactly as mentioned in The Cambrian and as described by my friends. Some of the summit crags had split open, and there were boulders and sharp-edged stones lying around on the grass which had previously been clean and unsullied. Those were, I supposed, the boulders reputed to have damaged the body and the face of the corpse collected from the summit by Will and the others early on that fateful Sunday morning when Martha died and Susanna was born. So I climbed down on the southern side of the summit, to discover that everything had changed. The gaps between the rocks, the little ledges and gullies which had previously led me to the cave on innumerable occasions were no longer there, having been replaced by a topography that was entirely new. Systematically I searched back and forth, hopping from one large stone to another. I discovered that at the age of 76 I was not as agile as I used to be, and that was a cause of some mild irrritation. My joints ached, and my balance was not as good as it had been. Several times I had to haul myself up from one rock to another, like an intrepid mountaineer. That was painful, with rheumatism in my fingers. Three times I sent boulders -- which were precariously balanced after the earthquake -- crashing down into deep crevasses. Once I thought I should crash down too, and had to stop to recover my composure and to ensure that the noise created by my misadventure had not carried down the hill to the Plas. I pressed on, and at last I found the site of the cave. It was no longer there, and it appeared that it had collapsed, sealing the wasted body of Amos into the warm and solid body of the mountain. The entrance boulder was still there, recognizable in shape and colour but tipped onto its side.

  Nearby there was a fearsome chasm, newly opened up. I peered into its depths, and could just make out a pile of stones. This must be the place, I thought, where those small boy
s had found the bones of Moses Lloyd and the few possessions that had given the clues as to his death. Surprisingly, I was unmoved by this discovery, and felt that my memories of that fearsome episode on the mountain when I was but a slip of a girl, and even the recent events connected with the inquest, were now consigned to the dust-heap of history. They would trouble me no more.

  As the sun slipped down towards Pen Dinas I walked back to Carn Edward, removed my Nightwalker disguise, and struggled back into my bothersome petticoats and widow’s weeds. Then, transformed into Mrs Ravenhill, with my black bonnet and crepe veil in position, I continued to Bedd Morris and the waiting chaise. The driver was fast asleep in the rays of the setting sun, and his pony was grazing contentedly at the side of the road. “Any passers-by, Bobby?” I asked. “Not one, Mrs Ravenhill,” said he. “Never have I seen such a lonely place, to be sure. But it has been very pleasant in the sunshine, and I always enjoys being paid for doing nothing. And your visit to those people? Successful and interesting, I dare say?”

  “Very pleasant indeed, thank you, Bobby. All was well, and it was good to see them again.”

  By dusk we were back at Cardigan Bridge, where I paid Bobby his dues and thanked him for his services before walking back to my lodgings. Later on, over my well-deserved supper, I felt a sort of satisfaction that I had renewed my contract with the place which truly has possession of my heart. I also knew that I could now leave the Plas and the mountain behind me and make a new life elsewhere.