by Rebecca Bryn
Mum lifted the cup to her lips with a shaky hand and then rattled it on the saucer. ‘And Christmas is next week, too. He’s ruined everything. You will stay over Christmas won’t you? Saffy needs you here. I couldn’t bear us to spend Christmas alone.’
Oh God… ‘Of course I will.’ Her life slipped through her fingers; her dreams of painting wild seas in West Wales vanished with every breath Mum took. Dad was right, Mum didn’t know she was doing it, but what would happen after Christmas… New Year… her birthday… anniversary… Saffy’s second birthday? There would always be some reason she couldn’t leave. If she stayed now, she might have to stay forever.
Chapter Three
The lamp threw muted light across the room as Rhiannon pulled on fur-lined boots.
Where are you going, Rhiannon?
The words were so quiet she barely caught them in the pre-dawn silence. She jammed on her hat and looked for her gloves. ‘To the stones, Nerys, like I said… to speak to our spirit guide.’
You know two wrongs don’t make a right.
‘I shall right it or die trying.’
I don’t deserve it righted. I’m wicked.
‘You are not wicked. If healing comes, it comes. Algiz will counsel us. Have faith.’
It’s all poppycock, Rhiannon. The whisper held familiar contempt.
‘Nonetheless, I shall seek his wisdom. You’d do well to heed it, too.’
Nerys fell quiet.
‘We have to do this. Life is meaningless otherwise.’
I know. You mean well.
‘I’ll do a telling when I get back.’
Be careful, Rhiannon.
A small whimper sounded, close to. I’m scared, Nerys. It’s dark in here.
Nerys’ voice edged panic. Hush, Lowri. I’m with you.
She made her voice calm. ‘You’re safe. Nothing bad will happen.’ She closed the door behind her and the voices quieted.
She wheeled her cycle from the shed: cycles made no noise to alert the neighbours to her night-time forays. This dawn was special; she needed no witnesses. Her breath wreathed before her eyes, the air growing colder as she puffed up the final hill. Moorland stretched before her: whiteness crept in wind-drifts across the road. She leaned her bike against a finger of stone and crunched the remaining half-mile through pristine snow. Rugged stones jutted against the stars, a dark blacker than night. She didn’t stop to admire them: she had long been at one with the stones and she had work to do.
Sweat chilled on her body. The cold seeped into her bones, but she stood motionless on the flat slab of rock within the twelve stones that formed the circle of Cerrig o Týr. She faced east towards the hills and drank in the freezing air. Today was the winter solstice, the day when the sun’s course was lowest, the depth of winter’s grip most keenly felt. Across the snowy ground her moon-shadow elongated, prostrating her thin body, arms outstretched towards the darkness that imprisoned the sun.
‘Aw-oo-wen.’ She traced Sowilo, the zig-zag sign for the sun, in the air before her, calling it, willing it to come. The circle of sun was completion, wholeness, self-knowledge, but this solstice was more than that. To her north, a flash lit the underbelly of the cloudbank that hugged the coast. The flash came again and again in a rhythmic pattern that scored the sleepless hours of her night, and her conversations with Nerys, who never slept, Lowri, who would never outgrow her fear, and Algiz, her spirit guide, who came to her at need.
To her left, a lone light shone: Rhys Pen Coed, up and milking his herd of Friesian cows as he’d done, sun or snow, for the last forty years. Behind her the full-moon was obscured by ominous cloud. One by one the stars blinked out. Not yet, not yet. ‘Aw-oo-wen.’
She searched deep within herself, scouring fragments of memory amongst the blanks she’d never fill, seeking enlightenment. The heat of hatred and vengeance fought the chill in her fingers and toes. ‘Aw-oo-wen.’ Seek change, seek healing. In the snow outside the circle she’d drawn the three rays of light: the three pillars of wisdom, the trinity… maiden, mother and crone. It was the universal symbol of Awen, the flowing spirit, and she sought its guidance. Would healing never come? Would she always be driven to seek revenge?
She lowered her arms. Fractured memory traced the lines of the rune she’d chiselled by moonlight, all those years ago, into the tallest of the twelve standing stones. The symbol of Týr, the sky god, the sword god, had similarities to that of Awen; it was a rune that gave victory. Used on weapons since Roman times, it said fear not death: it cannot kill you. She averted her eyes from the first rune on the adjacent stone: Kaunaz, reversed, meant a beacon gone out… withdrawal, anxiety, a closing: loss.
The shadow before her faded and the snow took on a dull, ruddy cast. It was time. The greeting of the sun would wait, for this was something that hadn’t been seen for four centuries. Would her spirit guide obscure her future course with cloud?
The stones of Cerrig o Týr fingered darkly heavenwards, as they had for thousands of years, protected by such as she. She summoned her inner steel and drew herself up, her body the straight, true shaft, her arms, out and backswept, the head of the arrow tempered in fire; the sign of Týr. ‘Haidzruno runu, falahak haidera, ginnarunaz. Arageu haeramalausz uti az. Weladaude, sa’z þat barutz. Uþarba spa.’ She turned slowly. ‘Rwyf fi, Meistr y Sgriptiau hynafol, yn cuddio yma Sgriptiau o Bŵer. Wedi ei flino gan anffawd, wedi ei dynghedu i farwolaeth llechwraidd fydd yr hwn sy’n torri’r heneb hwn. Rwyf yn proffwydo dinistr.’
She closed her eyes and completed her half-turn to face westward. Raising her arms in the symbol of Algiz, she drew strength from both the bedrock and the heavens. ‘I, master of the runes, conceal here runes of power. Plagued by misfortune, doomed to insidious death, is he who breaks this monument. I prophesy destruction.’ Fury welled from deep hurts in her soul, and her fingers clenched: faith, have faith… She would have her justice. ‘I entrust my soul to your great wisdom and seek your guidance.’ She opened her eyes: the clouds had moved away and before her hung the blood moon.
***
Dawn brought no warmth: Rhiannon shut out the cold and busied herself in the low-ceilinged kitchen. She carried her tea and toast to the table, and chose the chair that faced the rising sun. Her linen bag of runes lay where she’d left it. She shook it, jumbling the small tiles inside, before putting her hand through the narrow neck of the bag. She let her mind go blank, let the rune tiles come to her hand as they would.
Despite Nerys’ disdain, the use of runes for guidance was thousands of years old. It was akin to divining, tapping into the subconscious to find an object, a meaning or a destiny. The high chieftains of Anglo-Saxon Britain had used the word Ruenes for their secret councils. Even in translations of the bible, runa was used as the word for mystery.
Tugging her shawl closer around her shoulders, she formed a question in her mind. Bending over the cloth-covered surface, she cast the runes she’d drawn from their bag. ‘Kaunaz… not reversed this time. From the darkness, light will come. Appropriate on the shortest day. What else, what else? Raidho, a journey? No, no, it’s reversed… something unexpected, or an unpleasant journey. Wait… Jera, the cycle of the year. Yes, full circle… The reaping of seeds planted. Good, good… or maybe not. Perthro… something hidden.’
She sipped her tea thoughtfully while Nerys and Lowri slept; Perthro had fallen closest to the centre, giving it greater importance. Too much was hidden: past, present and future.
A one-eyed ginger cat leapt onto the table, rumpling the cloth and scattering the runes. She stroked him under his chin ‘My toast, I think, Pryderi, not yours. The signs are coming together, look. There are powerful forces at work here.’ She ate her toast and then squatted on the floor beside the runes. Uruz and Nauthiz lay face up, now. ‘Uruz… brute strength, a male sign. Do you think that signifies anything? And Nauthiz means caution… Nerys said to be careful. You think we need caution, Pryderi? You are probably right.’ She scratched behind his tattered ear. He’d walk
ed into her life and was the only male she wanted.
He jumped down and she opened the door. He rubbed past her legs, and stalked across the frozen ground and out of the gate. The water in the pig trough was as hard as the purple Caerbwdy rock from which the trough was hewn. The stars had paled, the blood moon faded, and the clouds, tinged apricot-pink by the sun that rose behind the black skeletons of ash and sycamore, threatened more snow. Squares of light showed in curtained windows across the green, shutting her and her companions out of her neighbours’ lives, out of their community, like they always had.
They thought they knew who she was: the crazy old woman with the battle-scarred cat, who’d taken over old Gareth Price’s cottage when he’d passed on. They didn’t know her. Time, and the pain from which she tried to protect Nerys and Lowri, had changed her, bleached her hair white far beyond her years and wrinkled her face, but she knew them, all twelve of them.
She studied the curtained windows in turn. There was Elin Davis, who fluttered her eyelashes at Reverend Thomas at chapel on a Sunday, the very soul of Christian piety but a faded parody, now, of her youthful beauty. Non Richards and her cousin, who thought even their shit smelt better than everyone else’s. Mair Parry, a busier body than anyone she’d ever known, her and her interfering sisters, and then there were the other chapel ladies who’d decided, in their wisdom, to be judge, jury and executioner.
And she mustn’t forget Siân Ap Dafydd, the devil torment her poisonous soul. Oh yes, they thought they’d been so clever, but she knew every one of them, and what they’d done. She held the memory close: she didn’t do forgiveness.
***
Alana took a deep breath of silence and waited for the tsunami to wash her away.
‘Alana… you promised.’
‘I said I’d stay over Christmas not until New Year.’
‘But Saffy…’
‘Mum, you promised. I have my own life. I sold a painting. The man’s expecting it framed and ready to go, and I haven’t even been to the framer. He’s paying me a lot of money for it. I need to earn money. I’m behind with the rent, as it is.’
‘But…’ Mum patted the sofa beside her and looked up expectantly. ‘I’ve had a great idea.’
She remained standing: she wouldn’t play the little girl in Mum’s game. ‘And?’
‘All that rent you pay… It’s ridiculous when I have this huge house and I’d have company, and help with Saffy.’
‘Mum…’
‘You could get to know her properly. She’s the spit of you, at that age. You don’t know how lucky you are to have her. Your dad and I tried for years before you came along.’
Her daughter played with coloured bricks on a rug in front of the gas fire. Like her? She could only see Mike. She looked away, through the window into the garden. Mike had always been jealous of his more attractive younger brother. He’d waited for the opportunity and taken what he wanted: the memory still made her want to retch.
‘Please, say you will.’
She forced herself to look back at Saffy: it wasn’t her daughter’s fault. She was happy here and, at eighteen months old, she was surely too young to be scarred by Dad leaving. He wouldn’t leave Mum short of money: she could afford help with looking after her granddaughter if she needed it. She wouldn’t succumb to emotional blackmail. ‘No.’ She squatted to help Saffy build a tower.
Saffy knocked it down. ‘Nana do it.’
She’d wanted a child so much, but she’d never be able to be a mother to Saffy.
‘What made you so hard, Alana?’
Hard? It was a fragile shell she’d built around herself all those years ago, but it wouldn’t help to tell Mum that. ‘Life… Mum, I love you but I’m not the answer to your problem. I can’t be what you want me to be. I thought you understood that when you persuaded me not to have a termination. I’m your daughter not your… possession.’
‘You can be very hurtful, Alana. That’s your father speaking, not you. What’s he been telling you?’
‘The truth.’
The colour drained from Mum’s face. ‘I’ve dedicated my life to you. I’ve only ever done what’s best for you.’
‘He said you’d do this. Make me feel guilty. Manipulate me. All you’ve ever done is make me feel everything is my fault. Pregnancy…’
‘It being a mistake didn’t give you the right to throw away your daughter’s life.’
‘A mistake? I’m talking about you and Dad. The arguments, the silences that shut me out… the secrets.’
Mum’s hand grasped her arm. ‘What secrets?’
She ached to remove the claw from her flesh. ‘Why did you never tell me I had an aunt?’
The claw spasmed. ‘An aunt?’
‘And stop repeating what I say. Aunt Siân, of course.’
Mum’s voice dropped to a shaken whisper. She removed her hand. ‘Dad told you about Siân?’
‘No, I had a visit from an heir hunter. Aunt Siân has left me something in her will.’
‘She’s… dead? Siân’s dead?’
‘About a month ago. Didn’t you know?’
Mum covered her face with her hands. Sobs wracked her body. ‘Oh, Siân.’
‘What happened between you? Why didn’t I know about her?’
‘We had a falling out.’ Mum’s lips clamped in a thin line. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘About?’
‘Nothing that’s important, now.’ Her eyes were hard, like Dad’s had been when she’d touched a raw nerve.
‘I’ll ask Dad then, shall I?’
‘No, Alana, please. It will bring nothing but heartache.’
She let the subject drop. ‘I’ll call round at the weekend.’
‘You’re not going now, surely, not after… You know I’m not very well.’
‘I have to Mum, I’m suffocating here. You have to let me go, like you have to let Dad go.’
Mum’s mouth managed a brief twitch but her voice was bitter. ‘Let them go and they’ll come back to you?’
She kissed Mum’s pale cheek and stood up. ‘Something like that. I’m not deserting you forever, Mum, but I can’t stay here.’
Mum sighed, her hand making a gesture of defeat. ‘After all I’ve done for you.’
Saffy looked at her with huge dark eyes, a wisp of black hair curling over her untroubled brow. She almost gave in to an urge to scoop her from the floor and hug her, to say sorry. Instead, she picked her up at arm’s length, afraid she’d feel Mike’s hands on her if she held her too close, and put her on Mum’s lap. ‘Bye, Saffy, see you soon.’
Saffy waved. ‘Bye, Lana.’
She slung her bag over her shoulder and almost ran to her car. The wave of relief tried to outrun the wave of guilt: she drove home drowning in both.
Post lay in a heap on the floor: final demands, junk mail, a letter from her landlord threatening the bailiff. The house was cold. She kept her coat on.
She tore open a manila envelope: more trouble, no doubt. Who were Davies and Davies, Abergwaun? We are pleased to confirm that you are sole beneficiary of the estate of the late Mrs Siân Alana Ap Dafydd of The Haggard, Coed-y-Cwm, in the county of Pembrokeshire. In order that we may disburse her estate, could you please contact us on the above number at your earliest convenience. The Haggard… Her heart sank. Why didn’t the name surprise her? And where was Coed-y-Cwm?
She googled the village. A map showed its location on a peninsula in West Wales. Street-view showed a scatter of small grey houses and cottages, surrounding a rough green with lanes leading off. Returning to the satellite view showed a wooded river-valley and open moorland; scrolling any distance had her hovering over rocks, cliffs and sea. She went back to the road map. The nearest place was shown as St David’s. Wasn’t that a city? It looked too small… and miles from anywhere.
She consulted the letter again. Davies and Davies were in Abergwaun, which was Fishguard according to the map. Did Aunt Siân own The Haggard? Was it part of her eighty percent? S
he rang the number on the letter.
‘Davies and Davies, Solicitors.’ The female voice pronounced every syllable with elaborate care. ‘How may I help you?’
‘This is Alana Harper... Katherine Alana Harper. I need to see someone concerning the estate of the late Siân Ap Dafydd?’
‘Thank you for phoning, Miss Harper. When would suit you?’
‘Soon as I can.’
‘Mr Matthew Davies won’t be here until after New Year. How about Friday? Say ten o’clock?’
‘I’ll be there, thanks.’
‘There you go then. I’ll pencil you in for Friday, cariad. You’ll need to bring some evidence of identity. Birth certificate or a valid UK passport, and a utility bill or bank statement.’
Cariad? Now wasn’t the time to bother Mum about her birth certificate, in fact seeing Mum was the last thing she wanted: she might never escape. She had a passport and enough bills to paper her walls. She rang the framer, ordered a number thirty-seven of the right size and surveyed her painting. She chose a new, soft rigger from her brush roll and dipped it in a little fresh Indian ink.
She paused in the act of signing her name. This was a new style, a new start for the New Year. The life and career of Katherine Alana Harper, despoiled daughter of dysfunctional parents, ended here. She owed Aunt Siân some recognition of her eighty percent. She touched brush-tip to board and paused guiltily. It would only be her professional name, a pseudonym, the person she wanted to be. She painted her new signature boldly in the bottom left-hand corner. Alana Ap Dafydd.
Chapter Four
Carriage doors shushed open and a rainbow stampede of humanity spilled across the platform, taking advantage of the free New Year’s Eve overnight tube and night buses. Greg Anderson surveyed them from beneath a mop of tightly-knit dark curls and strummed the opening chords of Auld Lang Syne. A ring of bodies formed amid cheers and drunken singing. As the final notes died, the revellers drifted away leaving a core of travellers waiting for the next train.