by Rebecca Bryn
‘You think someone wants you dead? Why?’
‘I’ve no idea. I was intending to bring my daughter to Coed-y-Cwm. How can I, now? No wonder no-one with children will live there.’
‘We’ll look into this, I assure you.’ He surveyed the circle. ‘You can imagine druids chanting, or blood sacrifices. These runes… are you suggesting the children were part of some satanic ritual?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. These signs spell Cadi, I’m certain of it. It could be a grave marker. My sister could be buried here.’
He walked to another stone. ‘That symbol.’ He pointed to Berkana, the geometric B. ‘Could be for Bethan.’ His eyes lit with the possibilities. ‘If Cadi is here, Bethan might be, too.’
He beckoned a colleague. ‘Get forensics up here, and an expert in ancient languages. Cordon off the whole area. And bring me an evidence bag.’ He turned back to her. ‘We’ll investigate, Miss Harper. I just hope it isn’t a monumental waste of time and resources. Monumental…’ He laughed at his own joke.
She brushed away tears and icy rain, and placed the bone carefully in the bag provided. That could have been the only time she would touch her sister.
‘Sorry.’ The officer put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on. I’ll get someone to run you home before you freeze to death, or drown.’
Home, showered and warm again, stone chips flew in all directions as hammer met chisel, and chisel met limestone. She wiped sweat from her eyes: she had to slow down before she ruined the whole piece. She took a deep breath and concentrated on nibbling tiny flakes before rasping the surface smooth. Calmer now, she took a riffler and absorbed herself in creating the more subtle shapes.
The police investigation would take time and there were too many what-ifs to contemplate: pouring over and over them would drive her mad. She paused, head on one side. The knock came again.
Picasso dripped onto her doorstep. ‘Miss Harper, nice to see you again. I’m a bit wet, I’m afraid.’
‘Mr John… Come in. Sorry about the mess.’
He laughed. ‘If it isn’t paint over the walls, it’s stone on the carpet. The creative muse, I presume.’
‘No. In Leicester I couldn’t afford studio space, and here I’m too hard-up to heat the shed... if I had time to empty it. The carpet needs binning anyway, and it protects the slate floor.’
‘If that’s a plea for an advance, it serves me right for asking.’ He looked around. ‘How’s the work going?’
She pointed to a shape covered by a sheet. ‘Have a peek. I need a break. Tea?’
He didn’t answer, so she stuck the riffler in the back pocket of her jeans and made tea, anyway. Taking a calming breath, she walked back into the quarry where Mr John was staring at the three completed pieces. ‘What do you think?’
‘Nothing like I expected.’
‘You don’t like them?’
‘No… Yes… They’re the symbols you showed me, but… they’re children? Ah. Yes, they are children. I see what you’re doing, now.’
‘You do like them?’
‘What inspired you to do them as children?’
‘A friend gave me the idea, but I wanted to create a memorial to the two children who disappeared from the village thirty years ago. I’m learning what the symbols mean and these two make part of a name.’
‘What name?’
‘I can’t say at the moment. It’ll be in the news if anything comes of it.’
‘Intriguing.’
‘But you do like them? You will lend me the fifteen thousand?’
‘I think they’re fantastic. I can’t wait to see the full-scale work.’
‘I’m working on the application to the Arts Council, but I need to get these finished first and I’m expecting a huge garage bill. The cash you promised?’
‘The whole thing completed. That was our deal.’
‘I need my car. I have to eat.’ She looked into his Picasso eyes, searching for a Pre-Raphaelite, unconventional heart. ‘My daughter needs clothes. Mum needs help with child-care.’
The caterpillars danced erratically over eyes that showed little sign of softening. ‘I didn’t realise I was expected to keep the entire family.’
‘Mum’s high maintenance.’
‘I’ll advance you five thousand, but remember The Haggard is at stake, and I want interest. I’ll have the papers drawn up for you to sign.’
‘Mr John, you’re a life-saver.’ She kissed his cheek and he blushed scarlet.
‘My name’s Harry.’
She smiled. ‘And mine’s Alana.’
‘Just make sure you finish these. Don’t let me down.’
***
Three weeks and not a word from the police. Three weeks without Minnie. Three weeks of Coed-y-Cwm’s staring windows and bolted doors. Alana jumped every time the phone rang or there was a knock at the door. She’d shouted at cold-callers and sworn at a reporter who’d somehow got wind of the connection between her and the cordoned-off area on the moors.
Unable to spare the time to walk far, she’d worked with a frenzy. Seven carvings were now complete and she was working on Mannaz, the two children holding hands and swinging. It was the fourth rune of Tyr’s aett and, according to her research, she should be following a middle path and dealing with family matters. She would: she’d talk to Dad and visit Mum and Saffy, as soon as she had Minnie back, and time.
Mannaz: other meanings were a connection to others, mutual joy, intelligence, memory and culture. It seemed appropriate. M for Mair. Torn between the joy of dance and the sorrow she felt for Mair’s family, the carving was taking on a spirit of its own. There was a sense of innocence lost, of the sorrow of leaving behind the simple joys of childhood mixed with the excitement of setting out on life’s path. A looking back with regret at freedoms and opportunities missed, a life and future wasted: two sides of the same coin, and the more she carved the more it took over her hands and her mind until she was deep in the dance.
The phone rang. She threw down her tools and ran to answer it.
‘Miss Harper?
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s the garage. Your car is ready. You can pick it up at two o’clock.’
She returned to her work, hands shaking. A loud rap at the door made her chip off more than she’d intended. ‘Bugger.’ She threw a sheet over her work.
Two men stood on the doorstep: a large dark car straddled the approach to her gateway. The taller man showed his warrant card. ‘Miss Harper?’
She’d thought she was ready for the truth. Her heart beat in her throat. ‘Come in.’
Elin, sweeping her path, glanced across and went back inside her house to the sound of an angry male voice: all was not well in Elin’s home. A curtain twitched in the house with too-small windows. In the cottage next to that a door opened, and closed again quickly. They probably thought the harlot’s daughter was a harlot, too, engaging in a threesome. They didn’t know the truth of her birth, what Mum had done for her sister and what it had cost her.
She waved the officers to a patch of uncluttered settee, where they perched uncomfortably. They attempted to introduce themselves, but she interrupted. ‘Have you found her?’
The shorter detective cleared his throat. ‘We sent several bones for testing. They are human.’
Hope of ever finding her sister alive ebbed. ‘It’s Cadi?’
‘We can’t tell. The bones aren’t well preserved. Our experts can say that it’s a child between the age of eighteen months and about three.’
The shorter officer removed a chip of stone from the settee. ‘Children grow at different rates. It’s hard to be definitive. But they’re fairly sure the length of time the bones have been in the ground ties in with the disappearances.’
‘So it could be Cadi or Bethan?’
‘Or both… as I said, the bones aren’t well preserved and some may have been scavenged, disturbed.’
‘But you can do more tests, DNA, that sort of thing.’
She sighed. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll do anything to find out what happened to her. If all I can do is re-bury her, it would mean a lot to me.’
‘Thank you, Miss Harper.’ He brought a sealed packet from his pocket. ‘All we need is a swab from inside your mouth, if you’ll allow me?’
‘Yes… of course.’
She opened her mouth, feeling like a patient at the dentist. The officer rotated the swab against the inside of her cheek and put the sample in a test tube. She was now officially on police files.
‘Thank you. We’ll let you know, one way or another, as soon as we get the results.’
‘Thank you.’ The wait was going to be excruciating.
***
The two men leaving Alana’s cottage walked purposefully to their car: police? Rhiannon let the curtain fall. She’d been up on the moor and seen the cordon. Things, as Jera reversed suggested at her last telling, were coming to a head. Perthro had fallen reversed, too, a sign that things hidden would be cast out into the open. She had to know what the girl had told them, how much she knew, whether she was a danger.
The late February sun shone brightly but the wind chilled her. She pulled her coat closer and hurried across the green and past Elin’s house. Raised voices came from behind Elin’s nets. Stuart, laying down the law to his slattern of a wife?
Alana opened the door to her knock, a hammer in her hand. She held out her bribe. ‘I promised you cheese and onion crisps. I prefer ready-salted.’ She reached in a pocket. ‘And another jar of marmalade.’
‘Come in out of the wind.’
She went into the room. ‘It’s a Pembrokeshire lazy wind, today.’
The girl looked puzzled.
‘It doesn’t bother to go round you. It cuts straight through. It’s nice to see the sun, though.’
The girl laughed, put down her hammer and took her offerings. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘How’s the mess coming along?’
‘Slowly, but I think I’m on target.’
‘What for?’
‘Arts Council funding. I need the mock-up done and dusted by the end of April.’
‘I’d love to see it.’
The girl looked at an enigmatic shape in the centre of the room. ‘Sorry, strictly under wraps.’
She craned her neck to look at an untidy pile of sketches but the girl moved to block her view: the one shape she saw looked familiar. Secrets… things hidden: things coming to a head. ‘I shouldn’t hold you up. You’ve had enough visitors already, today.’
Alana obviously wasn’t going to be drawn.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Are you still painting? I promised to show you a good place to sketch, if you have time. You should get out… get some fresh air while it’s dry. The surf will be wild.’
‘Sounds great. I could do with a break and the light’s good. I’ll have the car back this afternoon. Say around two-thirty?’
‘I’ll give you a knock. Maybe Harriet would let you bring Bramble for a walk. That dog needs to run off some fat.’
She walked home: closed doors faced the green with blank stares. Elin and Stuart were still arguing, and Elin was crying: she hadn’t necessarily finished with Elin. She glanced back at The Haggard and smiled. Trust gained.
She cast the runes, a three-rune cast: she had a decision to make before she and Alana hit the coast.
Ansuz, Dagaz and Nauthiz fell from her hand upon the white cloth.
God’s blessings and joy. Expect the unexpected. Fortify oneself before coming to the aid of another. That was Ansuz, and it lay partly on top of Dagaz which meant it took precedence over the rune that represented night giving way to day: clarity and success. Nauthiz seemed to warn against desire which would prove destructive.
She put the runes away and walked to the window. She stared across the green at The Haggard. Every casting seemed to suggest she should do nothing to harm the girl, and yet… Things hidden cast into the open: things coming to a head. She’d seen the rune, sketched in the girl’s own hand, and it could only have come from Cerrig o’ Týr. To one who could read the runes, her guilt was obvious. There was nothing to connect her, but could she take the chance? If the girl made the connection between her and the runes on the stones and the doors, those two men, the two she was sure were police officers, would come knocking at her door.
Expect the unexpected. Dagaz was a rune of unexpected success. Ansuz was sacred to Odin, God of Wind and Spirit. Nauthiz to the Norns, weavers of fate. Ansuz had taken precedence.
Wind plus fate equalled success.
The meaning became clear.
***
Rhiannon sat beside Alana in the old Mini. Bramble, on the rear seat, greeted her enthusiastically.
Alana put the car in gear. ‘It’s kind of you to take the time to show me the coast, Rhiannon.’
‘I’m glad of a chance to go myself, Alana. I don’t get to the coast path that much these days. I don’t drive and it’s too far for these old joints to walk.’
The girl smiled but didn’t take her eyes off the road. ‘Maybe we can do this again, then. I spend too much time alone.’
‘You haven’t made any friends here?’
‘I’ve tried. I’m beginning to think the neighbours go out of their way to avoid me. Apart from Harriet, but then she’s an incomer, too.’ As Alana spoke, two women chatting outside the chapel glanced at them and hurried inside.
She knew who they were and what they were afraid of, and she doubted it was the girl. ‘Those two are Mair’s sisters, Catrin and Bridget.’
‘Come to pray for Dai?’
‘After what survived of their sister’s jewellery box, more like. Take no notice of them. I don’t. I’d like to come out with you again.’
‘My daughter would love the beach.’
Expect the unexpected. ‘You have a daughter?’
‘Saffy. She’s almost two. She’s with my mother.’
Bethan had been two when she’d gone missing: that was when Nerys had lost her mind. ‘That’s a lovely age. You must miss her.’
‘I suppose I do. You have family?’
‘No.’
‘Sorry. Tell me if I’m being nosey. It’s just… the other night, when I couldn’t sleep, I saw a woman looking out of your window, and I thought I heard a child. Harriet said you lived with you sister.’
Nerys… Lowrie! ‘No. Harriet’s mistaken. I live alone. I… I sleepwalk sometimes… and maybe I’d turned the TV on.
‘That would account for it. I did think it was you, for a moment, but when you didn’t seem to recognise me... It must be frightening to know you sleepwalk. I’d be worried I’d injure myself, or wander outside.’
‘I don’t think I ever have… wandered outside, I mean. I did wake up with a cut hand once, and another time a half-eaten marmalade sandwich.’
‘You don’t like marmalade.’
She laughed, making light of it. The girl was swallowing the explanation. ‘Obviously, I do when I’m asleep.’ She pointed to a patch of rutted grass. ‘Park here.’
She led the way along the coast path, raising her voice to be heard against the wind. ‘Just down here, Alana. There’s a dramatic view of the island.’
Alana followed, a bag slung over her shoulder and Bramble firmly gripped by her lead.
‘Round this rock. Come on, It’s quite safe. I’ll hold Bramble if you want to take photos or sketch.’
Alana handed her the lead and walked closer to the cliff edge. The wiry grass felt slippery underfoot, the soil spongy. The wind gusted. She waited… patience. A partly-drawn sketch would show exactly where the girl had been before she fell onto the rocks below.
Alana squatted on a flat rock and began to make quick marks with a black pencil. Entranced, she watched the page as the island app
eared beyond the sound. Rocks dominated her foreground, dark shading showed crevices where the sun didn’t reach, and deft strokes of an eraser blew surf crashing against them. The girl had talent, real talent, and a feel for the spirit of her subject. It seemed a shame… She’d seen the runes: she might know too much and she was an Ap Dafydd. Wind plus fate.
Her coat flapped against her legs. Alana turned a fluttering page and began another sketch, engrossed in her work. She moved closer to look over her shoulder. ‘That’s very good.’
‘Thank you. You must be getting cold. I won’t be long.’
She put a hand on Alana’s shoulder. ‘Take your time. Can you see Ramsey harbour from there? Where the cliffs slope down in a vee?’
The girl leaned out further to see. ‘I think so.’
She moved into position and nudged Bramble closer to the edge. Alana would fall and Bramble with her. Wind and fate. The wet soil at the cliff edge moved beneath her feet and she scrambled onto firmer ground. Alana dropped her sketchpad and grabbed Bramble. One small push… Nauthiz warned against desire which would be destructive. Wind and spirit.
The ground shifted again and Alana screamed as she slipped, Bramble in her arms. She held out her hand instinctively and the girl grabbed it, clutching Bramble to her chest with one arm. ‘Hold on.’
They were heavy, too heavy, and slipping from her grasp. She had only to slacken her grip on the girl’s hand. Alana had a daughter the same age as Bethan had been. She looked into frightened eyes as time stretched: Alana was someone’s daughter, not just Siân’s niece. Wind and fate. Destructive desire. Ansuz took precedence. Fortify oneself before coming to the aid of another. She was mistaken. The time wasn’t right: the runes consistently cautioned against it. She tightened her grip. ‘Let Bramble go.’ Her hold was weakening, the girl’s fingers slipping. ‘Alana, drop the bloody dog.’
Chapter Sixteen
Bony fingers gripped Alana’s hand as she struggled to find a foothold. The face staring down at her willed her to hold on. Earth and rock came loose beneath her feet, gorse scratched her cheek.