White Ravens

by Owen Sheers

  When he reached the threshold Matthew dismounted and tied Mullie beside a water trough laid into a low wall surrounding the house. For a moment he did nothing else. The farm was impossibly still and he felt as if any movement would have been an imposition in some way, a blasphemous act upon the silent buildings. There was no sign of any animals, no trees to move or make a sound in the wind and no sign of human activity at all.

  As he stood there wondering what to do the first light of the rising moon diffused along the mountain’s edge, as if someone had put a match to a trail of magnesium. By this faint light the farm began to reveal itself. Matthew made out stone slates layered over the roof; cracked paving stones leading to a heavy front door set in a foreshortened porch; the sentry of a milk urn, standing to attention beside the coal scullery.

  Until now Mullie too, it seemed, had been struck still by the impassive farmhouse. But now, with that first light, he dropped his head to the trough and began to drink. The brightening moonlight lit the steam rising along his neck, and rippled through the trough like a sudden shoal of fish as his muzzle broke the water’s surface.

  Emboldened by the light, and by the sound of Mullie drinking, Matthew approached the farm’s front door. There was no knocker so he rapped loudly with his knuckles, three times. The raps died instantly in the thick wood. No echo, no resonance. Matthew wouldn’t have been surprised if they weren’t heard, even by someone standing right on the other side. Stepping around the porch, he tried to look through a lower window but all he saw was the ghost of his own reflection, looming in the pane before being obscured by his own breath against the glass. Moving backwards from the house, he looked it over, as if he were a burglar sizing it up for a way in. Because he did have to get in, there was no doubt about that. The night was turning cold and he wasn’t going to just turn around and ride back into the town, not after coming all this way. Not with an order from the Prime Minister’s office in his pocket.

  Taking a deep breath, Matthew called out to the tomb-like farmhouse, ‘Hello? Hello?’ He strained to listen for a response. When it came, it did so not in the form of a voice, but a memory. A sudden, distinct sound that Matthew had heard many times before, and which he recognised immediately. A scraping of metal, the faint whirr of heavy motion, and then the sparking of metal again, slid along moving stone. Matthew had heard that sound all through his childhood, whenever the tinkers came to his father’s yard. There it was again – a whirring and sparking. He could see the sandstone wheel in his mind, and then the steel again, thinning against that turning wheel, spitting sparks from its edge. That wheel wasn’t turning on its own. Someone’s hand was winding its handle. Someone was sharpening a blade. But not a knife. Whatever blade this was, it was much heavier and longer than a knife.

  Following the sound, Matthew went around the side of the farmhouse, stumbling over the rutted ground, one hand held before him to ward off ambushes by unseen objects in the dark. Reaching the side of the house he used its end wall to guide him, running his palm across its rough stones as he walked, the intermittent hush and scrape of the sharpening blade getting louder all the time. Rounding the far corner he saw the sloping roof of a lean-to, slanted against the back of the farm. The building, a crude addition to the main farmhouse, was cracked with light from within, shining from the edges of an ill-fitting door, through a space between the top of the wall and the roof beam, through a crooked slit window and, in a couple of places, even between the stones from which it was built.

  The sharpening sound was coming from inside this lean-to. Matthew stood there in the dark, listening to the steel angling to the wheel, to the delicate friction of its edge against the stone. Having found the source, he wasn’t sure what to do next, and he was still considering his options when the sound of the turning wheel began to slow, then stopped. Before he could move, the crack of light at one side of the door started to widen, laying down a broadening path of yellow lamplight over the grass. The light captured Matthew in its lengthening beam, and then, just as suddenly, went out again, as the huge bulk of a man appeared at the door.

  At first sight Matthew thought the figure was headless. A massive body holding a large axe, the blade of which caught the lamplight shining from behind. But then the man stepped through the door and, straightening to his full height, revealed, to Matthew’s great relief, a head of wild, unruly hair. That relief soon turned to astonishment. Now he was no longer bending to get through the door, Matthew saw that the man stood as tall as the lean-to itself, the roof of which was at least seven foot from the ground.

  For a few seconds the two of them stood there like that, facing each other in the darkness. Matthew couldn’t stop looking at the axe in the man’s hand. Combined with the night’s strange ride, the looming mountains all around him and the silent, dark farmhouse, it stopped his tongue in his mouth. So it was only when Ben Llewellyn stepped away from the door, allowing the lamplight to fall across Matthew again, that he saw his visitor standing there, dumbstruck in the middle of the dark field behind his house.

  ‘Oh!’ Ben said, genuinely surprised. ‘Hello there. Is that you Mr O’Connell?’

  His voice was as deep as he was tall; a rich accent undulating with the timbre of the mountains in which he lived. ‘How long you been there? Not too long I hope?’

  Matthew cleared his throat, aware how ridiculous he must look, clutching his city case in the darkness. ‘Oh, no. Just arrived actually.’ He pointed vaguely towards Mullie, tethered unseen on the other side of the house.

  ‘Have you now? Well, I’m glad to hear that,’ Ben said, striding towards him with his hand extended. ‘Croeso, Mr O’Connell, welcome.’

  ‘Matthew is fine.’

  ‘Ben. Ben Llewellyn. Pleased to meet you Matthew.’ The palm of Ben’s hand enveloped Matthew’s easily, its skin as rough as the bark of a hundred-year-old oak.

  ‘I was jus’ goin’ to cut some wood for your fire, but let’s leave tha’ for now shall we? Come on, let’s get you inside is it? Here, let me take that.’ Ben took Matthew’s case from him as if it were empty. ‘Must be hungry,’ he continued as he led the way to the farm’s back door.

  ‘Er, yes,’ Matthew replied. ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘Is tha’ an Irish accent?’ Ben said over his shoulder as he searched on a shelf inside the door.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Lovely country,’ Ben said, striking a match and putting it to the wick of a candle. ‘Never been there myself, but tha’s what I’m told anyway. Now, let’s see wha’ Bran’s left for you.’

  Matthew followed his host down a narrow white-washed corridor, the candle’s illumination reaching just far enough for him to make out Ben’s wild hair brushing the ceiling as he walked.

  ‘Duw, Jones, tha’ old bastard. Fancy havin’ you come up by the track.’ Ben shook his head as he ladled out a bowl of soup, still smiling at what Matthew had told him. ‘’E could have brought you up in his car, easy,’ he continued, placing the bowl in front of Matthew. ‘Jus’ making a point I’ll bet. Got a chip on hisself see? ’Bout English – Londoners ’specially. Might ’ave been different had he known you was Irish.’

  ‘Right,’ Matthew said, blowing across a spoonful of the soup. ‘Though you’d think the name would have given him a clue.’

  ‘Ha, well, yes.’ Ben laughed, leaning against the range beside the fire, tipping his head forward to fit himself under the ceiling. ‘But Jones, well, not the brightest spark, know what I’m sayin’?’

  ‘So there’s a lane comes here?’ Matthew asked, feeling the two hours of his night’s ride against the hard seat of his chair.

  ‘Course there is mun!’ Ben laughed again. ‘Think we come an’ go on tha’ track? It’s over the other side of the hill, so the track’s quicker on a ’orse, but in a cart or a car, down t’ town in under an hour you are.’

  ‘I see,’ Matthew said.

  ‘Well, least you got to see a bit of the place isn’t it?’ Ben said, pushing himself away from
the range. ‘On the way up I mean.’ He spoke through a simultaneous smile and frown, as if he was perpetually bemused at the ridiculousness of the world. Maybe, Matthew thought, it was an attitude that had grown as he’d grown himself; as he’d increasingly discovered himself outsized in proportion to everything else. Watching him now, as he bent to prod the fire and take the pot of soup over to the kitchen counter, Matthew saw he really was a giant of a man. His neck was as thick as Matthew’s thigh, while his back, when he turned away, was as broad as two normal men’s together. Now he had his sleeves rolled up, Matthew saw his forearms were as thick and knotted as the largest ropes the navy had used in Sicily. Wherever he moved within the farmhouse it seemed to shrink about him; walls tightened, ceilings lowered, tables and chairs became doll’s-house furniture. Matthew, in proportion with these same tables and chairs, felt like a child in his presence.

  ‘Well,’ Ben said, through a sigh, ‘I’d better see to this ’orse Jones borrowed you hadn’t I?’

  Shouldering on a jacket he bowed into the porch, closing the door behind him. Matthew heard the outer door close, then Ben’s deep voice, addressing Mullie, ‘Helo... sut wyt ti heno, te?’ then Mullie’s snort in reply, thick and grateful, as if he knew Ben of old.

  As Matthew finished his soup, mopping up the bowl with a chunk of bread like he hadn’t tasted in years, he looked about the kitchen. The place wasn’t dissimilar to his father’s farm in Ireland, shaped and ordered by the same daily routine of farming and cooking, of feeding and being fed. Boots in the corner, sheep shears on the dresser, cans, pumps and tubes of ointments and sprays stacked up on a shelf by the door. As well as this detritus of work the room also revealed some of the life lived there too. A glass casement with a diorama of a fox, frozen in the moment after it had killed a goose, stood against one wall. The animal’s head was up, ears pricked, as if it had just been disturbed. Its jaws were full of white feathers tipped with blood at their quills and its glass eyes stared intently over its shoulder, its body tensed above the body of the goose, lying limp in the ferns and grass under him. Beside this casement were some bookshelves. Matthew scanned the spines but all the titles were in Welsh. On the other side of the room a Welsh dresser was hung with crockery, dented tankards and the wooden links of a Welsh love spoon. On its surface, among the shears and scraps of paper and pamphlets, were a few framed photographs. A young man in uniform, from this war, not the First. Another, much older photo, of a couple standing outside the farmhouse with a sheep dog, its paw faithfully placed on his master’s thigh as man and wife stared sternly towards the camera. There was one of Ben too, beaming his perplexed smile, bending to hold a magnificent ram, a large rosette blossoming on one of its horns. At the very top of the dresser, glowing faintly in the gloom, was a bird’s skull, its long beak tapering away from the hollow shell of its head.

  Ben had mentioned a woman, Bran, but he hadn’t said whether she was a wife or a daughter. Pushing back his chair Matthew stood to have a closer look around the room, hoping to find some feminine trace to give him a clue. He was at the dresser, looking over the photos again when he heard the kitchen door opening.

  ‘There you go,’ Ben said as he entered. ‘Happy enough now alright.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Matthew said, going back to the table to take his bowl to the sink.

  ‘Oh, leave that, leave that,’ Ben said, taking the bowl from him and turning to run it under the tap. For some reason Matthew felt guilty, as if he’d been caught snooping. ‘You know you’re too early don’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Ben turned to face him. ‘Too early. For the birds. They’ve sent you too early. They’ve only jus’ hatched. Take ’em now and they’ll die on you.’

  ‘Oh,’ Matthew said. ‘Really?’

  Ben saw Matthew glance at his overnight case. ‘Tha’ a problem you reckon?’

  ‘Um, no,’ Matthew said. ‘No. But, well, how long do you think it’ll be? Before I can take them?’

  Ben raised his eyebrows and shrugged off his jacket to hang it on a rack behind the kitchen door. ‘You in a hurry to get back?’ he said, speaking into the wad of coats and overalls.

  ‘Well, I’m expected back soon. I’ve got a ticket for the day after tomorrow.’

  Ben turned to face him again, looking down seriously from his great height. ‘We’re all expected somewhere sometime,’ he said. ‘But is there somethin’ waitin’ for you? Or someone?’

  Matthew thought of the single room in his lodgings on the Old Kent Road, of the bombed houses like missing teeth in the smile of the crescent. He thought of his desk at the PWE, the stack of memos piling up in the in-tray, of Mr Seybridge cleaning his glasses on his shirt. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, there you go then,’ Ben said, apparently energised by Matthew’s response. Striding across the room he plucked Matthew’s case off the floor and swung open a door onto a staircase spiralling steeply up to the floor above. ‘I’ll show you yer room,’ Ben said, picking up a lamp in his other hand and somehow managing to fold himself into the staircase. Matthew followed him, still unclear as to how long he’d be staying in this room to which Ben was showing him.

  Ben was saying goodnight, having made sure Matthew had everything he needed, when he paused at the door. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, Mr O’Connell,’ he said through one of his bemused smiles. ‘But you do know why you’ve come here for those birds don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Matthew said as he opened his case on the bed. ‘The Tower of London isn’t it? Ravens leave, Tower and kingdom falls. All that... ’ he tailed off, his sentence losing energy under the furrows of Ben’s frown.

  ‘Yes,’ Ben said slowly, taking a step back into the room. ‘All that indeed. But do you know why all that?’

  Matthew laughed awkwardly, wishing Ben hadn’t thrown his words back at him in that way. It had been a very long day and he could do without an interrogation right now. ‘No,’ he said, smiling, though with less conviction now. ‘I suppose I don’t. Six raven chicks, from here to there. That’s all I know really.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Wait here a minute will you Mr O’Connell?’

  ‘Matthew, please.’ But Ben had already left the room. Matthew followed the sound of his heavy steps, which made the whole house creak like a ship in storm, down the corridor, down the stone stairs and across the kitchen in three clean strides. There was a pause before the same pattern was reversed to bring Ben and his lamp back to Matthew’s door. He was holding a book this time, bound in dark leather with gold lettering on its spine.

  ‘The Second Branch,’ Ben said, holding out the book.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The Second Branch,’ he said again, nudging the book further towards him. ‘“Branwen Daughter of Llyr”. You should read it. Don’t worry, this one’s in English.’

  Matthew took the book and, opening it, tried to pronounce the word on its title page. ‘The Mab... Mabi... Mabn...’

  ‘The Mabinogion,’ Ben said. ‘Four branches of ancient myths. You should read the second, might shed some light on yer little journey tonight.’

  ‘Right,’ Matthew said.

  Ben seemed unconvinced. ‘It’s important we know why we go where we do Mr O’Connell,’ he said. ‘These stories are still with us for a reason you know.’

  Matthew flipped a page and saw a name inscribed along the dotted line of a faded purple stamp. The book had been a school prize, presented to... again he tried to pronounce the letters before him, and again Ben had to help him out.

  ‘Bendigeidfran Llewellyn,’ he said. ‘That’s me. You can see why I go by Ben.’

  ‘Yes, quite a name you got there,’ Matthew said.

  ‘Means “magnificent crow” in English, or... ’ Ben leant forwards for effect, “raven”.’

  ‘And Branwen?’ Matthew said pointing at the name in the title on the contents page. ‘Is that the full name of your…?’ He left the question hanging, hoping Ben would finish for him again. H
e didn’t. He just nodded, smiling his old bemused smile.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Branwen. Means “white crow” or “white raven”. So, Mr O’Connell,’ Ben continued, turning into the corridor. ‘As you can see, you’ve come t’ the right place for those birds.’

  With that Ben left him. Matthew watched his huge figure, silhouetted by the light of his lamp, retreat down the corridor away from his room, his hair brushing along the ceiling once more, his voice trailing deeply behind him. ‘Oh yes, you’ve come to the right place alright.’

  It was late the next morning when Matthew surfaced from the depths of his night’s sleep. The farmhouse, so quiet when he’d arrived, was now at the centre of a mountain orchestra of wind, bleating lambs and birdsong. As Matthew fully crossed into waking, he could also make out, coming from somewhere in the house underneath him, the strains of a woman’s voice, singing.

  Opening his eyes he sat up in bed to look around the bedroom. It was simple and neat, washed through with spring sunshine from the one small window. The previous day’s journey felt unreal in the bold clarity of this light. Had he really ridden up that track with the boy? Had he really seen Ben Llewellyn, a giant of a man, unfold from the lean-to shed, an axe dangling from his arm? Yes, the ache along the inside of his thighs confirmed the ride and there, on the bedside table, was the book Ben had given him last night, unopened, the gold lettering of its title catching a tight beam of light shining through a crack in the curtains.

  When Matthew drew back those curtains the full extent of his isolation was revealed to him, in all its drama. A long sweep of cleanly sculpted mountains curved away from the farm on either side, like two huge waves rushing together, a maelstrom stilled just moments before collision. Between these mountains, smaller hills and hummocks of moorland echoed each other into the distance, melting into a hazy horizon. There was nothing else. Some strewn patches of scree, grey against the mountain slopes, some protruding rocks, finely carved by thousands of years of weather and ice, the tail end of the track he’d ridden up the previous night and a few high clouds in the blue sky. Matthew couldn’t remember when he’d been able to see so far. From the deck of the ship that took him to Sicily, certainly. But on land? Probably when his father, after listening to his reasons for volunteering, had walked him to the summit of one of the Wicklow hills and shown him his country stretched before him, as if that would have been enough to convince him to stay. Behind them, where his father hadn’t wanted to look that day, had been the sea, and beyond it a faint smudge on the horizon, that his father had once told him was the mountains of Wales.