The Snow Spider Trilogy

by Jenny Nimmo

  * * *

  Nain was gardening by lamplight when Gwyn found her. She was wearing her sunhat and a bright purple cardigan. The sky was dark and frost had begun to sparkle on the ground.

  ‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’ said Gwyn, approaching his grandmother down the cinder path.

  ‘I like to poke a few things about,’ she replied, ‘just to let them know I’ve got my eye on them.’

  ‘There’s not much growing, Nain,’ Gwyn remarked. ‘Not that you can see anything in this light.’

  ‘There’s tatws!’ she said defiantly, and heaved a plant out of the ground, scattering earth all over Gwyn’s white trainers. Not satisfied with this, she shook the plant violently and Gwyn sprang back, too late, to save the bottoms of his new school trousers.

  ‘Oh heck, Nain!’ he cried. ‘What did you do that for. I’ll get a row?’

  ‘Why didn’t you put your boots on, silly boy?’ she replied. ‘There’s mud all down the lane.’

  ‘I came for a chat, didn’t I? How was I to know I’d be attacked by a madwoman.’

  ‘Ha! Ha! Who’s mad, Gwydion Gwyn?’ Nain loved being teased. ‘Have you brought good news? Are you a magician, then?’

  ‘Can’t we go inside, Nain?’ Gwyn fingered the matchbox in his pocket. He did not want to confide under the stars, someone could be listening, out there in the dark.

  ‘Come on, then! We’ll leave the plants to doze for a bit and have a cup of tea.’ Nain dropped her potatoes, shook out her purple cardigan and stamped across to open the back door.

  The inside of her house was like a bright bowl. All the corners had been rounded off with cupboards and bookcases, and upon every item of furniture there was heaped a jumble of books, bright clothes and exotic plants. The fronds of shawls, trailing leaves and garlands of beads festooned the furniture to such a degree that its identity could not easily be ascertained. The only source of light came from an oil-lamp, and as this was partially obscured by a tall fern, the whole place had a wild and mystical air about it.

  Somewhere, through the jumble, a kettle lurked, and soon this was whistling merrily, while Nain sang from behind a screen embroidered with butterflies, and a canary chattered in its cage.

  Gwyn looked round for a vacant seat. There was none. ‘What shall I do with the eggs, Nain?’ he called.

  ‘How many?’

  Gwyn counted the eggs, nestling in a red woolly hat on the only armchair. ‘Seven,’ he replied.

  ‘Well! Well! They’ve all been in here today, then, and I never noticed.’ Nain chuckled to herself.

  ‘Why d’you let the hens in, Nain?’ Gwyn asked. ‘They’re such mucky things. Mam would have a fit.’

  ‘Huh! Your mam would have a fit if she looked under my bed, I expect,’ Nain giggled, ‘but there’s no need to go upsetting people for nothing. Bring the eggs out here.’

  Gwyn held out the bottom of his jumper and gathered the eggs into it. He looked for his grandmother behind the screen but she had vanished, and so had the kitchen. There was only a narrow space between rows of plants and metres of crimson velvet. He found the kettle on the windowsill and put the eggs in a green hat beside it. Nain did not seem to be short of hats, so he felt the eggs would be safe enough for the moment. However, she had been known to wear two at a time and so he called out, ‘Don’t put your green hat on yet, Nain!’

  His grandmother’s head popped out from a gap in the velvet. ‘Isn’t it grand?’ she purred. ‘I’m going to dance in it.’

  ‘The hat?’ Gwyn inquired.

  ‘This, silly boy.’ His grandmother stroked the crimson material.

  ‘Where?’ he asked.

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Nain, would you find yourself a cup of tea and then sit down and – concentrate. I’ve got something to show you!’ Gwyn fingered his matchbox again.

  ‘Was it the wind?’ Nain asked. ‘It was windy yesterday. I thought of you. Quick, a cup of tea.’ She withdrew her head and reappeared a moment later, carrying two blue enamel mugs. ‘One for you?’

  ‘No thanks, Nain!’ His grandmother did not use conventional tea-leaves. Her tea was made from nettles or dried roots. Sometimes it was palatable, most often it was not. Today Gwyn preferred not to risk it.

  He waited until his grandmother had settled herself in the armchair and sipped her tea before he knelt beside her and took out the matchbox. He wanted her undivided attention for his revelation. Even so he was unprepared for the ecstatic gasp that accompanied Nain’s first glimpse of the spider, when he gently withdrew the lid. The tiny creature crawled on to his hand, glowing in the dark room, and Nain’s eyes sparkled like a child’s. ‘How did it come?’ Her whisper was harsh with excitement.

  ‘In the snow,’ Gwyn replied. ‘I thought it was a snowflake. It was the brooch, I think. I gave it to the wind, like you said, and this . . . came back!’

  ‘So,’ Nain murmured triumphantly, ‘you are a magician then, Gwydion Gwyn, as I thought. See what you have made!’

  ‘But did I make it, Nain? I believe it has come from somewhere else. Some far, far place . . . I don’t know, beyond the world, I think.’

  ‘Then you called it, you brought it here, Gwydion Gwyn. Did you call?’

  ‘I did but . . .’ Gwyn hesitated, ‘I called into the snow, the names you said: Math, Lord of Gwynedd, Gwydion and Gilfaethwy. Those were the only words.’

  ‘They were the right words, boy. You called to your ancestors. The magicians heard your voice and took the brooch to where it had to go, and now you have the spider!’ Nain took the spider from Gwyn and placed it on her arm. Then she got up and began to dance through the shadowy wilderness of her room. The tiny glowing creature moved slowly up her purple sleeve, until it came to her shoulder, and there it rested, shining like a star beneath her wild black curls.

  Gwyn watched and felt that it was Nain who was the magician and he the enchanted one.

  Suddenly his grandmother swooped back and, taking the spider from her hair, put it gently into his hands. ‘Arianwen,’ she said. ‘White silver! Call her Arianwen; she must have a name!’

  ‘And what now?’ asked Gwyn. ‘What becomes of Arianwen? Should I tell about her? Take her to a museum?’

  ‘Never! Never! Never!’ said Nain fiercely. ‘They wouldn’t understand. She has come from another world to bring you closer to the thing you want.’

  ‘I want to see my sister,’ said Gwyn. ‘I want things the way they were before she went.’

  Nain looked at Gwyn through half-closed eyes. ‘It’s just the beginning, Gwydion Gwyn, you’ll see. You’ll be alone, mind. You cannot tell. A magician can have his heart’s desire if he truly wishes it, but he will always be alone.’ She propelled her grandson gently but firmly towards the door. ‘Go home now or they’ll come looking, and never tell a soul!’

  The farmhouse was empty when Gwyn reached home. Mr Griffiths could be heard drilling in his workshop. Mrs Griffiths had popped out to see a neighbour, leaving a note for her son on the kitchen table,

  SOUP ON THE STOVE

  STOKE IT UP IF IT’S COLD

  ‘The soup or the stove?’ Gwyn muttered to himself. He opened the stove door, but the red embers looked so warm and comforting he was reluctant to cover them with fresh coal. He turned off the light and knelt beside the fire, holding out his hands to the warmth.

  He must have put the matchbox down somewhere and he must have left it open, because he suddenly became aware that Arianwen was climbing up the back of the armchair. When she reached the top she swung down to the arm, leaving a silver thread behind her. Up she went to the top again, and then down, her silk glistening in the firelight. Now the spider was swinging and spinning back and forth across the chair so fast that Gwyn could only see a spark, shooting over an ever- widening sheet of silver.

  ‘A cobweb!’ he breathed.

  And yet it was not a cobweb. There was someone there. Someone was sitting where the cobweb should have been. A girl with long pale hair
and smiling eyes: Bethan, sitting just as she used to sit, with her legs tucked under her, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, the other supporting her chin as she gazed into the fire. And still Arianwen spun, tracing the girl’s face, her fingers and her hair, until every feature became so clear Gwyn felt he could have touched the girl.

  The tiny spider entwined the silk on one last corner and then ceased her feverish activity. She waited, just above the girl’s head, allowing Gwyn to contemplate her creation without interruption.

  Was the girl an illusion? An image on a silver screen? No, she was more than that. Gwyn could see the impression her elbow made on the arm of the chair, the fibres in her skirt, the lines on her slim, pale hand.

  Only Bethan had ever sat thus. Only Bethan had gazed into the fire in such a way. But his sister was dark, her cheeks were rosy, her skin tanned golden by the wind. This girl was fragile and so silver-pale she might have been made of gossamer.

  ‘Bethan?’ Gwyn whispered, and he stretched out his hand towards the girl.

  A ripple spread across the shining image, as water moves when a stone pierces the surface, but Gwyn did not notice a cool draught entering the kitchen as the door began to open.

  ‘Bethan?’ he said again.

  The figure shivered violently as the door swung wider, and then the light went on. The girl in the cobweb hovered momentarily and gradually began to fragment and to fade until Gwyn was left staring into an empty chair. His hand dropped to his side.

  ‘Gwyn! What are you doing, love? What are you staring at?’ His mother came round the chair and looked down at him, frowning anxiously.

  Gwyn found that speech was not within his power, part of his strength seemed to have evaporated with the girl.

  ‘Who were you talking to? Why were you sitting in the dark?’ Concern caused Mrs Griffiths to speak sharply.

  Her son swallowed but failed to utter a sound. He stared up at her helplessly.

  ‘Stop it, Gwyn! Stop looking at me like that! Get up! Say something!’ His mother shook his shoulders and pulled him to his feet.

  He stumbled over to the table and sat down, trying desperately to drag himself away from the image in the cobweb. The girl had smiled at him before she vanished, and he knew that she was real.

  Mrs Griffiths ignored him now, busying herself about the stove, shovelling in coal, warming up the soup. By the time the meal was ready and sat steaming in a bowl before him, he had recovered enough to say, ‘Thanks, Mam!’

  ‘Perhaps you can tell me what you were doing, then?’ his mother persisted, calmer now that she had done something practical.

  ‘I was just cold, Mam. It’s nice by the stove when the door is open. I sort of . . . dozed . . . couldn’t wake up.’ Gwyn tried to explain away something his mother would neither believe, nor understand.

  ‘Well, you’re a funny one. I would have been here but I wanted to pickle some of those tomatoes and I had to run down to Betty Lloyd for sugar.’ Mrs Griffiths chattered on, somewhat nervously Gwyn thought, while he sat passively, trying to make appropriate remarks in the few gaps that her commentary allowed.

  His father’s return from the workshop brought Gwyn to life. ‘Don’t sit down, Da!’ he cried, leaping towards the armchair.

  ‘What on earth? What’s got into you, boy?’ Mr Griffiths was taken by surprise.

  ‘It’s a matchbox,’ Gwyn explained. ‘In the chair. I don’t want it squashed.’

  ‘What’s so special about a matchbox?’

  ‘There’s something in it, a particular sort of insect,’ stammered Gwyn. ‘For school,’ he added, ‘It’s important, see?’

  His father shook the cushions irritably. ‘Nothing there,’ he said and sat down heavily in the armchair.

  ‘Here’s a matchbox,’ said Mrs Griffiths, ‘on the floor.’ She opened the box, ‘but there’s nothing in it.’

  ‘Oh heck!’ Gwyn moaned.

  ‘What sort of insect was it, love? Perhaps we can find it for you?’ His mother was always eager to help where school was concerned.

  ‘A spider,’ Gwyn said.

  ‘Oh, Gwyn,’ moaned Mrs Griffiths, ‘not spiders. I’ve just cleaned this house from top to bottom. I can’t abide cobwebs.’

  ‘Spiders eat flies,’ Gwyn retorted.

  ‘There are no flies in this house,’ thundered Mr Griffiths, ‘and when you’ve found your particular spider, you keep it in that box. If I find it anywhere near my dinner, I’ll squash it with my fist, school or no school!’

  ‘You’re a mean old . . . man!’ cried Gwyn.

  Mrs Griffiths gave an anguished sigh, and her husband stood up. But Gwyn fled before another word could be spoken. He climbed up to his bedroom and nothing followed, not even a shout.

  He had turned on the light as soon as he entered the room, so he was not immediately aware of the glow coming from the open top drawer. He walked over to the window to draw the curtains and looked down to see Arianwen sitting on the whistle. Incredibly, she must have pulled the whistle from beneath the yellow scarf. But, on consideration, Gwyn realised it was a small feat for a creature who had just conjured a girl into her web. And what of the girl now? Had she been mere gossamer after all, a trick of the firelight on a silver cobweb?

  ‘Why couldn’t you stay where you were?’ Gwyn inquired of the spider. ‘You caused me a bit of bother just now!’

  Arianwen moved slowly to the end of the whistle and it occurred to Gwyn that she had selected it for some special purpose.

  ‘Now?’ he asked in a whisper.

  Arianwen crawled off the whistle.

  Gwyn picked it up and held it to his lips. It was cracked and only a thin sound came from it. He shrugged and opened the window. Arianwen climbed out of the drawer and swung herself on to his sleeve.

  ‘But there’s no wind,’ he said softly, and he held his arm up to the open window. ‘See, no wind at all.’

  The spider crawled on to the window frame and ran up to the top. When she reached the centre she let herself drop on a shining thread until she hung just above Gwyn’s head. A tiny lantern glowing against the black sky.

  Gwyn had been wrong. There was a wind, for now the spider was swaying in the open window and he could feel a breath of ice-cold air on his face.

  ‘Shall I say something?’ he mused. ‘What shall I say?’

  Then, without any hesitation he called, ‘Gwydion! Gwydion! I am Gwydion! I am Math and Gilfaethwy!’

  Even as he said the words, the breeze became an icy blast, rattling the window and tugging at his hair. He stepped back, amazed by the sudden violence in the air.

  Arianwen spun crazily on her silver thread and the wind swooped into the room, tearing the whistle from Gwyn’s hand and whisking it out through the open window.

  Now the sound of the wind was deafening; terrifying too, for where a moment before, the land had lain tranquil in the frosty silence, there was now an uproar; a moaning, groaning and screaming in the trees that was almost unearthly. Sheep on the mountain cried out in alarm and ran for shelter, and down in the yard the dog began to howl as though his very soul was threatened. Gwyn heard his father step outside to calm the dog. ‘It’s a damn peculiar kind of wind, though,’ he heard him say.

  Something shot into the bedroom and dropped, with a crack, on to the bare floorboards. It was a pipe of some sort: slim and silver like a snake. Gwyn stared at it apprehensively, then he slowly bent and picked it up. It was silky smooth and had an almost living radiance about it, as though it had no need of human hands to shine and polish it. Tiny, delicate lines encircled it: a beautiful pattern of knots and spirals; shapes that he had seen on a gravestone somewhere, and framing the pictures in one of Nain’s old books.

  Almost fearfully, he put the pipe to his lips, but he did not play it. He felt that it had not come for that purpose. He sat on the bed and ran his fingers over the delicate pattern.

  The window stopped rattling and the wind dropped to a whisper. The land was quiet and still again. Arian
wen left her post and ran into the drawer.

  Gwyn laid the pipe on his bedside table and went to shut the window. He decided that he was too tired to speculate on the evening’s events until he was lying down. He turned off the light, undressed and got into bed.

  But he had awakened something that would not sleep and now he was to be allowed no rest.

  For a few moments Gwyn closed his eyes. When he opened them he saw that Arianwen had spun hundreds of tiny threads across the wall opposite his bed. They were so fine, so close, that they resembled a vast screen. Still she spun, swinging faster and faster across the wall, climbing, falling and weaving, not one thread at a time but a multitude. Soon the entire wall was covered, but the spider was not satisfied. She began to thread her way along the wall beside Gwyn’s bed; over the door, over the cupboard, until the furniture was entirely covered with her irresistible flow of silk.

  Gwyn was not watching Arianwen now. Something was happening in the web before him. He had the sensation that he was being drawn into the web, deeper and deeper, faster and faster. He was plunging into black silent space. A myriad of tiny coloured fragments burst and scattered in front of him, and then nothing for minutes that seemed like hours. Then the moving sensation began to slow until he felt that he was suspended in the air above an extraordinary scene.

  A city was rising through clouds of iridescent snow. First a tower, tall and white, surmounted by a belfry of finely carved ice; within the belfry a gleaming silver bell. Beneath the tower there were buildings, all of them white, all of them round and beautiful, with shining dome-like roofs and oval windows latticed with a delicate network of silver – like cobwebs.

  Beyond the houses there lay a vast expanse of snow, and surrounding the snow, mountains, brilliant under the sun, or was it the moon hanging there, a huge sphere glowing in the dark sky?

  Until that moment the city had been silent but suddenly the bell in the white tower began to sway and then it rang, and Gwyn could hear it, clear and sweet over the snow. Children emerged from the houses; children with pale faces and silvery hair, chattering, laughing and singing. They were in the snowfields now, calling to each other in high melodious voices. Was this where the pale girl in the web had come from?