by Jenny Nimmo
‘And has Gwydion shown you how to solve your – problem?’ she asked carefully.
‘He’s given me the means,’ Gwyn said, ‘and I know what to do.’
‘You won’t harm the soldier, Gwyn?’
‘I told you, I’m leaping in the dark. I’ll save the Lloyds, I’ll trap the demon, but as for Evan Llr, I can’t tell!’ He was sorry to disappoint her. ‘Not everyone can win,’ he said regretfully. ‘You know that, Nain.’
‘I know.’ She gave a disconsolate little shrug and then asked hopefully, ‘But you’ll try, Gwydion Gwyn, won’t you, not to cause him any more pain?’
Gwyn couldn’t promise that.
Just before she disappeared into her house, Nain called, ‘It’s your birthday, the day after tomorrow. Thirteen is a special age. How shall we celebrate?’
There may be nothing to celebrate, he thought. ‘Let’s wait and see,’ he said.
He continued up to T Bryn, wondering if this older man, this alter ego, would always be with him. He needed Gwydion’s strength but what if he never broke free of the quizzical middle-aged reflection, the long weatherworn fingers and the forest-dweller’s cough. I’ll put my worries aside, he thought, as Gwydion would have done – is doing. Because I’m him, or he’s me. He found himself laughing a lot louder than Gwyn Griffiths usually did.
When he reached home he resolved to sleep in the air that night. He would take a blanket out to the open barn where the weather could sing him to sleep. He needed to dream.
A distant rumble heralded the storm he’d predicted.
Saturday was a dark day. The sunlight was obscured by a thick blanket that drizzled steadily into the valley. The river swelled to a dangerous torrent and children were forbidden to play on the banks. Nia wondered how she would know dusk from daytime.
The prince returned at noon and joined them for a meal. His tartan scarf had been discarded in favour of a scarlet shirt, pinned at the neck with the same shining brooch. He was a stranger to them now. The stare he levelled at Catrin across the table was quite outrageous, and when she shied away from it embarrassed and afraid, he gave another of his desperate laughs.
Nerys tried to diffuse the atmosphere by talking of the weather. She’d curled her hair and looked almost pretty. She chattered on, rather wildly for her, until Evan suddenly laid a hand on hers and said, with quiet venom, ‘You talk too much, my dear. Plain girls should always keep quiet!’
Stunned, Nerys’s mouth snapped shut. She stared ahead at a cup on the dresser. A single tear rolled down her cheek. It was, somehow, even more dreadful than Catrin’s awkward fear.
And then another laugh descended on them, striking every member of the family a blow from which they couldn’t recover. Even the twins were silent. This was the soldier they had wanted, but he terrified them.
At either end of the table, Iestyn and Betty gazed helplessly at each other, wondering how to end the madman’s occupation of their home.
My prince has gone, Nia thought, vanished, swallowed up by someone else’s life. The window showed a sky of endless grey and she began to worry that her part of the magical proceedings would go wrong. Suppose she called Evan too soon and he returned from an empty bridge, outraged and even more violent.
He spent the rest of the day in their front room, leaving the door open to flaunt his possession of the sofa; his feet over one arm, his head resting on the other; eyes closed, hands clasped across his chest. Now and again he emitted a faint snore. The beast at rest. No one thought of closing the door.
‘What’s happened to Evan?’ Gareth asked his mother, whispering even behind the closed kitchen door. ‘He’s like another person.’
‘He’s ill, cariad,’ Mrs Lloyd told him.
‘Is it – the wound?’ Sîon asked.
His mother nodded. ‘Doctors have pills for that sort of thing now,’ Sîon said helpfully, and then, worried by his mother’s closed uncomfortable expression, ‘He’ll get better won’t he, Mam?’
‘Oh, Sîon, I don’t know,’ she confessed. ‘I hope so!’
At three o’clock the twins thankfully departed for a friend’s Hallowe’en party. Mrs Lloyd took Bethan to visit Iolo. ‘He’d like to see you, too,’ she told Nia, offering her a way of escape. ‘He’s much better now, not so gloomy.’
‘I’ll stay,’ Nia said firmly.
Catrin gave the remaining family their tea before she left for the Community Centre with her father. ‘It’s only up the road, so if you need us . . .’ she said meaningfully to Nia. ‘Or would you rather come with us?’
Nia shook her head. ‘Nerys will be here. We’ll keep each other company,’ she said. They didn’t mention the sleeping soldier. She followed Catrin and her father into the hall, where Mr Lloyd switched on the light. None of them looked into the room where he lay, though Nia could have described his attitude exactly. One arm hung loose, its gold and bronze ornaments caught in a bright beam that slid through the open door.
Mr Lloyd moved uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘Perhaps you’d better come with us, girl,’ he said.
‘Then poor Nerys will be alone,’ Nia said, hoping to remind her father of the tear that had been wrung from his eldest child.
‘Ah yes.’ As he and Catrin stepped out of the house, the street lights came on. It was dusk. Nia closed the door. She went back to the kitchen and sat at the table. Above her Nerys creaked across a room. The light seemed to be fading in seconds.
It has to be now, Nia told herself, another day might be too late. She forced herself into the hall again and stood on the brink of the dark room where he slept. Would he detect the lie in her voice? She took a deep breath and walked in.
‘Evan,’ she called faintly into his sleep, then gaining courage, loud and steadily, ‘Even! Evan!’
His eyes opened and, for a brief moment, her own dear prince looked out. The sorrowful blue gaze shook all her resolve. He knew. She couldn’t trust herself to speak. But the dark soul betrayed him. Something stirred behind his eyes, leaking tiny yellow flames into the blue. Nia was tipped into action and the lies came pouring out. ‘Catrin wants you. She’s on the bridge. She sent me to fetch you. It’s urgent, she says.’ Shame confined her voice to a tight little croak and she was sure he could see deep inside her where the truth lay all mixed up with love and dread.
But he swung his legs on to the floor, stood up, rubbed his eyes and walked past her. In the hall he touched her shoulder with his ringed fingers and said quietly, ‘Thank you, Nia!’ She longed to keep his hand and hold him back, but he whisked himself away and was gone.
She waited behind the closed door then suddenly flung it open and leapt out. The town was deserted except for the tall figure striding towards the bridge. Rehearsals were in full swing and the ‘Sanctus’ came pouring into the street like water; it washed around the soldier, causing him to stop and lift his head in a listening attitude as though he was willing the music to keep him there, safe against the future. Slowly he released himself and continued on his way. The rain had stopped but the wet pavement glimmered gold under the street lights.
Close to the houses, Nia followed, watching every movement of the man ahead. When he walked on to the bridge she slid behind a wide buttress at the end, and peeped out. Evan was alone, staring over the wall at the wild flood.
Where was Gwyn? Suppose he let her down? Would Evan, sensing the trick, rush furiously back to her? And then something that had been there all the time began to move. It was an indistinct form, topped with a cloud of white, startling in the twilight.
The soldier turned and faced the magician.
All through the day Gwyn had been torn by indecision. Perhaps, after all, he wouldn’t have to exert himself. He thought of using the telephone to postpone the meeting. The persistent rain and the distant forlorn murmur of thunder made him restless. But towards dusk he became very calm. He went to fetch his ash wand and was amazed by the energy it sent through him.
When the rain had stopped and the melancho
ly sky waited for night, Gwyn began his journey to Pendewi. He had to wield the wand carefully, for when it struck the ground a hollow sound came from it, as though its echo reached to the world’s beginning. Every chime filled him with a wonderful optimism, but he didn’t want to alert the countryside. He discovered that Arianwen was travelling with him, couched in a little hollow at the top of the stick. She had decided to play a part, it seemed, though Gwyn couldn’t guess what it would be.
He passed Idris Llewelyn’s chapel, and the unicorn, remade and even more beautiful, beckoned him on, into the land where he would make the last spell of his childhood. Tomorrow he would be thirteen. He felt invincible.
Yet when he saw the soldier, peering into the deadly water, a little qualm kept him at the end of the bridge where a damp mist wrapped him safely out of sight, tempting him to retreat. But he could feel the wand aching like one of his own limbs, and he moved on to the bridge. They were quite alone now, he and the soldier, together on an island, from which only one of them would return.
All at once the soldier, feeling his presence, turned to face him, and Gwyn almost lost his courage for another creature swooped out of Evan Llr, adding extra height to his already tall frame. A great warrior stood there, shining with royal jewels, and a scowl of such hatred coursed out of the familiar features, it took all Gwyn’s strength to look at it. But he held steady and, without averting his eyes, brought the broken horse from his pocket and held it out.
His action was greeted by a dreadful sound, deeper than any natural voice. It rolled around his head, confusing all his senses and threatened, ‘You’ll die this time, old man, if you attempt to keep me in that!’
His hatred towers above anything I can feel, Gwyn thought, and began to weaken. But, once more, the ash wand jerked against his fingers and an icy glow, perched on the tip, floated across and settled in the crest of bright hair. The warrior hardly noticed it. He took a step towards Gwyn. The wand bowed in the magician’s hand, alive with energy. It twisted toward the wall and a shaft of light travelled from it deep into the stones. They burst into fragments and tumbled into the river, leaving a jagged hole that gave on to the still rising tide of water.
Again the warrior bellowed but this time Gwyn detected a note of anxiety, a loss of confidence. The spider had begun to work. Tiny threads criss-crossed the monster’s face. He tried to brush them away but the spider floated out of reach, and spun on, faster and faster, over the plume of chestnut hair, across the eyes, forming a ghostly mask. The soldier took another step towards Gwyn; again he swept his hands over his face, this time clutching the air as though he would crush it with his huge fists. He leaned forward; powerful, shining arms reached toward Gwyn who knew that if this warrior fell he meant to take the magician with him. Helplessly, Gwyn closed his eyes so that what followed became a secret ceremony, known only to the men from the past, leaving the two who remained forever doubtful of what had happened.
Gwyn only knew that his right hand became a weapon wielded by someone else. It raised the wand and struck something with such furious energy that he was rocked off his feet. He opened his eyes, wondering how he should protect himself from the assault that must follow. But the bridge was empty and beyond the breached wall, there was a man in the water, struggling for his life.
‘I don’t hate you,’ Gwyn called across the water. ‘Forgive me, Evan Llr.’
An answer came from Evan Llr: a drowning howl that carried on the waves like receding music, an age-old lament composed of many voices. And then a girl tore past Gwyn crying, ‘Gwyn Griffiths, you have murdered my cousin!’ And Nia bounded down the bank, following the current that bore Evan Llr away.
Nia, racing beside the river, couldn’t understand why the town was still singing. Her prince was drowning. All the Hosannas in the world couldn’t save him now. She tore helplessly along the bank, trying to keep pace with the current, calling ‘Evan’ endlessly, as though the name could keep him safe. Three times she saw his arm strike through the grey tide, the last time was hardly a stroke at all, but more a lonely gesture of farewell.
She sank on to the wet grass and turned her face away from the river where all her happy dreams had died. But a surprising gust of wind urged her to look again. On the far side of the river where slim alders clustered on the bank, the wind, in a sudden frenzy, tore at the red leaves, dispatching them in a cloud across the torrent. Startled birds flew out, calling to each other in alarm. It seemed to Nia that every bird she had ever known had a place in the great flock that soared above her, their wingbeats clattering into the air like a mighty orchestra.
Then into the band of golden sky that rimmed the distant hill, a line of horsemen drew up and began to descend toward the wooded bank. Nia’s vision was blurred by tears and they seemed to seep through the naked trees like drifting streams of smoke, but she could still make out the dull bronze of spears and helmets and the occasional glitter of gold.
Struggling against unreality, Nia watched the silent, shadowy army follow their prince beneath the water, safe into the Otherworld. She watched until every tiny gleam had drowned, until the bank was deserted and the river, the same unassailable sweep of water as before. Then she made her way back to the bridge.
She found a crowd of men surrounding Gwyn Griffiths, who lay perilously close to the place where Evan had slipped into the river. He looked bewildered and years younger than the last time she had seen him. There was an old stick beside him that looked as if it had been used by lightning and his hands, clasped round something small and black, were bleeding. Making her way across his sleeve was a tiny silver spider.
‘Doesn’t seem to know where he is,’ someone remarked. Nia recognised Morgan-the-Smithy.
‘Come on, lad,’ another said. ‘You’d better shift from there. It’s dangerous!’
‘A man fell in,’ Gwyn said dreamily. ‘I couldn’t save him.’
‘In that?’ asked Morgan in disbelief, nodding at the angry current.
‘It was my cousin, Evan Llr,’ Nia murmured through unspent tears.
‘Then he’s gone, girl, that’s for sure,’ said Morgan. ‘That flood would take the strongest man alive!’
He had no right to be outside her room, tapping away like an intrusive woodpecker. The door was open anyway and Gwyn could see that she didn’t want company. Why didn’t he go away?
‘Nia, you’ve got to talk to me!’ He came in, cautiously, hands in pockets while she quickly hid her treasure on the bed beside her. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’ He looked so jaunty.
‘Nothing,’ she replied sullenly.
He came and sat beside her.
The whole world ached. A grim mist had lain in the valley for days, a ghostly shroud left to shame them. A heavy, featureless climate hung about the town, only the mountain rose above it. Impossible events had set Pendewi adrift from the universe, untouched and unloved. No one wanted to know about a soldier who had carried a family into his dark past. Some things were better left unsaid, it seemed. For weeks Nia hadn’t even heard his name.
‘Nia, he’s not dead!’
When she had taken in the full meaning of what he said, she stared at him stupidly, her life upside down again.
‘He swam ashore downriver,’ Gwyn told her gently. ‘Didn’t know his name for a while. He’s been in hospital.’
‘Why didn’t Mam tell me?’
‘They’ve only just heard. And you two girls have been so frantic, we thought it would be better to break it gradually.’
‘Is he coming back?’
‘How could he, Nia?’ His dark eyes, truthful and very kind, held hers.
She turned away.
‘I cured him, Nia,’ he said firmly.
‘You tried to murder him!’
‘No, not Evan. It was that other one. I was trying to save Evan. I had a head full of spells, and Arianwen, ready to convert him but my ancestor had a mind of his own. Perhaps he doubted my will, so he reached through me to quieten Efnisien forever, not carin
g how he did it. He didn’t know our soldier, you see!’
She felt behind her and brought the little carving on to her lap. ‘I found this in the reeds beside the river,’ she said. ‘It’s yours, isn’t it?’
The paint had washed off and the soldier looked little more than a piece of wood, the face and clothing vaguely sketched in lines of fine silt.
‘It was a mistake,’ he confessed. ‘I thought of those little sacrificial figures they found in Celtic springs, thrown there to heal the owners of some dreadful illness. I don’t know what I expected. I certainly didn’t realise that he’d fight it and bring a strom to your home.’
‘Well, you’ll never save him now,’ Nia said dramatically.
‘He is saved,’ Gwyn told her cheerfully.
She looked up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Gwydion may have done his worst, but his descendant won a battle too!’ He brought from his pocket a wooden horse that resembled the animal she’d found in Evan’s room. If it was the same horse, it was transformed. Polished and handsome, its severed features all restored, it glowed.
‘Is it . . .?’ she began.
‘The same,’ Gwyn confirmed.
‘What’s happened? It’s so beautiful.’
‘This is how it was in the beginning, when Gwydion’s brother gave it as a gift, before it was used for magic. Gwydion told me.’ She darted him a suspicious look which he refused to acknowledge, ploughing on in spite of her impatient fidgeting. ‘After he’d – gone into the water the horse began to kick at my hands and when I wouldn’t give it up it punished me. I don’t know how I held on, but it was something I had to do, to cling on and soak up all the anger. It seemed to reach every part of me with hooves and teeth and bony head. I hung on until the pain knocked me out, and when I came to my hands were bleeding, but the horse was – like this!’