A String in the Harp (18 page)

“But Wales is so small,” objected Jen. “I would think people would all be the same, at least within it.”

Dr. Rhys was shaking his head. “Not a bit of it. They are not. South Wales is not like this at all. You must see it, too, before you can say you’ve seen Wales. We are almost in the mountains here, and the land is used for animals, mainly sheep. But around by Cardiff are the industries and the shipping and above it the coal valleys. Further to the west is Pembroke where the land is good for crops, and that is different too.”

“My own family came from near Cardiff,” commented David.

“Did they then? Miners?”

He nodded. “My grandfather emigrated when the trouble began over unions. He was from Tredegar.”

“Indeed. A bloody time that was, too. We lost many men to Canada and America, the conditions in the mines were so bad and the owners mostly English and wanting money more than anything.”

“Lucky we were farmers in my family,” put in Mrs. Rhys. “Yorkshire’s coal country, too, and I wouldn’t fancy seeing my men going down the pits, I can tell you. But I suppose we are fortunate men will still do it. Now, Cardiff—there’s another
matter. Nice shops and a lovely park along the river. I quite enjoyed Cardiff while we were there. I still like a trip down now and then to see friends and do the shops. Gwyn thinks a lot of the University, don’t you, Gwyn? Well. And there’s our roast, I can smell it done. Will you come?”

By the time they’d sorted themselves out around the dinner table, Dr. Rhys and David were deep in a discussion of Welsh nationalism.

“Oh, aye,” said Mrs. Rhys to Jen, Becky, and Peter. “I could tell you a thing or two about nationalism myself.” She dished up carrots while Dr. Rhys chipped away at the beef. “They’re that strong on it hereabout with their newspapers and telly programs and news in Welsh on the wireless.
And
spelling all the names of towns the old way. Mind you, I don’t object to a bit of patriotic feeling now and again, but they do go on so.”

“And all the people speaking Welsh,” Becky added. “Do you?”

“Lord bless you, no! It’s the very devil of a language, though all very well for Gwyn who was raised with it.”

Peter gave his father a meaningful look.

“Ah,” said Dr. Rhys at once, “but my dear, so much would be lost if it weren’t for the Nationalists. They’re bringing back the language and traditions and folklore. So much is already forgotten—there is so much one doesn’t understand, so many gaps one cannot fill. We must hold on to whatever we can.” His eyes were keen in his narrow face. He was so intent on what he was saying he quite ignored his dinner.

“But hasn’t it all been written down?” asked Peter. “Can’t you just look it up in histories?”

“Oh, no! No, no. And that is the tragedy, do you see. When people first spoke Welsh, they hadn’t yet begun to write. It was an oral language, nothing written down at all. The stories and songs were in the heads of the bards who passed them to each other from memory and wandered the country gathering news and singing their songs. When people learned to
write, they began to copy out the stories, but so much must never have been recorded. We have only fragments. Only fragments.”

“That’s what you’re working on, isn’t it?” said David. “Translating the fragments.”

“Yes.” Dr. Rhys removed his spectacles and polished them on his tie. “Some of the oldest we have—
The Black Book of Caernarvon, The Red Book of Hergest, The Mabinogion,
and the books called after the greatest bards: Llywarch Hen, Aneirin, Taliesin.”

Peter had forgotten his dinner now, too.

“The difficulty,” Dr. Rhys continued, “is in sorting out the oldest poetry from that of the writer’s own time. You see, in the beginning, none of it was written down, it was simply told. Then, hundreds of years later, people who’d learned to write put it in books, but they often added bits or changed the stories round to suit themselves. In
The Mabinogion,
for instance, there are a number of tales—Mabinogi—but only the first four are considered truly ancient. They are mythic tales, hero tales, one might call them, concerning the great King Math, who could know whatever anyone was thinking if he chose, and his nephew Gwydion, who stole the pigs of Prince Pryderi of Dyfyd by conjuring and made a woman of flowers for the son of his sister Arianrhod: and the head of the warrior Bran, which lived for eighty days after his slaying. These stories have been faithfully retold. But in the same collection are tales that concern King Arthur and the Bard, Taliesin, which were made up much later.”

“Well, now,” Mrs. Rhys interrupted from across the table. “He’ll go on for hours with the slightest encouragement, and if we don’t hurry we’ll not get seats for Howell Roberts. Come now, Gwyn, finish up and go and get coats, will you.”

Doors had burst open in Peter’s head. He was quite dizzy and he could only sit and watch while Dr. Rhys methodically finished his cold dinner. No good trying to ask him anything
now, with the others around—but there was so much to know! Taliesin! Aneirin! How could he ever have guessed that small, dry Dr. Rhys knew so much about them? When at last Dr. Rhys went out to collect the coats, Peter followed him, unable to hold back his questions.

“Excuse me,” he began, in a voice that trembled slightly, “those bards you were telling about—Aneirin and Taliesin. Were they real men?”

Dr. Rhys looked at him with surprise. “Indeed they were. Important men, both of them, Taliesin the more famous of the two, you know. Much of the poetry we have recovered from the sixth and seventh centuries was theirs. And have you an interest in the bards, then?” His eyes were very bright behind their spectacles.

“Well, yes,” said Peter cautiously, “I suppose I have.”

“If you want to know more, I can loan you a couple of my books, if you are careful with them, of course. Here. In my study.” He disappeared and in a moment returned with two small, old-looking volumes. Peter took them eagerly,
The Mabinogion
and
The Four Ancient Books of Wales.
They were well-worn, both of them, inscribed with Dr. Rhys’s name on their fly-leaves in a thin, careful hand, and Peter could hardly stifle the surge of excitement as he took them. “Thank you,” he managed to say.

“You are entirely welcome,” said Dr. Rhys gravely. “I hope you will find them of interest. Perhaps you will come and discuss them with me later?”

Before Peter could answer, Mrs. Rhys burst out of the kitchen, driving Jen, Becky, and David ahead of her like a flock of sheep.

“Good plain cooking, that’s all it is, and I’m glad you enjoyed it!” she was saying.

“That’s what Mrs. Davies’s is, too,” observed Becky, “but it doesn’t come out the same at all.”

“Aye, well. Mine’s from being brought up on a Yorkshire farm, feeding five hungry brothers.”

Peter just had time to slip the little books in his coat pockets before the others saw. He didn’t want to have to explain them.

St. Michael’s Church was neither old nor specially noteworthy, but it was warm with light and rapidly filling with people. As Mrs. Rhys said, the Welsh did love a bit of music and that was certainly in their favor, though she couldn’t see much in choral concerts sung all in Welsh. “They’ve grand voices, but you don’t just know what they’re singing about, do you?”

There was a great harp set before the altar, a stool beside it, and punctually at eight Mr. Roberts appeared. The church vicar gave him a rambling introduction full of Welsh names and glowing praise, then Howell Roberts took his seat. He was a thin, wiry man, with a sharp-cut face, great tangled eyebrows half hiding piercing blue eyes. He took in his audience at a glance and turned to his harp, settling it against him with infinite care and an odd gentleness, stroking it lightly with long, fine fingers, his head to one side, listening.

Everyone in the church was silent, all eyes were on him. The Morgans and Rhyses had seats in a pew near the front, for the church had filled back to front as most public places do, so they had a clear view of Howell Roberts, and they all saw him take a small metal object from his pocket. With it, he began to tighten and tune the strings of his harp, fitting one shaft of the object over each peg in turn.

Jen, sitting beside Peter, heard her brother catch his breath sharply. His gaze was riveted on Howell Roberts’s hands. She looked more closely and something in her mind clicked: a strange, tarnished shape in candlelight. The tuning key of a harp.

***

“But Peter, it doesn’t make any sense! Who on earth would lose the tuning key for a harp on the beach?”

“If you’re not going to believe what I tell you, there’s no point in talking about it anymore, is there?” Peter faced his
elder sister with calm stubbornness. “I don’t know how it got there, I only found it.”

“Maybe it isn’t a harp key at all.”

“Jen!” exclaimed Peter, exasperated. “You saw the one Howell Roberts had last night, and look”—he pulled out the object he wore—“it
can’t
be anything else. See for yourself.”

Jen glared at him across her half-made bed. “Even if you’re right, what difference does it make? Pull that blanket over, will you? You don’t have a harp, so what good is it?”

“I’m supposed to be the difficult one, not you,” Peter remarked, stuffing the covers under the mattress. The Key hung, dull and black, against his jersey. “There’s no reason why it has to be useful. I found it and I’m going to keep it because I like it. I thought you might be interested, that’s all.”

“What about that story you told me in the middle of the night?”

Peter felt himself turn pink, but bluffed. “What about it?”

“You said it made you see things. I hope you don’t still believe that.”

“You sound just like a grown-up this morning,” he complained. “For your information, I do still believe it, but I guess you aren’t ready yet.”

“What do you mean ‘ready’?” demanded Jen. “If you want to play games, Peter, that’s all well and good, but I don’t like this one, so leave me out. I suppose you know that you’ve got Becky worried? She thinks there’s something the matter with you because of the way you’ve been acting lately.”

“Becky?”

“She notices a lot more than we think.”

Peter nodded thoughtfully. He walked to the door of the bedroom and paused. “But it isn’t a game you know, Jen,” he said seriously, and was gone, leaving her to stare after him, disturbed.

***

If Saturday was dry, Gwilym, Rhian, and the three young Morgans
planned to carry their lunch into the hills behind Llechwedd Melyn. Rhian was to meet the others at the foot of her valley where the early bus would leave them. The morning was gray but not wet. David was up to see his family off. “No falling off cliffs, pushing each other into rivers, or falling into mine shafts, and I expect you home for supper,” he warned lightly. “See that the Evanses know where you’re going.”

Jen was not quite sure how the three of them would manage to keep up with Gwilym and Rhian who were used to all-day walking trips, but Peter and Becky weren’t worried. They were both in unusually good spirits and greeted Rhian loudly as they climbed off the bus in Tre’r-ddôl.

“Hullo! Hullo!” She grinned. “There’s luck for you! Da says it won’t be raining more than a shower or two the day and yesterday so wet. He says why not go along Cwm Einion and could we be keeping an eye out for Llechwedd sheep then. Practical, my da!”

Gwilym nodded in agreement. “It’s nice up the valley without the trippers.” He took his binoculars out of their leather case and hung them round his neck.

“Do let’s start!” urged Becky. “It’ll be lunchtime before we get past the farm.”

The little road up to Llechwedd Melyn was every bit as steep as Jen had remembered. She and Becky and Peter were panting when Gwilym stopped conveniently to look at a pair of wagtails and they could catch their breath. Jen began to see a useful side to birdwatching.

They passed the farm without stopping. Mrs. Evans had promised them tea on the way back. Beyond the byre, they turned north along a dirt track. Gwilym had half a dozen birds on his list by then, and the others had even seen one or two. They could hardly miss the big flashy black and white magpie that shot across in front of them.

“Best to your missus,” Rhian called after it cheerfully.

“Why?” asked Peter.

“Bad luck seeing one,” she explained. “ ‘One for sorrow, two for joy . . .’ Mam taught me ages ago, that. So you always call after when you see one.”

“Superstition,” accused Gwilym. “There’s almost always a pair around anyway. See?” A second magpie flew up after the first as if to prove him right.

“But there’s no harm,” said Rhian, “and it’s better being safe.”

Overhead the clouds stretched thin and broke in places letting scraps of blue sky through. The track to Cwm Einion sloped up gradually between solidly built drystone walls, past a couple of farms with mucky, hen-scattered yards and pens of square, shaggy black cattle. Welsh Blacks, Rhian informed the others. “Best cattle there is, my da says, but not so common now. There is a pity to see the old breeds go, he says.”

At the top of a small rise they stopped and rested their elbows on the top of the wall and munched sausage rolls Gwilym handed around. Below lay a breathless sweep of silver-green hillside, tumbling down to the great mottled Bog and, beyond, Cardigan Bay lost in haze. Spots of burning sun chased across the country, and in the sky above three buzzards wheeled in great, slow arcs. Gwilym pointed out a sparrow-hawk hunting the rough grass on the brow of the hill.

“Do you know,” said Jen after a bit, “this is the first time I’ve been out in the country since I came. There’s so much of it all around.”

“We went out along the Dovey,” Becky reminded her.

“But that’s not the same. It isn’t as”—she groped for the right word—“as wild as this.”

“Do you like it, then?” Rhian wanted to know.

“I’m not sure,” Jen answered honestly. “It’s not very
comfortable
country somehow. It’s beautiful, but it’s a bit frightening really.”

“It watches you,” said Becky.

They had lunch in Cwm Einion. Rhian picked the spot,
among water-worn boulders beside the river. Each of them contributed something different to the picnic. Gwilym had more sausage rolls and a huge lump of yellow cheese; Rhian took three fat meat pies and a bottle of fizzy lemonade out of her knapsack; and Jen unpacked oranges, chocolate biscuits, and salt and vinegar potato crisps from the Morgans.