A String in the Harp (30 page)

“What chicken?” said Peter, taking another piece of bread.

***

Toward the end of February the days began to swell with spring; the wind was full of impatience and sent clouds racing across the sky, making sun shadows on the sea and hills. New plants pushed up along the roadsides, and Jen ferreted out a plant guide in the library. When she went walking, she paused to examine the uncurling ferns and strange little leaves she found. Daily Gwilym reported fresh migratory birds on the estuary or singing in the bog grass.

But to Jen and Becky at least, most wonderful of all were the lambs.

The second Saturday in March the sun rose out of the morning mist, catching rainbows in the new grass and leaves, dazzling Jen and Becky on their way up the lane to Llechwedd Melyn. They paused for breath, leaning against the lichen-covered stone wall that bounded the field descending into the
cwm.
Jen was content to stand in the sun, her face turned up toward it, but Becky stood watching the ewes. Mr. Evans had brought them down from the hills to be near the farm where he could keep an eye on them during lambing.

Becky suddenly caught Jen’s sleeve. “Look!”

Jen turned to see a fat, woolly ewe nibbling grass close to the wall.

“Wait till she moves,” said Becky, staring fascinated. In a moment the ewe took a few steps ahead and Jen saw it too—a tiny, wobbly white lamb, left standing splay-legged. Both ewe and lamb were marked with the daub of red dye Mr.
Evans used to identify his sheep: a splash on the left shoulder.

“New this morning,” said Rhian, who had come down to meet them. She was dressed as usual in gumboots, jeans, and a heavy brown pullover. “There’ll be a flood of them now. Once one starts, they all go!”

“You mean it was just born
today?”
Becky was incredulous.

Rhian nodded. “Four more further down the
cwm,
too.”

Becky shook back her tousled hair and gazed around at the sun and the green valley, full of the sounds of running water and the overhead cry of gulls, the smell of damp earth and grass. “What a day to be born!”

“There’s lucky, that one is,” Rhian agreed. “They do get born in storms or at night, down the
cwm
or up on the hills where we aren’t always finding them quick enough.”

“But not this one,” said Becky, and laughed aloud, delighted. “Think of it seeing all of this for the first time!” She stretched out her arms. “Imagine, can’t you?”

Rhian looked around her thoughtfully, then her face lit with a wide smile. “I am seeing this every day of my life. Don’t suppose I pay more attention to it than that old ewe there! But you are right!”

Then they were all three of them laughing for no reason except that it felt good, and they ran up the rest of the lane to the farmhouse, arriving out of breath and noisy at the kitchen door.

“What’s this then?” said Aled, who was pulling on his boots in the doorway. “If you’ve so much energy, why not turn it to mucking out the byre?”

“It’s the lambs,” said Becky.

Aled grinned and shook his head. “Mad you all are!”

Rhian stuck out her tongue. “And Da, too, if you don’t get on up to the
ffridd!”

“Ah, now that’s a different kind of mad entirely. And far more dangerous, that.”

“What’s a
ffridd?”
asked Jen, when he’d gone.

“Field we keep most of the ewes in above the farm. Do you want to see?”

“Go on with you,” said Mrs. Evans from the sink. “You’re not wanted indoors on a day like this. Too good for that, says Gram.”

The old lady smiled and nodded.

So they spent the day on the hills. Up first to the
ffridd
where the men were working, going through the flock with the dogs, checking the ewes for signs of trouble, marking new lambs. For a while Jen, Becky, and Rhian hung on the gate watching, then they went on up the cart track. The highness and vastness of the windy hills brought Jen to a new sense of freedom. The world stretched endlessly away in every direction, and the energy of life filled her to bursting. Becky and Rhian shared her exhilaration; they walked miles, not returning to the farm until late afternoon, weary but content.

***

It was lovely to wake up Monday morning and remember it was spring vacation, no need to get up and rush for school, not for another two weeks. Breakfast was late and long. Even David paid no attention to the clock for a change, but sat comfortably drinking coffee and eating toast.

“What will you do with yourselves? Any plans?” he asked.

“Lots,” said Becky at once.

Jen said, “Gwilym’s talked about going to Ponterwyd to the reservoir hunting for red kites. And we’ve only begun to explore the hills behind Rhian’s farm.”

A loud knock at the back door interrupted them. Without waiting for anyone to answer, Gwilym burst in, looking excited, his hair on end. “D’you know what?” he said, “they’re organizing a hunt down at the post office!”

“A hunt? What sort of hunt?” David asked. “Isn’t it the wrong time of year?”

“It’s Jones-the-Top, the farmer above Llechwedd. He says some beast has been after his sheep. Killed two lambs last night, it did.”

“Lambs!” Becky sounded shocked. “But Rhian said the only animal that kills sheep around here would be a dog that’s gone wild.”

“Yes,” said Gwilym. “That’s right enough, but Jones-the-Top swears it isn’t an outlaw dog. Says he’s not seen the likes of it round here before—big and gray, it is. No one has a dog like that.”

“A stray then,” said David.

Gwilym hesitated a moment. “Not a dog at all, says Jones-the-Top.”

“What then?”

“More like a wolf, he says.”

“Impossible, isn’t it?” exclaimed David. “There aren’t any wolves left in Wales these days. They’ve been extinct for years.”

Gwilym nodded vigorously. “Yes, I know that, sir, but it’s being said. The beast came down last night while Jones-the-Top was watching. He claims his Bett wouldn’t go near it and when he’d got his shotgun loaded it was gone.”

“But there did used to be wolves,” said Peter.

“Makes a good story,” David said, “but there isn’t any way there could be wolves in the area now without people knowing. Just can’t be.”

“Well,” said Gwilym, “I’m going to join up with them. I want to see this beast myself.”

“They’ll only kill it, won’t they?” asked Jen.

“If they catch it.”

“I’m going too,” said Peter, getting up.

“Hurry then and I’ll wait,” Gwilym offered.

“We could go down to the post office,” Becky suggested. “We wouldn’t have to go on the hunt, Jen. Just to see what’s happening.”

David set down his coffee mug. “I think I’ll go with you, Gwilym.”

So in the end they all went trudging down to join the sizable crowd outside Williams-the-Shop’s. It was mostly men in earth-colored overcoats, cloth caps, and gumboots. Some of them carried shotguns tucked in the crooks of their arms, most of them had dogs beside them, who were sitting patiently trying to ignore one another. Sometimes it was just too much, though, and a couple of them would have to be dragged apart, complaining. Children of various sizes wove in and out of the group.

The Morgans and Gwilym stood on the edge waiting for someone to take charge. A sheep-killer was nothing to be taken lightly here where hard-pressed farmers could ill afford to lose ewes and lambs. No dog that could not be taught to leave the beasts alone could be tolerated. These men lived precariously close to the edge of subsistence, sheep were their livelihood, and there was a serious feeling to the crowd—faces were grim. What happened to Jones-the-Top last night could happen to anyone else today or tomorrow unless the killer were stopped.

The Evanses were there; Jen saw them clustered to one side: Mr. Evans, Aled, Evan, and Dai. Rhian dodged across to the Morgans.

“You’ve heard, then.”

“What’s happening?” asked Jen.

“They’re waiting on John Hughes Machynlleth to come with his dogs. Big ones, his. Jones-the-Top says they’ll be needed. The hunt’ll go over Foel Goch, me Da says. Like as not it’s gone into the Forestry along the Einion—can get water from the river.”

“Has anyone else seen him?” Gwilym wanted to know.

“Not good. Mind you, there’s a man at Blaeneinion thinks he’s seen him two nights gone, but that’s the first there’s any report.” Rhian was pleased to know so much.

While they stood there, a light rain began to fall, though no one took any notice. In fact, Jen got quite wet before she realized it. After fifteen minutes or so a battered green van pulled up and a man got out with two enormous cross-bred black-and-white dogs.

“That’ll be him, John Hughes Machynlleth. I’m off to see what Da says.”

But Mr. Evans was coming over to his daughter. He nodded gravely to David Morgan.

“Day, Mr. Morgan.”

“Hullo, Mr. Evans. I understand you’ve got a sheep-killer in the hills.”

“Seems like. Bad business this.”

“Will you go out with the hunters, Mr. Evans?” asked Gwilym.

“Aye. My sheep too, up there, see. Me and my lads are going.”

“And me,” put in Rhian quickly.

“That’ll be what I’ve come to ask, Mr. Morgan. Would you mind keeping your eye on Rhian while we’re gone?”

“Oh, Da!” Rhian protested. “I can keep up with you!”

“Your mam would not be happy at all should I take you, and well you know it.”

“But I’m already yere.”

“Aye and you’ll stop yere and that’s an end.”

“You can come home with us,” Jen offered. “Becky and I’ll wait at Bryn Celyn till they get back.”

“I’m going,” said Peter for the second time that morning.

“Don’t see why I can’t,” Rhian grumbled.

“Rhian—” Mr. Evans gave her a stern look.

“Well, it’s not fair, see.”

“Never said it was, but you’ll be staying yere, girl.”

Rhian scowled but held her tongue.

David was studying his son whose attention appeared to
be absorbed by the two Machynlleth dogs lying side by side near the van. The men were beginning to organize into groups. Dai, Evan, and Aled came up behind Mr. Evans.

“We’re to start from by the farm, Da,” said Dai. “Work back from our
ffridd.”

Mr. Evans nodded. “Best go then.”

“Mr. Evans?” David spoke. “Would we be in the way if we came with you? Peter and I?”

“And me, sir,” Gwilym added hastily.

“Nay. It’ll be more eyes.”

“Well, then!” exclaimed Rhian. “Couldn’t we go with you to the farm just, Da? Only that far? We’ll stay there.”

“Mr. Morgan?”

“As far as I’m concerned, they’d be as well off at the farm as here in Borth. If your wife won’t mind.”

“She’ll not mind. Into the Land-Rover sharp then!”

Rhian needed no urging. She scrambled into the back, pulling Jen and Becky with her. Somehow everyone crammed in: Mr. Evans, his three sons, Gwilym, Peter, and David. As they drove off toward Llechwedd Melyn, only a few onlookers and a handful of children were left in front of the post office.

“Why do you want to go so much?” Jen whispered to Peter, who was sitting sideways hard against her on the back seat.

“To see if it really is a wolf.”

“But you know it can’t be—you heard Dad and Gwilym.”

“They haven’t seen it yet.” Peter’s expression was intense. “I think it is.”

“Peter? Are you going to pre—is it that business again?” Jen wanted suddenly to get out of the car—get out and go back to Bryn Celyn and not know about any of this. But she was thoroughly wedged in with Becky on her lap and Rhian beside her and without making an awkward scene, there was nothing she could do but sit tight.

Peter read her thoughts. “Whatever the animal is, Jen, it’s real. I didn’t make it up, and you can’t possibly say I did. If it’s not a wolf, you’re safe, but if it is . . .” He left the sentence hanging.

Mrs. Evans made them all troop into the farmhouse kitchen when they arrived and gave them steaming mugs of thick brown tea and chunks of bread. The rain was steady now, not hard but settled. Rhian knew better than to ask again about going, though it was obvious she wanted to as she watched the men pull their collars up and caps down. Mr. Evans whistled up the two sheep dogs, Bran and Bryn, who were lying alert by the stove. “Won’t go for the beast, but they’ll tell us if they smell un,” he said.

“Damn!” said Rhian under her breath as the door closed. A dull afternoon stretched ahead, full of the usual chores: feeding the animals, cleaning the byre, gathering eggs, checking the ewes in the pen by the house. And all the while who knew what kind of drama was out on the hills!

“I think Jen’s right,” Becky said at last. “I don’t think I’d like seeing an animal hunted even if it did kill sheep.”

“There, nor should I,” agreed Mrs. Evans. “Mind you, we’ll be hearing enough about it all to have been there ourselves, I shouldn’t wonder. There’s been no sheep-killer yere since the bitch from Talybont, and that were eight years back.”

“Still—”

“You go along and gather the eggs then. They’ll be hatching if it isn’t done soon. Go on, all of you.”

The hens laid in one side of the long narrow shed where the extra hay was kept, opposite the back door of the house. Their roost was partitioned off from the rest of the shed, but they often got loose, and finding the eggs meant searching the hay with care. Jen took special pleasure in collecting the new-laid eggs; she supposed it was like baking her own bread. She was seeing things at their source instead of boxed and wrapped in plastic; she knew they were fresh. Mrs. Evans could always
be counted on to send a few eggs or some fresh butter home with the Morgans when they visited, so David began giving Jen money enough to pay for a regular order. He must have realized the money would be useful.

Today, with the rain dripping off the low, slate eaves and no other sounds but the shuffle of feet in the hay and the quiet mutter of hens talking to themselves, Jen began to regain her sense of balance. There was no point in upsetting herself yet, she couldn’t keep the hunt from happening. She was as sure as Peter that the sheep-killer was a wolf; as soon as Gwilym and David had said it wasn’t possible, she’d felt it. And Peter had said if it wasn’t a wolf she was safe, but if it was . . . She had to wait and see.