Silver on the Tree (10 page)

“Well,” said Simon, “how about any very old places—I mean old old, like Stonehenge? Ruins, or something?”

“I have thought of that too and still there is nothing,” Bran said. “Like, there is a stone in St. Cadfan's Church in Tywyn that has on it the oldest piece of Welsh ever written down—but all that tells is where St. Cadfan is buried. Or there is Castell y Bere, a ruined castle, very romantic, right near Cader. But that wasn't built till the thirteenth century, when Prince Llewellyn wanted to make himself a headquarters to rule all of Wales that the English hadn't grabbed.”

“No chip?” Barney said mischievously.

The dark glasses glared at him; then Bran grinned. “History I am telling you, boy, not comment. Old Llewellyn had the chip … and a fine one too, like Owain Glyndwr later….” The grin faded. “But none of that takes us anywhere either.”

“Isn't there anything to do with King Arthur?” Barney said.

And he and Jane and even Simon could feel the sudden weight of silence around them like a blanket. Neither Will nor Bran moved; they simply stood looking at Barney. And the emptiness of the mountain, up there on top of the world, was all at once so oppressive that every smallest sound seemed to take on immense significance. The rustle of heather as Barney shifted his feet; the deep distant call of a sheep; the persistent tuneless chirruping of some small unseen bird. Jane and Simon and Barney stood very still; surprised, uncertain.

Will said at last, lightly, “Why?”

“Barney has a fixation about King Arthur, that's all,” Simon said.

For an instant Will paused still; then he smiled, and the strange oppressiveness fell away as if it had never been there. “Well,” he said, “there's the biggest mountain of all, next to Snowdon—Cader Idris. Over there. It means in English ‘the seat of Arthur.'”

“Any good?” said Barney hopefully.

“No,” Will said, glancing at Bran. He offered no explanation for the total finality in his voice. Jane found herself resenting the feeling of exclusion that was growing in her.

Bran said slowly, “Or there's one other. I hadn't thought about it. Carn March Arthur.”

“What's that mean?”

“It means, the hoof of Arthur's horse. It is not much to look at—just a mark on a stone, up behind Aberdyfi, on the mountain above Cwm Maethlon. Arthur is supposed to have pulled an
afanc,
a monster, out of a lake up there, and this is the footprint his horse made when he was leaping away.” Bran wrinkled his nose. “Of course it is all rubbish, so I never gave it a thought. But—the name is there.”

They looked at Will. He spread his hands. “We have to start somewhere. Why not?”

Barney said hopefully, “Today?”

Will shook his head. “Tomorrow. It's a long way home from here, for us.”

“Carn March Arthur will be a longish walk,” Bran said. “The quickest way from this side is up past the vicarage on a path over the mountain. Not so nice in summer, because of visitors' cars. Still. If you can get to the Square in the morning, perhaps we can too. Depends if we get a lift again, eh, Will?”

Will looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes before we meet him. Let's go and ask.”

Jane never could remember, afterwards, the precise manner of the asking, though over and over again she tried. As they slithered and leapt over the grass and heather of the mountain ridge, there was little time for talking, and she felt
obscurely that however much breath Will had he would not have explained much more about John Rowlands.

“He's shepherd on my uncle's farm. Among other things. He's … special. And this week he goes to a big annual market in Machynlleth, up the Dyfi valley. You must have come through it, on the way down.”

“Slate roofs and grey rock,” Jane said. “Grey, everything grey.”

“That's the one. For the three days of the market now John is driving there every day, through Tywyn and Aberdyfi. That's how we got here today. He dropped us off this morning and he's picking us up now. So perhaps we can persuade him to do the same tomorrow.”

Will slowed on a gentler, grassy slope as they came to a stile, and stood diffidently aside to let Jane climb over first.

“D'you think he will?” she said. “What's he like?”

“You'll see,” said Will.

But all that Jane saw, when they trotted breathless down the last side road and out on to the main road by the village station, was a waiting Land-Rover with a frowning face in the window. It was a brown, lean face, much lined; dark-eyed, given now a mask of severity by the joined brows and straight unsmiling mouth.

Bran said something penitent-sounding, in Welsh.

“It is not good enough,” John Rowlands said. “Ten minutes we have been sitting here. I told you five o'clock, and Will has a watch.”

“I'm sorry,” Will said. “It was my fault. We met some old friends of mine on the mountain. Visiting from London. This is Jane Drew, and Simon, and Barnabas.”

“How d'you do?” John Rowlands said gruffly. The dark eyes flickered over them.

Jane said, before her brothers could speak, “How d'you do, Mr. Rowlands, I'm sorry they're late. We slowed them down, you see, not being so good at running down mountains.” She gave him a small hopeful smile.

John Rowlands looked at her more carefully. “Hmm,” he said.

Bran cleared his throat. “It is not the best time to ask, but we wondered if you would bring us in with you again tomorrow. If Mr. Evans would let us go.”

“I am not at all sure about that,” John Rowlands said.

“Oh come along now, John.” Unexpectedly a soft, musical voice came from inside the car. “Of course David Evans will let them go. They have worked hard these last few days—and there is nothing much doing on the farm, except waiting for what comes from market.”

“Hmm,” John Rowlands said again. “Where will you be going?”

“Up over Cwm Maethlon,” Bran said. “To show these three Panorama Walk, and all that.”

“Go on, John,” said the soft voice coaxingly.

“Pick up afterwards on time, is it?” The lines on the strong dark face were relaxing gradually, as if it had been an effort for them to make a frown in the first place.

“Honest,” Will said. “Truly.”

“I shall go without you if you're not here. Then you would have to make your own way back.”

“All right.”

“Very well then. I will drop you here at nine, and pick you up at four. If your uncle agrees.”

Will stood on tiptoe to see past him into the car. “Thank you, Mrs. Rowlands!”

Amusement creased John Rowlands' eyes, and his wife leaned past him, laughing at them. Jane liked her instantly; it was a face like the voice, gentle and warm and beautiful all at once, with a glow of kindliness.

“Enjoying your stay?” Mrs. Rowlands said.

“Very much, thank you.”

“Happy Valley and the Bearded Lake tomorrow, then, is it?”

Jane looked at Will. There was barely a fraction of a second's hesitation, and then he said heartily, “Yes, that's right. Real tourist stuff. But I've never seen them either.”

“Lovely up there,” Mrs. Rowlands said warmly. “John had better drop you in the Square, you can all meet by the
chapel.” She smiled at Jane. “It's a long walk, you know. Take your lunch. And good strong shoes, and jackets in case of rain.”

“Oh, it won't rain,” Simon said confidently, looking up at the hazy blue sky.

“You're in Snowdonia now, boy,” Bran said. “Mean annual rainfall a hundred and fifty inches, high up. Only place that didn't die of the drought, back in nineteen seventy-six. Bring a raincoat. See you tomorrow.”

He and Will climbed into the back of the car, and the Land-Rover roared away.

“A hundred and fifty inches?” Simon said. “That's impossible.”

Barney hopped happily round in a circle, kicking a stone. “Things are happening!” he said. Then he paused. “I wonder if Will should have said where we were going?”

“That's all right,” Jane said. “He said John Rowlands was special.”

“Sounds a touristy kind of place anyway,” Simon said. “I don't suppose it'll be any help at all.”

There was no rain at first, though clouds swirled over the blue sky like billowing smoke. Silent for want of breath, they toiled up the long winding lane that led from the village of Aberdyfi into the hills. The road rose very steeply, climbing out of the broad valley of the Dyfi estuary, so that whenever they paused to look back they could see, spread beneath them, a widening sweep of the coast and hills and the broad sea, with the silver ribbon of the Dyfi River snaking through gleaming acres of brown-gold sand left by the falling tide. Then another bend in the lane cut away all this southern view, and they were left climbing towards the mountains of the north, not yet visible.

High grassy banks enclosed them in the lane, banks as high as their heads, starred with yellow ragwort and hawk-weed, white flat heads of yarrow, and a few late foxgloves. Higher yet above the banks, hedges of hazel and bramble and hawthorn reached to the sky, heavy with half-ripe berries and nuts, and fragrant with invading honeysuckle.

“Keep in,” Will called from the rear. “Car!”

They pressed themselves against the grass wall of the lane, dodging the prickly embrace of bramble shoots, while a bright red mini whipped past in a tenor snarl of low gear.

“Visitors!”
Bran said.

“That's the sixth.”

“We're visitors too,” Jane said.

“Ah, but such a superior brand,” said Barney solemnly.

“At least you are walking on your legs,” Bran said. He resettled the peaked Swedish-type cap he wore over his white hair, and gave it a resigned tug. “All these cars, they are like flies on a sunny day, this time of year. And because of them, up in the wild places you find not just the sheep and the wind and the emptiness now, but little wooden chalets for people from Birmingham.”

“No way out of it, is there?” Simon said. “I mean there don't seem to be many ways left of making a living, round here, except tourism.”

“Farming, too,” said Will.

“Not for many.”

“True enough,” Bran said. “The ones who go away to college after leaving school, they never come back. Nothing for them here.”

Jane said curiously, “Will you go away?”

“Duw,”
Bran said. “Have a heart. That's years away, anything could happen. Power stations in the estuary. Holiday camps on Snowdon.”

“Watch out!” Simon said suddenly. “Another one!”

This time the car was pale blue, chugging and coughing past them like a small tank. Two small children could be seen fighting in the back seat. It disappeared round the next bend.

“Cars, cars,” said Will. “D'you know there's even something on the Machynlleth road called a chaltel? A
chaltel!
Presumably a cross between a motel and—” He broke off, staring at the road ahead.

“Look at that! Golly!” Barney grabbed Jane's arm, pointing. “Whatever are they?”

Paused halfway across the lane a few yards ahead of them were two strange sinuous animals, as big as cats but slender-bodied. Their fur was reddish-ginger, like the coat of a red fox; they had cat-like tails, held just above the ground. Their heads were turned, bright-eyed. They stared at the children. Then first one and then the other, deliberately, without haste, turned back and made off in a slinking, undulating
motion across the road, apparently disappearing into the bank.

“Stoats!” Simon said.

Barney looked doubtful. “Weren't they too big?”

“Much too big,” said Bran. “And these had white only on the muzzle. A stoat has a white belly and chest.”

“What were they, then?”

“Yr ffwlbartau.
Polecats. But I've never seen one bright red before.” Bran went forward and peered cautiously at the bank, raising a warning hand as Simon joined him. “Careful. They are not nice creatures…. There's a rabbit hole. They must have taken it over.”

“Funny the cars don't seem to bother them,” Barney said. “Or people, for that matter.”

“They are not nice,” Bran said again, looking thoughtfully at the hole. “Vicious. Not afraid. They even kill for fun.”

“Like the mink,” Will said. His voice was husky. Impatiently, he cleared his throat. Jane noticed with surprise that he seemed to have turned very pale; sweat glistened on his forehead, and one of his hands was tight-clenched.

“Mink?” Bran said. “Don't have those in Wales.”

“They look like those. Only black. Or brown, I think. They … enjoy killing, too.” Will's voice still seemed strained. Jane watched him out of the corner of her eye, trying not to appear curious.

“There's a farm just round the corner, that might be why they're about the place in daytime.” Bran seemed to have lost interest in the polecats; he strode off up the lane. “Come on—it's a long way yet.”

Jane paused to pull up a sock and let the boys pass her; then followed, alone and thoughtful. Above the farm the lane widened a little; the grass banks dropped to a mere foot or so, topped sometimes by wire fencing. The way led more gently upward now, through rock-studded grassland where Welsh Black cattle grazed here and there, or stood contemplatively in the middle of the road. Jane warily skirted a
large bullock, and tried to collect the elusive feelings that were running like quicksilver in and out of her mind. What was happening? Why was Will anxious, and why did Bran on the contrary seem to feel nothing, and anyway who was this Bran? She felt a vague formless resentment of the way his presence somehow complicated their relationship with Will:
it's not just us any more, she thought, the way it was last time.
… And over everything she was beginning to feel a great unease about whatever lay ahead, as if some sense at the back of her mind were trying to tell her something she did not consciously know.