The Snow Spider Trilogy Page 5

  When he got home the table was bare.

  ‘Did your grandmother give you a meal?’ his mother inquired, guessing where he had been.

  ‘No,’ said Gwyn. ‘I forgot to ask.’

  Mrs Griffiths smiled. ‘What a one you are!’ She gave him a plate of stew kept warm on the stove.

  Gwyn could not finish the meal and went upstairs early, muttering about homework.

  He did not sleep quietly. It was a strange, wild night. The restless apple tree beneath his window disturbed him. He dreamt of Nain, tall for ten years, in a red dress, her black curls tied with a scarlet ribbon. She was listening to her great-great- grandmother, an old woman, a witch with long grey hair and wrinkled hands clasped in her dark lap, where a piece of seaweed lay, all soft and shining, as though it was still moving in water, not stranded on the knees of an old, old woman.

  Gwyn gasped. He sat up, stiff and terrified. He felt for the bedside light and turned it on.

  Arianwen was sitting on the silver pipe. Gwyn lifted the pipe until it was close to his face. He stared at the spider and the pipe, willing them to work for him. But they did not respond. He laid them carefully on the bedside table, and got out of bed.

  His black watch told him that it was four o’clock; not yet dawn. He dressed and opened his top drawer. It was time for the seaweed. Yet he took out Bethan’s yellow scarf and, without knowing why, wrapped it slowly round his neck, pressing it to his face as he did so, and inhaling, once again, the musty sweet smell of roses. He closed his eyes and, for a moment, almost thought that he was close to an answer. But he had forgotten the question. It was something his grandmother had said: something about using the scarf. Try as he might to order his mind, he felt the answer and the question slipping away from him, until he was left with only the tangible effects: the scarf and the dry dusty stick of seaweed.

  Gwyn tucked the seaweed into the pocket of his anorak and went downstairs, letting himself out of the back door into the yard.

  There was a pale light in the sky but the birds were still at rest. The only sounds came from sheep moving on the hard mountain earth, and frosty hedgerows shivering in the cold air.

  He did not ascend the mountain this time, but wandered northwards, through the lower slopes, seeking the breeze that came from the sea. Here the land was steep and barren. There were few sheep, no trees and no farms. Gigantic rocks thrust their way through the earth and torrents of ice-cold water tumbled over the stones. Gwyn longed for the comfort of a wall to cling to. The wide, dark space of empty land and sky threatened to sweep him away and swallow him. One step missed, he thought, and he would slip into nowhere.

  And then he smelt the sea. Moonlight became dawn and colours appeared on the mountain. He was approaching the gentler western slopes. He started to climb upwards, gradually, field by field, keeping close to the stone walls, so that the breeze that had now veered into a wailing north-east wind, should not confuse his steps.

  Gwyn had passed the fields and was standing in the centre of a steep stretch of bracken when it happened; when the thing in his pocket began to move and slide through his fingers, causing him to withdraw his hand and regard the soft purple fronds of what had, a few moments before, been a dried-up piece of seaweed. The transformation was unbelievable. Gwyn held the plant out before him and the slippery petal-like shapes flapped in the wind like a hovering bird. And then it was gone; the wind blew it out of his hand and out to sea. And all the birds above and below him awoke and called out, the grey sky was pierced with light and in that moment Gwyn knew what he had to do.

  He took off the yellow scarf and flung it out to the sky, calling his sister’s name again and again, over the wind, over the brightening land and the upturned faces of startled sheep.

  Then, from the west, where it was still dark, where the water was still black under the heavy clouds, there came a light, tiny at first, but growing as it fell towards the sea. It was a cool light, soft and silver and, as it came closer, Gwyn could make out the shape of a billowing sail, and the bows of a great ship. But the ship was not upon the sea, it was in the air above it, rising all the time, until it was opposite to him and approaching the mountain.

  A wave of ice-cold air suddenly hit Gwyn’s body, throwing him back into the bracken, and as he lay there, shocked and staring upwards, the huge hull of the silver ship passed right over him, and he could see fragments of ice, like sparks, falling away from it. He could see patterns of flowers and strange creatures engraved in the silver, and then the ice was in his eyes and he had to close them, and curl himself into a ball, shaking with the pain of bitter cold that enveloped him.

  A dull thud shook the ground: something scraped across the rocks and filled the air with a sigh.

  Gwyn lay, hidden in the bracken, for a long time; cold, curled-up tight, with eyes closed, too frightened and amazed to move and when he finally stood up, the cold, cold air was gone. He looked behind him, around and above him, but the mountain was empty. There was snow on the bracken and in one flat field beyond the bracken, but no sign of a ship of any kind. Yet he had seen one, heard one, felt the bitter cold of its passage through the air.

  Gwyn began to run. Now that it was light, he had no difficulty in finding his way across the northern slopes. Soon he was back in familiar fields, but when he came to within sight of T Bryn he paused a moment then kept on running, down the track, past his gate, past his grandmother’s cottage, until he reached the Lloyds’ farmhouse. He flung open the gate, rushed up the path and, ignoring the bell, beat upon the door with his fists, shouting, ‘Alun! Alun! Come quick! I want to tell you something! Now! Now! Now!’

  Within the house someone shouted angrily, it must have been Mr Lloyd. Then footsteps could be heard, pattering on the stairs and approaching down the passage.

  The front door was opened and Mrs Lloyd stood there, in a pink dressing-gown, with rollers in her hair, her face all red and shiny.

  ‘Whatever is it, Gwyn Griffiths?’ she said. ‘Accident or fire?’

  ‘No fire, Mrs Lloyd. I want Alun. I have to tell him something. It’s urgent!’

  ‘No fire, no accident,’ snapped Mrs Lloyd. ‘Then what are you doing here? We’ve not had breakfast. Why can’t it wait till school?’

  ‘Because it’s just happened!’ Gwyn stamped his foot impatiently. ‘I’ve got to see Alun.’

  Mrs Lloyd was angry. She was about to send Gwyn away, but something about the boy, standing tense and dark against the dawn clouds, made her hesitate. ‘Alun! You’d better come down,’ she called. ‘It’s Gwyn Griffiths. I don’t know what it’s about, but you’d better come.’

  ‘Shut that door,’ Mr Lloyd shouted from above. ‘I can feel the cold up here.’

  ‘Come inside and wait!’ Mrs Lloyd pulled Gwyn into the house and shut the door. ‘I don’t know – you’ve got a nerve these days, you boys.’

  She shuffled away into the kitchen, leaving Gwyn alone in the shadows by the door. It was cold in the Lloyds’ house. The narrow passage was crammed with bicycles and boots, and coats half-hanging on hooks; it was carpeted with odd gloves, with felt-tip pens, comics and broken toys, and there were two pairs of muddy jeans hanging on the bannisters.

  Alun appeared at the top of the stairs, in pyjamas that were too small. He was trying to reduce the draughty gap round his stomach with one hand, while rubbing his eyes with the other. ‘What is it?’ he asked sleepily.

  ‘Come down here,’ Gwyn whispered. ‘Come closer.’

  Alun trudged reluctantly down the stairs and approached Gwyn. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.

  Gwyn took a breath. He tried to choose the right words, so that Alun would believe what he said. ‘I’ve been on the mountain. I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a look at the sea . . .’

  ‘In the dark?’ Alun was impressed. ‘You’re brave. I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘There was a moon. It was quite bright really,’ Gwyn paused. ‘Anyway, while I was there I . . . I . . .’

  ‘Go on!’ Alu
n yawned and clutched his stomach, thinking of warm porridge.

  ‘Well – you’ve got to believe me.’ Gwyn hesitated dramatically, ‘I saw a spaceship!’ He waited for a response, but none came.

  ‘What?’ Alun said at last.

  ‘I saw a ship – fall out of space – it came right over the sea – it was silver and had a sort of sail – and it was cold, ever so cold, I couldn’t breathe with the cold of it. I had to lie all curled up, it hurt so much. And when I got up – it had gone!’

  Alun remained silent; he stared at his bare toes and scratched his head.

  ‘Do you believe me? Tell me?’ Gwyn demanded.

  There was no reply.

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Gwyn cried. ‘Why? Why? Why?’

  ‘Sssssh! They’ll hear!’ Alun said.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘They think you’re a loony already.’

  ‘Do you? D’you think I’m a loony?’ Gwyn asked fiercely. ‘I did see a ship. Why don’t you believe me?’

  ‘I dunno. It sounds impossible – a sail an’ all. Sounds silly. Spaceships aren’t like that.’

  Gwyn felt defeated. Somehow he had used the wrong words. He would never make Alun believe, not like this, standing in a cold passage before breakfast. ‘Well, don’t believe me then,’ he said, ‘but don’t tell either, will you? Don’t tell anyone else.’

  ‘OK! OK!’ said Alun. ‘You’d better go. Your mam’ll be worried!’

  ‘I’ll go!’ Gwyn opened the door and stepped down into the porch, but before Alun could shut him out, he said again, ‘You won’t tell what I said, will you? It’s important!’

  Alun was so relieved at having rid himself of Gwyn’s disturbing presence, he did not notice the urgency in his friend’s voice. ‘OK!’ he said. ‘I’ve got to shut the door now, I’m freezing!’

  He was to remember Gwyn’s words – too late!

  Alun did tell. He did not mean to hurt or ridicule Gwyn, and he only told one person. But that was enough.

  The one person Alun told was Gary Pritchard. Gary Pritchard told his gang: Merfyn Jones, Dewi Davis and Brian Roberts. Dewi Davis was the biggest tease in the school and within two days everyone in Pendewi Primary had heard about Gwyn Griffiths and his spaceship.

  Little whispering groups were formed in the playground. There were murmurings in the canteen and children watched while Gwyn ate in silence, staring steadily at his plate of chips so that he should not meet their eyes. Girls giggled in the cloakroom and even five-year-olds nudged each other when he passed.

  And Gwyn made it easy for them all. He never denied that he had seen a silver ship, nor did he try to explain or defend his story. He withdrew. He went to school, did his work, sat alone in the playground and spoke to no one. He came home, fed the hens and ate his tea. He tried to respond to his mother’s probing chatter without giving too much away for he felt he had to protect her. He did not want her to know that his friends thought him mad. Mrs Griffiths sensed that something was wrong and was hurt and offended that her son could not confide in her; he had never shut her out before.

  And then, one evening, Alun called. He had tried, in vain, to talk to Gwyn during their walks home from the bus, but since the gossiping began Gwyn had taken pains to avoid his old friend. He had run all the way home, passing the Lloyds on the lane, so that he should not hear them if they laughed.

  Mrs Griffiths was pleased to see Alun. Perhaps he knew something. She drew him into the kitchen saying, ‘Look who’s here! We haven’t seen you for a bit, Alun. Take your coat off!’

  ‘No!’ Gwyn leapt up and pushed Alun back into the passage, slamming the kitchen door behind him. ‘What d’you want?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Just a chat,’ said Alun nervously.

  ‘What’s there to chat about?’

  ‘About the things you said: about the spaceship, an’ that,’ Alun replied, fingering the buttons on his anorak.

  ‘You don’t believe, and you told,’ Gwyn said coldly.

  ‘I know, I know and I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk about it.’ Alun sounded desperate.

  ‘You want to spread more funny stories, I s’pose?’

  ‘No . . . no,’ Alun said. ‘I just wanted to . . .’

  ‘You can shove off,’ said Gwyn: he opened the front door and pushed Alun out on to the porch. He caught a glimpse of Alun’s white face under the porch lantern, and shut the door. ‘I’m busy,’ he called through the door, ‘so don’t bother me again.’

  And he was busy, he and Arianwen. Every night she spun a web in the corner of Gwyn’s attic bedroom, between the end of the sloping ceiling and the cupboard, and there would always be something there, in the web. A tiny, faraway landscape, white and shining, strange trees with icy leaves, a lake – or was it a sea? – with ice-floes bobbing on the water and a silver ship with sails like cobwebs, gliding over the surface.

  And when he ran his fingers over the silver pipe he could hear waves breaking on the shore; he could hear icicles singing when the wind blew through the trees, and children’s voices calling over the snow. And he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he was hearing sounds from another world.

  Once Arianwen spun a larger cobweb again, covering an entire wall. The white tower appeared and the same houses. Children came out to play in the square beneath the tower. Pale children with wonderfully serene faces, not shouting as earth-bound children would have done, but calling in soft, musical voices. It began to snow and suddenly they all stood still and turned to look in the same direction. They looked right into the web. They looked at Gwyn and they smiled, and then they waved. It was as though someone had said, ‘Look, children! He’s watching you! Wave to him!’ And their bright eyes were so inviting Gwyn felt a longing to be with them, to be touched and soothed by them.

  But who had told the children to turn? Gwyn realised he had never seen an adult in the webs, never heard an adult voice. Who was looking after the faraway children? Perhaps they had just seen the thing that was sending the pictures down to Arianwen’s web. A satellite perhaps, or a ship, another star, or another spider, whirling round in space, and they had turned to wave to it.

  * * *

  A few weeks before the end of term three new children appeared at Pendewi Primary. They were children from the city, two boys from poor families who had no room for them, and a girl, an orphan it was said. They had all been put into the care of Mr and Mrs Herbert, a warm-hearted couple with four girls, a large farmhouse and an eagerness to foster children less fortunate than their own.

  John, Eirlys and Dafydd were officially entering the school the following term, but had been allowed three weeks of settling in before the Christmas holidays. Miss Pugh, the headmistress, was a little put out. She had expected only two children, eight-year-old boys, to put in a class where there was still space for at least five more. There were thirty children in Gwyn’s class, where Eirlys would have to go. Mr James, their teacher, a rather fastidious man, was already complaining that he could feel the children breathing on him. He gave Eirlys a tiny table right at the back of the class, where no one seemed to notice her.

  In the excitement of Christmas preparations some of the children forgot about Gwyn and his stories. But for Gary Pritchard and his gang, baiting Gwyn Griffiths was still more entertaining than anything else they could think of, especially when they saw a flicker of anger beginning to appear in their victim’s dark eyes.

  And then, one Monday, Dewi Davis went too far. It was a bright, cold day. Snow had fallen in the night, clean white snow that was kicked and muddied by children running into school. But the snow fell again during the first lesson and, as luck would have it, stopped just before the first break, and the children were presented with a beautiful white playground in which to slide and snowball.

  Dewi Davis never could resist a snowball, just as he could never resist shoving girls with white socks into puddles, or putting worms down the backs of the squeamish. He took a lot of trouble with Gwyn’s sno
wball; patting and shaping it until it was rock-hard and as big as his own head, then he followed Gwyn round the playground, while the latter, deep in thought, made patterns in the snow with his feet.

  Soon Dewi had an audience. Children drew back and watched expectantly while Gwyn trudged, unaware, through the snow. Dewi stopped about three metres behind Gwyn, and called, in his slow lisping voice, ‘’Ullo, Mr Magic. Seen any spaceships lately?’

  Gwyn began to turn, but before he could see Dewi, the huge snowball hit him on the side of the face and a pain seared through his ear into his head.

  Girls gasped and some giggled. Boys shouted and laughed, and someone said, ‘Go on, get him!’

  Gwyn turned a full half-circle and stared at Dewi Davis, stared at his fat silly face, and the grin on his thick pink lips, and he wanted to hurt him. He brought up his clenched right fist and thrust it out towards Dewi, opening his fingers wide as he did so, and a low hiss came from within him, hardly belonging to him, and not his voice at all, but more like a wild animal.

  There was nothing in Gwyn’s hand, no stone, no snow, but something came out of his hand and hit Dewi in the middle of his face. He saw Dewi’s nose grow and darken to purple, and saw anguish and amazement on Dewi’s fat face. Only he and Dewi knew that there had been nothing in his hand.

  Then, suddenly, the rest of the gang were upon Gwyn. Someone hit him in the face, someone punched his stomach, his hair was tugged, his arms jerked backwards until he screamed, and then his legs were pulled from under him and he crashed on to the ground.

  Everyone stopped shouting: they stared at Gwyn, motionless in the mud and snow. And then the bell went and, almost simultaneously, Dewi Davis began to scream for attention. The children drifted away while Mr James ran to Dewi and helped him from the playground, he never noticed Gwyn lying in a corner.

  The whole of Gwyn’s body ached, but his head hurt most of all. He could not get up and did not want to. There was blood on the snow beside him and his lip felt swollen and sticky. The playground was empty, and he wondered if he would have to lie there all day. Perhaps the snow would fall again and no one would see him until it was time to go home. He managed to pull himself up until he was kneeling on all fours, but it was an effort and he could not get any further because something in his back hurt whenever he moved.