A String in the Harp (19 page)

“If we eat all that lot,” said Gwilym, eyeing the collection, “we’ll be sorry in a couple of hours when we’re hungry again.”

“Or doubled with cramp more likely,” Rhian said with a grin.

In the end they saved the biscuits, sausage rolls, and three oranges for later, Peter grumbling a little over the biscuits.

To Gwilym’s chagrin, Becky was the first to spot the dipper. She poked him hard in the ribs and pointed to the neat dark bird with its white bib, bobbing up and down on a rock across the stream. Everyone sat up to see what Becky and Gwilym were peering at. As they watched, the dipper flew out over the water and dove in, disappearing altogether. Gwilym explained that it was able to walk underwater along the stream bed, finding insect larvae to eat.

“There it is up again,” called Rhian. It perched on a rock near them, shook itself briskly, then flew off downstream, low over the water, giving an odd metalic “clink” as it flew.

Gwilym nodded with satisfaction and wrote “dipper” on his list.

They packed the remains of lunch back into the knapsacks and set off again before anyone was tempted to go to sleep on the springy turf. Further up the
cwm,
the track crossed the river on a narrow bridge, then climbed to a farmyard gate.

“Where do we go now?” Peter asked, looking around.

Rhian unlatched the gate and pulled it open. “Through here.”

“But it’s somebody’s front yard,” Jen objected. “We can’t just walk through.”

“It’s a public path,” said Rhian. “There isn’t any other way unless you fancy plowing through the gorse and mud. They don’t mind so long as you close gate again after and aren’t bothering the dogs, see. Go on.”

Not at all convinced, Jen followed Gwilym and Becky. Furious barking erupted from the cow byre as they passed it, but no one came out to challenge them and the dogs seemed safely shut up.

“Only trouble is”—Rhian slipped the catch off the far gate—“some people are leaving the gates open and the animals get loose. Happens sometimes at Llechwedd in the fields up on top and we must all go fetch them back again. It doesn’t half make Da cross.”

Above the farm the track became overgrown with coarse grass and bracken; it didn’t seem well-traveled. The country was all around them here, wild and desolate. Traces of men were insignificant, the merest scratches on the surface of the hills. Given years enough they would disappear without a sign.

“I can’t imagine living up here,” said Jen at length. “It’s so lonely. There’s nothing.”

“Depends,” said Gwilym, “on what you call nothing, doesn’t it? For some, there’s no need of more. They’d rather have done with shops and cars and people.”

“Aye,” agreed Rhian. “Da says there is no better place than a valley without people. Ours was like that until the Forestry built up by there and the Electric came. You get used to it.”

Jen shook her head. “I’m not at all sure I could.”

“It would really depend,” said Peter thoughtfully, “on how you felt about the hills, wouldn’t it? I mean, whether they were friendly or not. If you made a sort of peace with them you could be quite happy and not need anyone else. But if they
didn’t like you—if they didn’t want you here—it wouldn’t work at all.”

“You make the hills sound alive!” exclaimed Jen with a shiver.

“Maybe they are,” suggested Peter, looking at her oddly.

“You sound like Rhian’s father,” said Becky. “Which do you believe?” she asked Rhian. “Your father or Aled?”

She grinned. “Whichever! I’ll not say either is wrong till I’ve made up my own mind. If Aled’s right that’s one thing, but if he isn’t, I’ll not chance making them mad, see!”

Gwilym was skeptical. “All it really is is whether you’d rather live in a town or the country. If it’s town, then country will make you uneasy and the other way round. Me, I’d rather have the country. I wouldn’t mind living up here.”

“Hadn’t we better think about getting back?” Jen interrupted, looking at her watch. “It feels as if we’ve come miles.”

“We’ll fetch up at the Forestry track this way in a bit,” said Rhian. “If we follow it round Foel Goch, we’ll come in over the top by Llechwedd and not have to go back the way we came. It’s no further that way, and Mam’ll be waiting tea when we get in.”

“Good! I’m starving again,” declared Becky.

In a few minutes they reached a forest with a track cut straight through it, like a part through hair. The trees were all pine and all the same age, planted tight against one another, so their branches were tangled together and all the lower ones had died from lack of light. It was dark and silent and oppressive beneath the trees. Nothing grew on the ground under them, nothing stirred. It was one of the Forestry Commission’s plantations that Gwilym had complained about. They were all relieved to reach the bare, windy hillside beyond.

Rhian led them along an almost invisible path once they left the Forestry track. She knew it well and didn’t hesitate; an old sheep track, she told the others. All trace of the sun was gone now and an ominous layer of cloud was blowing up
from the south. Jen was glad she’d brought an extra sweater. The air had turned raw. They went in single file, strung out behind Rhian: Becky, Peter, Jen, then Gwilym. The path was full of roots and rocks and holes and needed to be watched constantly.

As they rounded the shoulder of the hill, Foel Goch, a sudden spattering of rain hit them, but it blew past before Jen could say anything about getting to cover. In a few minutes it came again, harder.

Rhian scowled when Jen shouted up the line about shelter. She would just have ignored the rain and gone on, not minding a bit of wet. But the Morgans weren’t hill people.

“There is an old
hafod
up a bit. Some of the roof’ll be standing yet. It’ll do.”

It was the remains of a stone hut, cupped in a hollow on Foel Goch. To get to it they had to wade through bracken waist-deep, trying to avoid the gorse, which Peter discovered was covered with thorns. They reached the empty doorway damp and out of breath, just in time to see a sheet of rain close on them from the hill opposite. Jen brushed the wet hair from her eyes and looked around. Most of the far side of the roof and walls had fallen in and the dirt floor was matted with weeds. There were only two small windows cut in the thick front wall, so that the corners under the roof were deep in shadow.

Rhian explained that
hafod
meant a hut, used by shepherds up on the hills during summer when the flock was out on the hills. This one had belonged to a farm near Tre’r-ddôl that was now deserted, and, like the
hafod,
falling to ruin. The last of the farmer’s sons had been lured away to Birmingham with the promise of an easier life than tending sheep on a cold Welsh mountain, and the old man hadn’t been able to manage by himself. He’d found no buyer for his farm.

“That’s sad,” said Becky.

“Aye, but more are leaving. Da is lucky, he is. Dai and
Evan have never wanted to leave and even Aled came back. And if they didn’t want Llechwedd,
I
would be having it.” Rhian’s small face was determined.

“What did they do all summer up here, with no one but sheep to talk to?” Jen wondered.

“There’d be the dogs,” said Rhian. “They’re grand company, sheepdogs, that smart and they don’t talk back.” She began to peel an orange.

“I’d like a dog,” observed Becky. “Where are those biscuits, Jen?”

“We have the two—Bran and Bryn. Grand workers, they are. Da has won prizes at the Agricultural Show for working sheep with them.”

Jen listened hard to Rhian and Becky chattering on about dogs and sheep. She watched Gwilym leaning against the old stones just inside the doorway, wiping the lens of his binoculars with thin sheets of paper, saw him mutter to himself. She struggled desperately to keep the little cold voice out of her mind that told her she’d made a mistake by asking Rhian to bring them up here. It whispered icily that they did not belong here, but she was helpless. The rain pelted down around them and they were trapped.

Peter was sitting by himself on a fallen stone, watching Becky and Rhian divide the uneaten lunch into five more or less equal portions. His face was inscrutable in the half-light. He was concentrating on the feeling Jen was fighting so hard against, trying to understand it. The
hafod
was waiting, the air was full of tension, and the Key began to hum, very softly.

“What are you doing?” Jen hissed. She came and sat beside him, her face tight.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, you are. I can feel it.”

“It isn’t me,” insisted Peter. “I tried to tell you before and you wouldn’t listen.”

“That’s rubbish!” said Jen in a furious whisper. She was uneasy.

But Peter didn’t rise to the fight as she’d hoped he would. Instead, he said after a moment, “Did you notice the fireplace?”

Jen hadn’t, but she saw it now: a round, blackened patch in the middle of the hut where no weeds grew and, stacked beside it, a neat pile of firewood. She must have almost walked through it. The ashes looked fresh and dry.

“Where do you suppose the wood came from?” said Peter softly.

“The Forestry plantation, of course. It’s the only place,” she answered crossly. “So what?”

“This wood isn’t pine.”

Jen stared at it in disbelief. He was right, it was largely birch; she recognized the white bark.

“Hey!” called Becky at that moment, “Come and look! There’s a perfect rainbow!”

Jen went at once to the doorway, thankful for the distraction. Peter followed slowly. The view through the rough stone frame was spectacular. Rain sifted across the hills in uneven showers, lit by moments of dazzling sun, which turned the cloud banks the color of old pewter. Through the veils of rain came glimpses of the broad sweep of valley and a corner of Cors Fochno. Above it all, to the southwest, arched the rainbow, flickering with the change of light, a vivid bar of colors. They stood watching it, transfixed, awed by the wild glory of it.

Then Gwilym said, “Hullo. That looks like the chap we saw on the river the other day. The one in the coracle, only he’s got friends this time.”

Reluctantly, Jen focused her eyes on the near hillside and saw a group of tiny figures climbing toward them. They were still a long way off, but Gwilym had his binoculars on them.

“Who is that then?” Rhian wanted to know. Becky explained hastily and Rhian shrugged. “There’s lots stranger goes on,” she said.

“Where do you suppose they’re going?” Gwilym said.

“I think we’re in their hut,” said Peter quietly.

“Wasn’t I telling you no one owns this
hafod
now?” Rhian demanded.

“But it did belong to someone.”

“So?” said Gwilym. “not much good to anyone, falling in this way.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Becky, watching her brother curiously. “It’s stopped raining, so we can go.”

“Good!” exclaimed Jen. “We’re late now.” She only wanted to get away from the
hafod
as fast as possible. It threatened her. She fought against looking one last time at the fireplace.

They were wet to the waist by the time they found the path again, but once on it, Rhian set off at a trot, sure of her way. The rainbow had vanished, the light was fading rapidly, and the setting sun made an angry red stain behind the clouds to the west. Sheltering at the
hafod
had cost them half an hour.

And as the five of them hurried down Foel Goch, the little party of men below climbed toward them. Peter took his eyes off the path as often as he dared, and it was he who first saw that their path and that of the strangers were not going to meet or even to cross. Rhian saw it, too.

“They are on a path I don’t know,” she said, stopping abruptly and causing the others to bump together behind her like cars on a train. “And they are odd-looking, too. Foreign. I have not seen them before.” She frowned. “Where are they going then?”

“Wherever it is, they seem to know the way,” remarked Becky. “They can’t be that foreign.”

“No,” agreed Peter. His heart was pounding fiercely and he felt hot, as if he’d been racing flat out.

The men were still at a distance, but they could be distinguished clearly now. They were all dressed similarly in long dark cloaks; they were bareheaded, and all but two had black hair. The leader did indeed look like the boy from the coracle on the Dovey. He had the same thick gold hair and a strong, square face. And the man in the middle of the group was shorter than the others. His hair shone copper in the sunset. None of them seemed aware they were being watched; their path took them below and to the left of the children. Yet when they came even with the children, the slight figure turned his face and looked up—at Peter. If he actually saw Peter, he gave no sign but kept walking. Against Peter’s skin the Key burnt with icy heat and the song shouted in his head, blotting everything else out for an instant. Then it was gone. The group hurried past, following their path that twisted around up the Goch toward the
hafod.
And Rhian had started downhill again, practically running.

Peter stumbled at the end of the line, half-blind. Instead of the path, he saw the shoulder of Foel Goch humping dark against the sky and a man standing astride it, a big man with a great rough beard and white hair. He was watching his son climb the Goch with the day’s catch from the fishweir on the river.

Peter’s foot caught a root, and he only just saved himself from falling into Gwilym. The
hafod
was gone; in its place in the hollow was a low, round hut. The hillside was dark with trees, birch mostly. But the lookout rock on which the man stood gave a view down across Cors Fochno to the estuary, and beside the rock was built a great pile of brush and wood ready to be lit as a signal beacon when needed. Other huts were scattered among the trees, small fires glowing at their doorways.

The tall man waited, his eyes calm, his face seamed with age and unfathomable grief. As the fishing party came to a halt before him, his eyes sought out those of the redhaired
stranger, and for an instant a smile touched his mouth.

“So, you have come back.”