A String in the Harp (32 page)

Gwynddno nodded. “But you must take care, my friend. It is Maelgwn’s Kingdom you go home to, and I shouldn’t wonder if he is still put out at not guessing your riddle.” Gwyddno chuckled.

“I have thought of that, but I shall see.”

The sudden crack of a gunshot made Peter jump. He was standing alone, up to his thighs in wet bracken, on the empty hillside. There was a second shot. He shook himself and ran as fast as he could toward the trees. A figure emerged from them and waved to him. It was his father.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we’d lost you,” he said, as Peter came up to him breathless. “They’ve found it. Dai Evans shot it.”

Peter’s face was pale and strained. “What? What animal?”

David gave him a strange look. “Come and see.” Peter knew he had to.

The men were standing in a tight circle in a fire cut. They were oddly quiet, their faces grim. Gwilym alone looked excited, his spectacles glinted as he saw Peter.

“It
is
a wolf! It really is! A she-wolf, Peter!”

The beast lay on her side, her legs crumpled under her, blood staining the gray fur at her throat, her tongue caught between her jaws, foam-flecked, her eyes filming over with death. She was a great, rangy animal, bigger even than John Hughes Machynlleth’s dogs, and unmistakably a wolf. Even someone who’d never seen a real one would have known.

But who were the men in the circle? Cardiganshire farmers? What time did they belong in? They changed—they faded in and out, but the beast on the ground was a wolf in
either time. Peter felt suddenly dizzy and turned away. David’s arm went around his shoulders, though David said nothing. But Peter knew it was his father who touched him and he took a deep, thankful breath. No one in that other time had ever touched him.

“They’ll have to believe us when they see the hide,” said Gwilym. “No one can say we imagined it.”

“Aye.” John Hughes Machynlleth touched the body gingerly with his boot. “Whelpin’ too, that be, by the look. She’s carryin’ milk, see?”

“Dogs are quiet,” said Aled. “Caught no scent of pups, they haven’t.”

“Queer, that,” Mr. Evans said. “But no time for looking now, I’m thinking. It’ll be dark the hour and there’s a long way home. We’d best find the others.”

Dai Evans and another man found a small fallen spruce and lopped the branches off it, then bound the wolf’s legs together around it, so she hung belly up when they shouldered the pole.

“Pups should mean a male around, too,” said David to Mr. Evans.

“Should do,” he agreed, frowning. “Hasn’t been wolves seen yere since before me own da’s time. No one else has reported trouble that I’ve to hear, but it may be we have to come back. Queer business, beginning to end, this.”

The hunters were subdued. They seemed to take no joy in the killing—it was a necessity not a pleasure, as Gwyddno had said, but they glanced uneasily at the wolf and walked clear of it. Peter was very tired.

T
HE NARROW
, black-topped road took them west to Talybont. The lights were on in the village when they got there, shining yellow out of a gathering mist. Never had lights looked more welcoming, thought Peter, willing himself toward them.

From Talybont, someone suggested calling Billy-Davies-Taxi in Borth and telling him to round up enough cars and vans to get everyone home again. David and Peter still had the journey back to Llechwedd Melyn ahead of them, to collect Jen and Becky, before they could think about supper and bed, but Mr. Evans said not to worry. There’d be dinner at the farm, then he or Aled or Dai could run all the Morgans back to Borth, and no trouble.

It was just half-past five when the party of hunters reached the door of the Red Goat public house on the green in Talybont, and Mr. Roberts, the publican, was unlocking for the evening. He found himself faced immediately with fifteen wet, hungry, and weary men who were beginning to revive a bit at the thought of a pint of beer in a warm pub. Mr. Roberts greeted them all with undisguised delight and ushered them into the bar—men, dogs, Peter, and Gwilym. He sensed a good
story and the chance to liven up an otherwise dull, damp evening, and his round face shone with pleasure. Most of the men were well acquainted with Mr. Roberts, and he greeted them by name as they stumped into the low-ceilinged, whitewashed public bar. It was plain and clean: benches set against the walls, a couple of polished wood tables and chairs, and a high dark wood bar, which opened on one side into the public bar and on the other into the more formal lounge bar. Whoever was working could tend them both from the middle, using the same collection of bottles and spigots. Hanging from the beam above the bar was a collection of pewter tankards of different shapes and designs, dull with age, battered and scratched with use. The men in the group who were regulars at the Red Goat took their own down from the hooks for Mr. Roberts to fill.

Tired as he was, Peter absorbed the scene with interest. He’d never been in a pub before. He was under age, but no one paid the slightest attention to that sort of legality tonight. Mr. Roberts bobbed back and forth behind the bar, pulling pints of beer and listening most appreciatively to the story of the hunt. He was a short, chunky man with a shock of stiff gray hair and eyes that disappeared between wrinkles when he grinned, which he did constantly. He had an endless supply of questions to ask, and Peter could hear him say, “I never!” over and over, whenever someone paused for a swallow.

David bought himself and Gwilym each a pint of bitter and Peter a gingerbeer, and they shared packets of potato crisps. It felt good to sit with the men on one of the long benches, leaning back against the rough plaster wall, while warmth crept slowly back. As more people came in for the evening, the story had to be told and retold and visits made to the shed behind the pub where the body of the wolf had been put—to keep it safe from inquisitive dogs. The second group of hunters was disappointed at having missed the climax of the day, but everyone agreed the wolf was indeed genuine. Peter
heard the word “supernatural” muttered more than once, though no one said it loudly. The usual jubilance after a successful hunt was somehow missing.

It was well past six when Billy-Davies-Taxi arrived with three other drivers, one the Borth greengrocer’s boy who’d brought the delivery van. Of course, they all had to have a pint while the story was told one more time. Then the carcass was carried out of the shed and exclaimed over before everyone piled into the vehicles and set off at last for home. Mr. Roberts looked very sorry to see them go.

Billy-Davies-Taxi took the Evanses and Peter and David to Tre’r-ddôl, and from there they wearily climbed the last hill to Llechwedd Melyn, but Gwilym would not be separated from the wolf. He rode to Borth in the back of the van with it to see it safely locked in one of the abandoned railway huts near the station. The Nature Conservancy Officer from Aberystwyth was coming to examine it in the morning, and Gwilym was determined to be on hand. The men had agreed the officer should be notified, but no one was very eager to do it, so finally Gwilym, his voice gruff with excitement, had rung him. He was longing to know what the authorities would say about the discovery of a real wolf in Wales after so many years of supposed extinction. On the phone, the authorities had sounded very skeptical.

***

By seven Rhian was pacing up and down, frantic with impatience, unable to settle anywhere. Her mother and Gram ignored her; the stew on the back of the stove filled the kitchen with a thick golden-brown smell; the fire dropped to coals on the hearth. Thomas, the kitchen cat, lay next to it, cat-fashion, paws folded under, tail wrapped around, like a large yellow tea cozy. His ears flicked occasionally at noises, but his eyes stayed fast shut. Becky had gone to sleep in Mr. Evans’s arm chair, her chin propped on her hand. Jen and Mrs. Evans sat side by side on the wooden settle, knitting squares
for a blanket, while Gram crocheted endlessly on her afghan. But Rhian paced, going outside to check for signs of the men every other minute.

Then, at last, “They’re back! Coming up the
cwm
from Tre’r-ddôl, Mam! I’m off then, to meet them!” and she was gone, slamming the heavy door behind her, before any of the others had absorbed what she’d said. Then Thomas got up and stretched elaborately to cover the fact that he had jumped when the door banged.

“Well,” said Mrs. Evans, laying aside her work, “table to be set. Becky?”

Becky rubbed the end of her nap out of her eyes and stretched like Thomas.

“Jen, you just give the fire a poke, there’s good. They’ll be wanting it, I shouldn’t wonder.”

In a very short time it seemed, all eleven of them sat down at the scrubbed kitchen table, talking, listening, asking dozens of questions, with huge plates of stew, stewed tomatoes, fresh thick slices of bread and butter, and mugs of strong tea. Rhian had to be reminded more than once that dinner was getting cold and that the men were hungry. The story they told between mouthfuls was simple and straightforward—the plain facts. An odd feeling of restraint hung in the air. Not even Aled tried to explain away the reality of the wolf and its unexpectedness. Rhian made no attempt to hide her envy of Peter, who’d gotten to go along, and he only a year older than she.

When finally the dishes were scraped clean and the last crumbs of rice pudding gone, David stood up. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Evans, I think I should take my lot back down to Borth. It’s been a long day for everyone.”

Mr. Evans nodded. “Aye. Odd, but I am not sure at all whether it has been a good one or not so good.” Aled glanced quickly at his father then away. “The hills is full of stranger things than many’d be believin’.”

“Yes,” said David seriously. Jen and Peter met each other’s eyes for a long moment, but it wasn’t until she was beside her brother in the Land-Rover, jolting down the track, that Jen spoke to him directly.

“Was it bad? The killing part?”

“No.” His voice was tired. “I didn’t see them shoot it. But I didn’t like it, anyway. I don’t think anyone did much.”

“Would it have been there if you hadn’t gone?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” he said guardedly.

“You know.”

But Peter shook his head and didn’t answer.

***

Next day at tea, Gwilym reported on his morning with the Nature Conservancy Officer. Mr. Lord had been clearly disconcerted to find the local men really had hunted and killed a wolf in the hills above Talybont. Gwilym watched as the man measured and photographed and took notes. Finally, Mr. Lord had gone away to call his headquarters in Bangor to explain the unusual situation and ask what he should do next.

“Did they believe him?” Becky wanted to know. “You said he didn’t believe you yesterday.”

Gwilym shrugged and helped himself to another slice of swiss roll. “I don’t really know what they said in Bangor. But he took it off then—right on the 12:20 train with him. Put it in a baggage car and got in as well. Wish I could have gone, too, to see.”

“Will they hunt for more wolves?” asked Jen.

“The Conservancy might.” Gwilym was feeling extraordinarily talkative, but then it was his story now. “Not anyone here, though. They don’t seem to think they’d find more. Seemed glad to see the body go.”

“Of course, logically, there must be more,” said David. “After all, that was a female still feeding pups. Her litter and her mate must be somewhere around.”

“Does it have to be logical?” asked Peter.

“What do you think, Gwilym?”

“Well, I do agree with you, sir,” said Gwilym slowly. “There should be more, but I doubt anyone will ever see them. I don’t know why.”

David nodded.

It had been a lazy sort of day for them all, a chance to catch up from the day before, but when tea was finished David got to his feet. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I need some fresh air. Leave the dishes, Jen, and let’s go for a walk.”

Gwilym included himself, and Peter came willingly; all five of them pulled on coats and tramped down to the wind-buffeted shore. The tide was out, and overhead lay the usual cloud cover, but above the sea was a narrow, shining strip of clear sky and into it slid the westering sun, glowing like one of the coals from a fire, hesitating before it sank below the horizon. The cloud bank turned the color of wet slate and the waves caught the light like broken glass. Oystercatchers, dark-bodied, wings flashing white, flew out over the sea, crying shrilly, and black-headed gulls stood one-legged along the water’s edge, keeping a wary eye on the people walking toward them, waiting until the last moment to fly. The long beach was deserted except for the Morgans, Gwilym, and the birds. It was a time to be conscious only of that exact moment, to fill the mind with sunset, sea, beach, and wild things—and each other’s company. They had no need of talking.

***

In many small ways, spring vacation was entirely different from the Christmas holidays. Of course, the weather had changed: summer lay ahead instead of a dull dripping winter; the sun, when it shone, was warmer, the days drew out, birds began to sing, and the Cardiganshire air was full of the thin, insistent bleating of new lambs. With the coming of spring, Jen discovered more and more excuses for being outdoors. In fact, they all did.

And they were spending far less time alone. Becky and Rhian were usually together, and Jen and Gwilym often
joined them. The Evanses even got used to seeing Peter at Llechwedd Melyn with everyone else. They explored the beach and estuary and the hills around the farm. Gwilym showed them long-tailed tits in the Llyfnant Valley and took them out on the Bog to look for sundews— “There are
three
varieties out here, you know! People come to study them,” he explained.

In a sheep field above the Dovey, Jen and Becky stood with Gwilym and heard the first spring cuckoo and shared his excitement at the strange-familiar call.

When the Morgans had first come to Borth, David bought a copy of the Aberystwyth Ordnance Survey Map, which showed the country around on a one-inch to one-mile scale. He’d tacked it up on the kitchen door and left it for his children to look at, but they hadn’t paid it much attention. Now, after months, they began using it. Gwilym had been shocked to discover that none of them knew how to read it properly, and he spent an afternoon painstakingly showing Jen, Becky, and Peter.