A String in the Harp (36 page)

“But, Dad—” began Becky.

“Talk,” David repeated firmly. “Talk won’t hurt.”

Mrs. Rhys was the only one who did justice to the dessert. She declared it the best chocolate sauce she’d ever eaten and continued imperturbably to make pleasant, determined conversation, as if she hadn’t noticed the abrupt change in atmosphere. David and Dr. Rhys did their best to help, but the enthusiasm had gone from the evening. They moved back to chairs by the fire, and Jen brought in coffee.

And all the while she sat trying to drink hers, she agonized over Peter’s white, expressionless face. She wished he’d come out and say it was her fault, but he was silent. It was pointless to blame anyone now, the whole matter had gone out of their hands and there were no more choices. They would have to talk to David about it, they would have to see Dr. Owen. Peter would lose the Key.

All along, Jen had thought that was what she wanted, and now it was too late, she wasn’t sure any more. The four of them: Jen, Becky, Peter, and David had only just begun to grow together, to understand they belonged to one another; they could so easily pull back and lose each other again.

Guiltily, Jen found herself wishing the Rhyses would leave. There was a great deal to be said among the four Morgans.

And the Rhyses must have guessed as much, for neither of them would have a second cup of coffee. As soon as was polite, Mrs. Rhys got up.

“We really must be getting back to Aberystwyth, I suppose. Gwyn has a Department meeting in the morning, first thing. But it was so nice of you to have us. Dinner was lovely! Jen, love, if you stop in next time you’re in town, we’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll give you that knitting wool I mentioned. Just enough for mittens and a hat, I should think. David,
where did you put my coat? There, is it? Oh, yes, thank you! We shall have you all come to us again soon. Have you got your gloves, Gwyn? Thank you all again for a delightful evening!”

On the doorstep, Dr. Rhys paused. Jen heard him say, “I am afraid I have upset your son, David. I would not have done it intentionally, please believe. If I can be of any assistance to him, please tell him to ask without hesitation.”

“I will. And I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course. Well, good night to you.”

Jen, Becky, and Peter cleared away the last of the dishes from the lounge in silence. Jen ran water in the kitchen sink, Peter stacked bowls, and Becky rummaged for a clean dish towel.

“There isn’t anything I can say, is there,” said Jen at last.

“No,” said Peter.

“It’s my fault and I’m sorry, even if it doesn’t help.”

“I know it’s your fault,” Peter replied, “but it doesn’t matter. I want to be mad at you”—he gave her an odd look—“but I can’t be. It wouldn’t do any good. I just have to figure out what happens next.”

“Will you tell Dad?” asked Becky. “There isn’t any reason not to now, and he might be able to help.”

“How?”

“You won’t know till you try me,” said David, joining them. “Becky, find another towel, will you? Let’s clean up while we go, it might be easier.”

It was hard to know how to begin. They washed and dried the glasses before anyone spoke. Then David said, “Can you tell me why you don’t want to see Dr. Owen?”

“Because he wants something Peter has,” answered Becky.

“Why has he waited? Why hasn’t he said so?”

“He isn’t absolutely sure I have it,” said Peter. “He hasn’t seen it.”

“Do you have it?”

Peter hesitated, unwilling to take the plunge. “Yes,” he admitted at last.

Thoughtfully, David wiped a dirty plate with his towel. “And you’re sure he wants this object?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must be sure it’s important to him; that means it’s old. Who else has seen it?”

“Becky and I have,” said Jen, drawing lines in the soapy water with her finger.

“Dr. Rhys?”

“Hasn’t. But we told him about it,” Becky said.

“
I
told him,” Jen corrected her. “I wanted Peter to get rid of the thing, so I went to Dr. Rhys about it.”

“But it was Peter who found it, not you?”

Jen nodded.

“So you’ve been minding Peter’s business.”

Jen swallowed her protest; David had put it bluntly but accurately. This was not the time to try to explain her fears and doubts about the Key and what it did to Peter. There was a more important matter to discuss and Becky went straight to it. “What do we do now?”

“Well, if this thing you’ve found, Peter, is really something important, why shouldn’t you give it to Dr. Owen? I know you don’t like him particularly, but this doesn’t sound like a question of personal feelings. It’s business, and he does know his business. You’ve heard Dr. Rhys say so.”

“It doesn’t belong to Dr. Owen.”

“Neither do any of the other objects in the museum, if it comes to that. They belong to the country.”

“But this one shouldn’t be put in the museum. It
can’t
be! I found it, not Dr. Owen.”

David ran a hand through his hair making it stand on end. For an instant he looked very like Peter. “Do you want to keep it yourself? Is that it?”

“I—I’m not sure. I just know I can’t give it to Dr. Owen.”

“You’ve got to give me more than that, Peter. What about you two? What do you think?” He turned on Jen and Becky.

With reluctance Jen said, “It’s up to Peter.” Becky nodded.

“I thought you were the one who wanted to give the whole game away, Jen.”

“I did,” said Jen unhappily. “I still do in a way, but—I was wrong,” she finished lamely.

“Do we have to see Dr. Owen?” asked Becky.

“Yes,” David replied. “I’m afraid we do. If he wants to talk to us, it would be terribly rude to refuse him.”

“But—”

“And it wouldn’t be very smart,” he continued. “If we did, there’d be no question we were holding something back. Use your head. But, Peter, what I want to know is why you’re so sure what you’ve found is valuable to Dr. Owen? Suppose he looks at it and says it’s nice but not worth adding to the museum and lets you keep it? Have you thought of that? You might be worrying over nothing.”

“No,” said Peter. “I know it’s important.” Meeting his father’s eyes, he saw the question. Peter suddenly longed to try to explain everything right then: all the strange, improbable songs the Key had sung, the places it had shown him, the story it was telling. But, said a small, cold voice in his head, that’s exactly what it all is: improbable. And Peter knew, even if he might have been able to find the words, he couldn’t risk his father’s disbelief. It was too dangerous.

“You only have to see it to know,” agreed Becky. “If Peter showed it to you—”

“No!” David spoke so sharply they all looked at him in surprise. “I don’t
want
to see it. The less involved I am the better it is for all of us, right now. I don’t begin to understand this, but I’m not sure I don’t already know too much. I probably should simply confiscate this object and hold onto it until we have an official opinion on it.”

Peter turned white and Jen bit her lip.

“Don’t,” pleaded Becky.

“I still don’t understand why I shouldn’t,” said David quietly.

“Because—” said Becky.

“Please.” Peter’s voice was oddly stiff. He had just got himself under control. “Please don’t take it.”

“What do you think I should do?”

The kitchen was dead still, waiting. Then Peter said, “Trust me with it.”

“All right,” David answered. “I’ll make a bargain with you. I will leave you alone until Dr. Owen calls—you have that much time. And if I possibly can, I will leave the decision to you. I can’t promise more.”

“That’s enough,” said Peter, suddenly shaky. “I need time.”

“It isn’t always easy to trust people you love—not because you don’t love them enough, but because you don’t want them to be wrong and get hurt. But getting hurt is a part of life, and so, thank God, is trust,” said David. “I do trust you, all three of you.”

***

The wind funneled up the hill behind Peter, swirling dry leaves and dust, making him sneeze. He had to blow his nose while he waited on the top step of Pen-y-Garth for someone to answer the doorbell. He had just time to stuff the handkerchief back in his jacket pocket when the door opened.

“Well, Peter Morgan! Good afternoon to you!” boomed Mrs. Rhys cheerfully. “This is a lovely surprise! Have you just come by for a visit, or is there something special I can do for you? Or Gwyn perhaps?”

“Yes,” said Peter nervously. “I mean, I came to see Dr. Rhys, actually.”

“Well, do come in. We can’t leave you standing about on the doorstep in this wind. Beastly weather, isn’t it? I sometimes doubt we shall ever see the sun again. No matter, we
do manage to get through the winter somehow, and the Welsh spring when it does arrive is almost worth all the wind and rain! We certainly enjoyed ourselves last night—your sister is becoming a first-rate cook. Do take off your jacket, won’t you? I’ll go along and tell Gwyn you’re here. Was he expecting you?”

“Oh, no. I don’t know—that is—perhaps he’s busy?”

Mrs. Rhys laughed. “Bless you, no more than ever! It’ll do him good to take his nose out of his books for a while. Just you wait there a moment, I’ll be right back.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, wondering if he’d been right to come. He did have Dr. Rhys’s book to return, but he could have mailed it or put it through the letter slot in the front door or asked his father to deliver it for him, instead of interrupting this way. He glanced furtively at his jacket, hung over the back of a hall chair. He could just grab it and . . .

But Mrs. Rhys was back. “He’s delighted you’ve come and says go right in. There, just pop along to his study, won’t you?”

No escape now. Clutching
The Mabinogion,
Peter walked down the hall and met Dr. Rhys at the study door.

“How good of you to come,” he said formally, as if he’d been expecting Peter. “Come and sit down. What can I do for you?”

“Well, actually,” began Peter, “I just came to return your book. I’ve had it an awfully long time I’m afraid, but I’ve finished it.”

“Have you? Which book was that—? Ah, yes,
The Mabinogion.
” Dr. Rhys nodded. “Was it any use to you? It’s rather an outdated translation, I fear, but it has a certain flavor lacking in the more recent ones. And it has excellent notes. Did you find it difficult?”

“A bit. At least until I got used to the language,” Peter confessed. “But it’s interesting.”

“Do you think so? Or are you saying that to please me?” Dr. Rhys gave him a shrewd look. “Of course, it is interesting to me, but I am a bit surprised you find it so. Welsh mythology is a peculiar taste—unlikely in most people your age, I’d have said.”

“No, I like it.”

“Was there anything in particular that struck you? Anything you’d like to know more about? Perhaps I can help.”

Peter gripped the arms of his chair tightly. “It’s the story of Taliesin,” he said. “I need to know more about it.”

Dr. Rhys did not seem surprised. “It is an old story but not one of the original Branches of the Mabinogion. It must have been written down in the eleventh or twelfth century, I suppose, though Taliesin was a sixth-century bard. It’s legend, of course, though many of the people in it were, like Taliesin himself, real. It is impossible to say how much of it has a basis in fact.”

“But even a legend has to start somewhere.”

“Indeed. And the roots of this one are here. There are places not far away that still carry his name—a village to the north . . .”

“Bedd Taliesin.”

“Not really his grave, of course, but it is proof that people remember him.”

“Where is his grave, do you know?”

Dr. Rhys shook his head. “It has not been found.”

“The story has no end,” said Peter. “What happened to Taliesin?”

“I cannot tell you. He is said to have spent time in several of the great courts as chief bard: in Urien Rheged’s kingdom in the north of England; here in Cardigan with Gwyddno Garanhir, and at Caerleon, the court of King Arthur near Cardiff. He was much honored, but believed to have been turned off his own lands by Maelgwn, the powerful king of Gwynedd. Perhaps he actually does lie near Bedd Taliesin.”

Peter was silent for a moment, absorbing this information.
It all fit into place, but the end was still missing. “Was there really a flood here?”

“The flooding of Cantrev y Gwaelod, you mean? That is subject to much debate. My colleagues on the Geology Faculty at the University can give you impressive scientific reasons for not believing in the fortified cities. But there is Sarn Cynfelin. Have you seen it?”

“Yes,” said Peter eagerly, “I have. It’s a strange place.”

“It is.”

“I found the Key there. I know Jen’s told you about it. I found it among the rocks of the dyke, but I didn’t know what it was.”

“Now you are sure?”

Peter studied Dr. Rhys carefully for any trace of disbelief and found none. “Yes. I know what it is and whose it was, and if I can hang onto it long enough, I think I’ll know what I should do with it.”

“Which is where I have put my foot wrong.” Dr. Rhys sighed. “You do not want to give it up to Dr. Owen, do you?”

“No. It wouldn’t matter if it were just an object, but it isn’t. It’s part of a pattern that isn’t finished yet, and if it gets stuck away in a glass case in Cardiff, it never will be finished,” said Peter passionately. “There must be a reason why I found it.”

“Yes, I think you are right.”

“You do?”

“When your sister came to see me, she said you believed you had found Taliesin’s harp key. I could not understand how you would know that unless you had in some way been told. It is not a likely thing to believe so deeply in.”

“I’ve seen him with it. Again and again.”

“And now you must decide what to do with it.”

“I found it,” said Peter. “It’s mine.”

“But is it?”

Peter’s eyes clouded for an instant. Had the Key ever really belonged to him? Could he truly say he owned it? He
met Dr. Rhys’s gaze and said, “No, it isn’t. It still belongs to Taliesin. It was never meant to be lost.”