A String in the Harp (44 page)

On the top of the hill was a single, standing stone. The moonlight showed clearly the symbols cut into it, throwing them into high relief. They were words, and Peter knew what they said without being able to read them. At the foot of the stone stretched a low mound of smaller stones, the length and breadth of a man, a small one. The stones had been carefully placed to make a kind of barrow. It was a grave.

Peter stood looking down at it, alone in the cold light. Taliesin had come here to end his life in exile, but among friends who loved him. He had been buried in this private, sacred place.

And no one in Peter’s time would ever find this, the true Bedd Taliesin, for it had vanished. Peter was standing under feet of water.

He knelt on the damp ground at the west end of the mound, and without hesitation he reached out and tugged at one of the stones. His hands knew the right one instinctively. It was rough and solid and he scraped his fingers on it, but it moved easily and without disturbing any other. It left a narrow black hole. He held the Key in his right hand over the empty space and it blazed out bright, not with reflected light, but with its own. The air rang with a song so joyous, so beautiful that Peter cried out aloud and let go of the Key. The
light was snuffed. The song died. The stone was heavy in his left hand.

He replaced it and got up. He was light-headed and dizzy, as if he’d stood up too fast and couldn’t balance right away.

Gwilym was waiting for him at the foot of the hill. He hadn’t moved since Peter left him.

“It’s all over,” said Peter. “We can go.”

Gwilym nodded.

At the head of the valley they looked back, and it surprised neither of them to see the waters of Nant-y-moch stretched across the valley, filling the space they had just ridden the motorbike through.

P
ETER WAS LATE
to breakfast the next morning. He’d fallen into bed, exhausted, at half past one, barely managing to kick his boots off first, and had slept hard and dreamlessly for the first time in months. When he woke, it was to find himself all together and clearheaded.

“Not much time for breakfast,” David commented, stuffing papers into his briefcase. “Do, for heaven’s sake, be on time this afternoon, will you? You’re to be in Gwyn Rhys’s office at three-thirty.”

“I will. You needn’t worry.” Peter was unconcerned.

“Right,” said David. “Good.” And he went off to catch the bus to Aberystwyth.

Jen and Becky waited where they were, watching their brother. He was very much aware of them, but he took his time. All the feelings he’d been afraid of yesterday: depression, emptiness, loss—he need not have worried. The Key was gone and he’d done his part exactly right. He gave his sisters a wide, infectious grin.

There was a glimmer of surprise, then Becky grinned back, and a moment later they were all laughing with relief.

“It’s gone!” exclaimed Jen.

Peter nodded. “It’s where it belongs.”

Becky guessed, “Nant-y-moch.”

“Gwilym was right about the reservoir not always being there. It used to be a valley with a river through it.”

“What about Gwilym?” asked Jen. “Will he tell anyone?”

“No. He’s all right. He doesn’t want his mum to know what he was doing last night. But it isn’t the kind of thing you tell people about anyway, not what we saw.”

“You’ll tell us,” Becky put in. “We know the rest of it. Will anyone ever find the Key again, do you think?”

“I don’t see how, even if they drain Nant-y-moch for it.”

Jen said, “Then you think he’s buried there—under the water?”

“No,” Peter corrected her quietly, “I know he is. I saw the cairn—there was a stone for him. Not at Bedd Taliesin, but not far from it after all. This is his country, Jen, that’s why he’s so strong here.”

“I’m glad,” said Becky. “Then he’ll always be strong here.”

Jen went back to what lay heaviest on her mind. “Then you don’t have to worry about seeing Dr. Owen this afternoon. If the Key’s gone, you can’t give it to him. Can you convince him you don’t have it?”

“Bound to. It’s the truth.” Peter’s grin returned. “Of course, if he ever finds out what I did with the Key last night, he’ll have me put in an institution! But he won’t, so it doesn’t matter. You know, I’m absolutely starving!”

“Sit down, and I’ll get you some toast. Becky, pass the cornflakes, will you? You must have been out half the night.” Jen sounded brisk and parental.

“Not really. Did you hear me go?”

“Nope,” said Becky. “Not a sound. Did you go on Gwilym’s bike? I guessed you had. Was it great?”

Peter nodded vigorously, his mouth full. “Gwilym took me himself.”

“Your clothes look rather slept in,” said Jen critically, handing her brother a mug of cocoa.

“I bet it was exciting to go off like that in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t have minded if I’d had someone to go with me,” Becky continued.

“You should have heard Gwilym when he saw the reservoir wasn’t there,” said Peter.

“I hate to interrupt,” Jen said, “but you aren’t the only problem we’ve got right now, Peter.”

“I’m not a problem,” Peter objected. “Not any more anyway. What else?”

“Dad. He’s made up his mind about next year, I know he has, but he won’t tell me what he’s decided.”

“I thought he’d made it pretty clear: he’s going to take us all back to Amherst.” Peter’s voice was curiously flat.

“He hasn’t told us straight out. And he hasn’t asked any of us what we think, either.”

“Well, he ought to ask, of course,” declared Peter, “but he didn’t the last time, so why do you expect him to now?”

“It’s different. We didn’t know enough to understand, when Dad brought us, but we’ve learned a lot.”

“Do you want to go back?” Becky asked Peter suddenly.

“Doesn’t matter. Dad’ll do whatever he wants to.”

“That’s not fair,” said Jen. “He’s terribly afraid of doing the wrong thing for all of us. I don’t think he’s even considered what
he
wants to do. I don’t believe he wants to go back yet himself.”

“What about you?” Becky asked.

“I don’t know what I want.” Peter sighed. “It used to be so easy—I just wanted to go home. I suppose I still do, but it isn’t the same, it doesn’t hurt.”

“I want to go home, too,” said Jen. “Eventually. Not next year.”

“There’s a lot to lose if we go,” said Becky. “We’ve started to belong, even you.”

Peter emptied his mug. “I suppose I have,” he admitted. “But what does it all prove? If Dad’s already made the decision, do you really think he’d listen to us?”

“Yes, I do,” said Jen. “We all listen a lot more than we used to.”

“But he’s got some awfully good reasons for taking us back,” Peter pointed out. “School and Aunt Beth and his job.”

“If we can convince him he wasn’t wrong to come here in the first place, we’d have a better chance.”

Peter pulled a wry face. “I suppose that’s my job—I was wrong and he was right.”

“Not wrong,” said Becky. “You’ve changed your mind. If we could just get him to talk to us before he does anything final. Jen’s right, he oughtn’t to do it by himself.”

Peter rolled his eyes and said resignedly, “Oh, well, what’s another year of rain and freezing cold houses and a language that’s got no vowels and a bunch of kids who don’t know how to play football. It’s all part of my education.”

Becky cried triumphantly, “You
will!
You’ll help!”

“I’ll try,” Peter cautioned. “It’s not very likely, you know, but we might as well all be in it together.”

“We
are
all in it together,” said Jen. “That’s the point.”

***

Peter wasn’t nervous. He crossed the same dim, hollow-sounding hall that Jen and Becky had crossed months ago when Jen had been searching for an answer Dr. Rhys was unable to give her. Peter came unafraid, ready to meet Dr. Owen.

Becky had offered to come with him as far as the building and wait on the Prom—she knew her father wouldn’t want her to go in with Peter. But Peter had told her not to, he was all right.

The clock in the great hall broke the silence into echoes as it struck the half-hour.

“Come,” said Dr. Owen’s voice in answer to Peter’s knock.

“My father said you wanted to see me.”

“Indeed yes, Peter.” Dr. Owen stood with his back to the window, blotting out the sky. “Sit down, won’t you?”

Peter sat on the straight-backed chair in front of the desk.

“Good of you to interrupt your afternoon for me,” said Dr. Owen, continuing to stand. “You must have a great many things to do after school.”

“No, sir. That is, I don’t mind coming.” Peter returned the man’s gaze composedly.

“Well, there’s no point wasting time in any event, is there? I’m sorry you weren’t with us on Saturday when I had tea with your father and sisters. I now gather you’re the one I’m most interested in seeing. You know, don’t you, why I’ve asked you here? I think you’ve found something I ought to examine, and I trust we can reach an agreement on it. I’m not quite clear why you feel such reluctance about coming forward with it, but I’m prepared to ignore that. Of course, you realize that I’m here on behalf of the
Museum,
not myself?”

He waited for Peter to speak. Peter said nothing, it was all up to Dr. Owen.

“You do
understand
why we’re here?” said Dr. Owen, with a touch of impatience.

“Yes, I do, sir.”

“Good. There’s no need to feel awkward—provided you do the right thing now. No one will be cross with you. I would hardly expect you to recognize the value of the object you’ve found, you simply fancied it and put it in your pocket without thinking. In fact, it’s probably a very good thing for us that you did instead of leaving it. But now I’m sure you’re
a clever enough boy to see that you must give it to me—you’ll actually be giving it to Wales, you know. It’ll do far more good in
Cardiff
than in your pocket.”

Instead of resenting Dr. Owen’s patronizing words and tone, Peter found himself being slightly sorry for the man. He would obviously far rather be dealing with David than a schoolboy of twelve, but David had granted his son the responsibility, and Dr. Owen had no choice.

When he saw Peter wasn’t ready to respond, Dr. Owen went on, “Can you appreciate that the Museum is vitally important, Peter? Wales is a
very small
country and frequently overlooked, but there is a great deal of history in it. Those of us working in the National Museum are trying to pull the history together, as it were, to make real sense of it and preserve it. There are so
few
of us, really, and so much still to be uncovered. It is
essential”
—he paused for emphasis, leaning toward Peter across the desk—
“essential
we each do whatever we can, for the sake of the country. We can’t afford to lose any part of it.” Peter caught a glimpse of someone else behind the smooth, cool facade, a man who really did care and for whom he felt a sudden sympathy. But he had nothing to give that man, or Dr. Owen either.

“Now.” Dr. Owen straightened, sitting on the edge of Dr. Rhys’s desk, determinedly casual. “May I see the object? Do you have it with you?”

“No,” said Peter, “I don’t.”

“But you said you knew why I wanted to see you this afternoon,” said Dr. Owen impatiently. “I’d have expected you to bring it.”

“I couldn’t, I don’t have it at all.”

“Oh, come, Peter, that’s a bit
unreasonable,
don’t you think? Gwyn Rhys, your father, your sister, all as good as told me you have it.”

Peter shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I never have possessed it.” He chose his words with care: the plain truth for
Dr. Owen, spoken with conviction. The Key had possessed him, never the other way around.

“There
is
an object. One of your sisters—? No, I can’t believe that.” Dr. Owen stared thoughtfully at Peter, as if trying to read his mind.

“None of us has it.” Peter’s mind was clear, his face open. There was absolutely nothing for Dr. Owen to discover. Silence overwhelmed the room.

Aren’t there times, Peter wanted to ask, when it would be wrong to lock a thing away from its own world, keep it prisoner in a museum case to be stared at by strangers? What about the history in the hills and rivers and cliffs; how could that be collected and labeled and dated? It couldn’t, you had to go into the country itself to find it. Couldn’t it be more wrong to break the ancient unfinished pattern than to keep a bit of history from the scrutiny of men like Dr. Owen who meant well but didn’t understand that? It was the country that had reached Peter, not the rows of brooches brought out of the Dark Ages, the shards of pottery and carved stones on display in Cardiff. It was the country he’d remember.

At last Dr. Owen turned back toward the window with a baffled frown. From his chair, Peter could see only a rectangle of bright blue, crossed now and then by shining gulls. To himself, Dr. Owen said, “There
was
something . . . Gwyn was excited about
something.
I’m
sure . . .”

“But there isn’t,” said Peter quietly. Dr. Owen must believe him because he told the truth. “Honestly, we haven’t got anything you would want to see.”

“Yes, so you keep saying, and I don’t think you’re lying.” He looked down at his hands, examining the fingernails with concentration.
“Such
a pity, too. It would have been quite a find. Too good to be true, I suppose. A
harp key.
Well, I’ve finished. I’ll be on the bus to Cardiff tomorrow—I can’t afford to take more time here, particularly if there’s no reason.
Time.”
He shook his head. “There’s so
little
of it and
so much that needs doing. There are
thousands
of years still to work on, but I don’t suppose you’ve any concept of thousands of years, have you?”

“Does it matter so much though?” Peter sat forward urgently. “Do you have to fit it all together? I think it would be enough just to touch a piece of it and find it’s real.”