Sabrina Fludde (20 page)

So Abren plunged towards the town, breaking over jetties, flooding boat sheds, rising up into gardens and reaching houses that stood high above the usual flood plain. She poured into basements and out again, under back doors and through front ones, into car parks and out again until the town was right upon her.

She had reached it at last! She flooded through the loading bays of the new shopping mall, against the Seventy Steps and on into the wild west end where she slapped against the doors of the market hall. The selfsame doors where once she'd stared at her reflection, not knowing who she was. And here she was again, knocking on its doors, looking for dry land!

Abren flowed on down the street. All around her, it was getting dark – night-dark as well as storm-dark. There were no lights to brighten the gloom, and Abren saw that she was in the midst of a vast, black lake, with shops and old town mansions rising up like islands. Only the high town remained dry.

Dry and unreachable! Abren rolled towards it, but a council lorry drove her back, dumping sandbags
in her path and forcing her towards the main flow of the river. She whirled away, watching dry land disappearing. The river carried her under the Welsh Bridge and past a row of submerged night clubs, along a tree-lined path and into the Quarry Park, its sloping lawns turned into another vast lake.

For all Abren's longing to return to town, she never would have wanted it like this! She flooded over flowerbeds which had once been the town's pride and joy, and along avenues where cyclists once had ridden and families strolled. She washed across the bandstand, sent great statues toppling, reached the school shed which had once given her shelter, crashing against it and breaking it to pieces.

Then she swept on to the quiet haven of Compass House, which was quiet no more, its jetties swept away and its boat shed lying under siege. Its terraced garden lay under water and lights were on all over the house, as if Pen and Sir Henry had realised, though they lived up high above the water, that they were in danger as much as anybody else.

Abren would have stopped to help them if she only could. But the waves drove her on, and the wind beat down on her, fiercer than ever. And in it she could have sworn she heard the howl of the C
ŵ
n y Wbir.

She shuddered and hurried on, telling herself that she had imagined it. Ahead of her stood the English Bridge, its stone arches all but submerged. She swept beneath them with only inches to spare – and suddenly, there in front of her, was the last bridge of all.

The railway bridge
.

It sat in the shadow of the castle, on the wildest
stretch of river, taking the full brunt of the flood. And the first time Abren had seen it she'd thought it was a monster. But now she knew it was a friend. She knew it was all that stood between her and the mountain man. It was her last chance to save herself.

Abren dashed towards the bridge, past a scene of devastation. Gone were the football pitch and the car parks next to it, and the roads out of town. Gone, too, were the houses behind the pitch – rows upon rows of them had disappeared into the dark flood waters.

Abren could have wept for all those people with their ruined homes. But she dashed on, water within water, unable to do anything else. The railway bridge drew close, and whirlpools slapped their way beneath it. Black waves broke over the girders in sheets of white foam, and Abren rode the waves as the bridge loomed overhead. If she was going to save herself, she had to do it now, out in the middle of the flood, where the waters were at their fastest and the waves at their highest.

She reared up with them, reaching for the bridge. First time she wasn't high enough, but second time the waves broke over an iron walkway where she had once run, and sat, and played. And she broke with them. And when the waves fell back, the little bit of water that was Abren remained. The flood flowed on, and a little pool of water lay on the girder, quietly unnoticed.

She had done it!
She was safe
.

Exhaustion overwhelmed Abren. She had been crushed, but not broken, battered and pulled, thrust and hurled. She had been turned into water, and now
as water she lay – a little pool of stillness, taking her deserved rest.

And the rest was sweet. No mountain man could see her with his black eyes which saw everything. Not here, under the dark railway bridge. No C
ŵ
n y Wbir could call her, and her rest was silent.

When she awoke again,
she was herself
.

She felt her arms and legs and body, felt her eyes and mouth, her nose and chin. Felt her wet hair dripping down her face. No longer was she water within water. She was Abren again.

She laughed out loud, looking at the railway bridge, and knowing that she'd come home. Somewhere nearby was her father's palace, and somewhere, too, were memories of better days. Not nightmare memories, stalking her through streets. But memories of a life that any child would want to live. And Abren wanted it again. She wanted to play with skeins of thread at her mother's feet.
Wanted to see her mother's face
.

Abren scrambled to her feet. She had no idea how she was supposed to find her mother, after all this time. But as if there were no flood rising under her, seeking to destroy the town and flush her out, she started making her way along the girders. She jumped the jump, slipped through the darkness of the black stone arches and finally ended up in Phaze II's room, stripped bare, just as she'd left it.

What was she going to do now? She looked down the room, and the door to Old Sabrina's room stood open. A little light came seeping through it and Abren knew for sure that Old Sabrina was still there. She was in that room, holding her life together against
vandals and floods. And she mightn't be Gwendolina, as Abren had once thought, but there was only one story in Abren's life, and whoever the old woman really was –
she had a part to play
.

Old Sabrina sat as if she hadn't moved for weeks. A spider ran across her face on a cobweb track between her cardigan and bird's-nest hair. Her plate of food lay mouldy on the floor, and her feet rested in a pile of ash, blown down the chimney.

Ash covered everything, from the old woman to the piano, and from the chandelier to the mirror in which she sat reflected without moving. Was she alive or was she dead? It was hard to tell.

Abren took a closer look – and lying in the old woman's lap she saw her little comfort blanket. Her blanket, which she'd thought she'd lost! She let out a cry, and Old Sabrina finally noticed that she had company. She twisted her head and looked up at Abren for the first time. Abren felt herself turn cold inside. There was something hidden in the old woman's face. Something underneath the ash and grime.
But what was it?

‘I d– didn't mean to startle you,' she said. ‘It's just that you've got my –'

She broke off. Old Sabrina was staring at her, clutching the blanket tight, as if she'd never let go. Her mouth was moving up and down, but nothing was coming out. Her face was peering up through the shadows of her bird's-nest hair. And
Abren had seen that face before
.

‘No!
Never! It isn't possible! IT CAN'T BE …!'

Rain came bursting through the ceiling – a sharp reminder that the flood was out there, and still rising. But Abren never saw it. All she saw was Old Sabrina's face, staring at her as she'd never stared before. And it looked so tired, that sad old face. It looked so cold and bitter. It was impossible to imagine that it had ever been different from what it was now. And Old Sabrina's hands, too, clutching the blanket. It was impossible to imagine stiff old fingers like these ever holding a needle, or embroidering fairy stitches, or fastening off with a flourish, crying, ‘There, it's finished!' with a smile as she spoke.

Impossible to imagine this half-dead old woman ever smiling at all, or being beautiful enough to win a king, or loving him, or giving birth to a child, or calling that child …

Abren turned away with a small gasp. This was it – the moment that she'd waited for above all others! The one she'd pleaded with the mountain man to let her see.
And yet it couldn't be
. It wasn't fair!

Not her!
she thought. Not a terrible old woman like that! Why can't she be somebody like the Misses Ingram with their honey cakes and amber tea? Why can't I go home to a garden full of bees and yew trees?
Why can't my mother be the one I want her to be?

There was no answer to Abren's question. Nor could there ever be. But suddenly, as if the old woman had heard it and wanted to set the record straight, she struggled to her swollen feet. Abren rushed to help, but she wouldn't have it. Maybe she was too proud. Maybe Abren had hurt her with her silent indignation. But straightening herself up, she leant across and slid the blanket round Abren's shoulders, pulling it
straight and tying it under her chin. Her fingers fumbled over the knot, and her eyes were full of pain. But she smiled, all the same. Smiled as if to say, ‘You were wrong. I can do it! I can smile.
See?'

And Abren saw. How could she not? The face that smiled at her was her mother's!

At long last
.

‘I thought I'd never find you,' Abren said, as if in a dream. ‘Thought I didn't stand a chance. And now here you are, and the things I tried to find were here all along, hidden underneath the railway bridge. No wonder the river always brought me back to it!'

Old Sabrina eased herself back into her chair, as if the pain of standing were more than she could bear. Yet more rain poured through the ceiling, bringing plaster with it – and she seemed to notice at last.

‘I think that we've been found,' she whispered in a low voice, which wasn't used to speaking. ‘Finally flushed out. This always was a safe place. So dark and quiet. But now I think he knows where we are.'

Abren felt herself turn cold all over. ‘The mountain man?
You know him?
' she said.

Old Sabrina looked at her. The sadness in her eyes could have filled a lake.

‘Who told Gwendolina where to find you, all those years ago?' she whispered in a croaky little voice. ‘Who told her all about you in the first place – seeing my little struggles to be happy and playing us both like pawns in his game?
Of course I know who he is!
'

‘Tell me!' Abren cried out. ‘I want to know.
And tell me why he hates me so much?
'

Old Sabrina lowered her eyes. For a moment she couldn't speak, then, ‘It's all because of me,' she said.
‘Because of what I did to him. It's me he's out to get, not you. He'll punish you to get at me. He'll even destroy Pengwern if he thinks that it will hurt me. He's my father, you see!'

‘He's your
…?'

‘
He's your grandfather.'

Another piece of plaster came crashing from the ceiling, but Abren never saw it. Instead, she saw the mountain man's eyes, which were black like hers, and felt the way his heart had fluttered when he'd called her ‘little Abren'.

‘It can't be!'
she cried out. But in the cold places deep inside herself, it all rang true.

‘He always swore he'd get me,' Old Sabrina said. ‘I was his elf-child. That's what he called me. His baby daughter, born on the mountain when it was young. When its rivers were like sisters, and we played together like best friends. And the mountain was my inheritance, and I turned my back on it. I gave it up –
for love.'

There was something dreadful about the way the old woman said the word
love
.

More of the ceiling crashed down, and water came seeping through from Phaze II's room. The flood had reached the railway bridge, rising through its chasms. But neither of them noticed.

‘The king of Pengwern said I was his love,' Old Sabrina said, remembering back. ‘He wooed me with false promises. He was your father, and he promised me you'd be his heir. I never knew about his son, who you'd displaced. Never knew about his queen, cast out on my account, cursing me and plotting her revenge. All the sorrow I've endured, all the pain and suffering,
all the life we never lived together, you and I – it's him I blame. And I blame him, too, for what he brought out of your grandfather. Things I never knew were there. He wasn't always what you see now –
and neither was I!
This is what he's made me! Not Effrildis any more, giving up my mountain in the name of love. But Old Sabrina, full of hate!'

Hate again
. Abren shivered, remembering the Misses Ingram's warning about something brewing on the mountain. It had been hate then, hadn't it, and now it was just the same. Dark, old, cruel hate, as if they'd all been cursed by Gwendolina never to forgive, and never love. So
this
was where the story ended – in this flood where the only king was hate.

Abren looked into her mother's face. ‘What happened to my father?' she said, seeing secrets in it, prisoners to the hate. ‘The king of Pengwern? What became of him? You know, don't you? He's here somewhere, isn't he – still alive, like you and me? Don't tell me he's not, because I won't believe you. You've got him somewhere, haven't you?
You've done something to him
.'

Old Sabrina didn't answer, but her face said it all. Suddenly, it was her father's face, right down to his remorseless black eyes. And Abren knew why the river had brought her back to Pengwern. It wasn't just to find herself and the answers to her questions. It wasn't even to find her mother.
It was to end the hate
.

She hauled Old Sabrina out of her chair, regardless of swollen feet, and dragged her across the floor to the mirror.

‘Take a look!' she cried. ‘See what I see when I look at you! See what hate has done! You could have
fought it, but you fed it instead! Could have fought Gwendolina's curse, but you chose to live with it! So don't blame love for what you are. Don't blame anyone.
You did it to yourself!
'