The Owl Service (6 page)

Alison read the other pieces.

“Yes: that's it.”

“What's it about? What happened?” said Gwyn.

“Wait a minute,” said Alison. “There was this wizard, or something, I forget his name, and he made a woman out of flowers, and she married this Clue Claw Somebody.”

“Lleu Llaw Gyffes,” said Gwyn.

“Yes: well then she fell in love with a man called Gronw: Gronw Pebyr. And he decided to kill Clue.”

“Lleu.”

“Clue.”

“Never mind,” said Gwyn. “Go on.”

“This is a complicated bit: all magic,” said Alison. “But Gronw threw a spear from a hill when Clue was standing by a river and killed him. But Clue wasn't really dead. He turned into an eagle, and the wizard found him and turned him back again. The wizard was his father, or uncle: I'm not sure. Then Clue and Gronw changed places, Clue threw the spear this time, and Gronw was killed. That's the end of the story.”

“There's a stone by the river here called the Stone of Gronw,” said Gwyn. “There's a hole in it.”

“Which means we're right where all this Ku Klux Klan is supposed to have happened, as Professor Halfbacon claims,” said Roger. “Very interesting.”

“Them plates,” said Gwyn. “What happened to the wife?”

“Oh yes,” said Alison. “The wizard said he wouldn't kill her; he'd do worse than that. So he turned her into an owl.”

“I know what she said then,” said Roger.

“What?”

“‘I haven't a Clue – hoo – hoo'!”

“Man,” said Gwyn, “you're as daft as a clockwork orange.”

“I
t's the best I could manage,” said Clive. “The chemist said he only stocked the normal tourist stuff, and he didn't have any of the developing gear. He said this film was very popular.”

“Yes,” said Roger. “It's the same as the one in my camera now. Never mind. It'll do. Thanks, Dad.”

“Sorry if it's a washout,” said Clive.

“No, it should be OK. These fast films don't enlarge as well as the one I wanted. They're a bit grainy, that's all.”

“Are they, now?” said Clive.

“I'll go down to the river while there's light.”

“I might see you,” said Clive. “Should be able to put in an hour. Margaret's having a rest. By the way, is old Ali around?”

“Probably,” said Roger. “I've not seen her since before tea. Shall I give her a call?”

“Not to worry,” said Clive. “It'll do later. I bought her a token of my esteem while we were out.”

Clive took a small box from his pocket, and opened it. Inside were limpet shells of different sizes glued together, painted, and varnished, to make an owl.

“Got it from a place called Keltikrafts,” he said. “Thought it might amuse her – she was cutting out some of these fellows last night, you know, and as soon as I saw it I thought, that's just the thing for old Ali. Look, there's some of the lingo on the back: ‘Greetings from the Land of Song', it says. The young woman in the shop translated it for me. Will she like it?”

“She's mad for owls, anyway,” said Roger.

He collected his tripod, camera and exposure meter, and went along the front drive. The drive curved past the stable yard and a gate in the wall led to the back of the stables, a dank place under the trees, where Huw Halfbacon chopped firewood. Garden rubbish was burnt here, next to an iron shed that was held up by the debris it was meant to protect. It was Huw's timber store: anything left from maintenance jobs was added to it, and over the years it had become a mess of fungus and corrugated rust, but this was not stopping Gwyn from trying to work himself towards the back of the pile.

Roger leant on the gate. “Having fun?” he said.

“She's put them somewhere,” said Gwyn. “She's hidden them.”

“But is that a likely place?” said Roger.

“I've tried the likely places,” said Gwyn. “All of them: roof to cellar – greenhouses, stables, the lot. So that leaves the unlikely places, doesn't it?”

Roger climbed over to join Gwyn. “There's a whole dinner service, and that takes up space. You can see this dump's not been touched. Have you tried above the stables?”

There were three rooms over the stables, and because the stables were set into the hill the backs of these upper rooms had entrances at ground level. One of the rooms was used for table-tennis, and Roger had never been in the other two.

“I've looked in the big room,” said Gwyn. “Huw lives next door and he has the only key, and the other's padlocked: none of the house keys fit – I've tried.”

“They ought to,” said Roger. “Let's see.”

It was a heavy brass Yale lock, and no key fitted.

“You'll not shift that,” said Gwyn.

Roger put his ear to the door. He beckoned to Gwyn. They both listened.

“There's someone moving about inside,” Roger whispered. “Ali?” he called. “Ali?”

“Is that you, Alison?” said Gwyn.

There was no answer.

“What did you hear?” said Roger.

“Swishing,” said Gwyn. “No footsteps.”

“How would she get in?”

“There may be a connecting door from Huw's place. But that's locked.”

“Ali,” Roger called. “Ali. Don't muck about.”

“Perhaps there's a way up from the stable,” said Gwyn.

They went to look but found nothing, although they still heard the soft movement over their heads.

“I'm going to try the window,” said Roger. “Give us a hand with this ladder.”

They reared the ladder against the wall in the yard, and Roger climbed up while Gwyn stood on the bottom rung.

“I can't see much,” said Roger. “The glass is all cobwebs inside. There's the door opposite – and something square, not very big, a crate, I think: and something black in a corner, but I can't see. It's an old junk room, that's all – nobody inside.”

“It could be dead leaves in a draught,” said Gwyn. “There's plenty by the door.”

“Where've you tried?” said Roger when they put the ladder back in the stable.

“I said – all over the house, inside and out: even the kennels, and they're full of chicken wire.”

“I'm going to use up my film by that stone,” said Roger. “Coming?”

“What about Alison?”

“She's bound to be back for dinner in half an hour,” said Roger. “And if she's not around the house we may find her by the river.”

“But you don't realise,” said Gwyn.

“I do,” said Roger. “I was being dim on purpose. She couldn't have stood much more this afternoon, didn't you see? She was dead pale.”

“What do you think it is?” said Gwyn.

“I don't know,” said Roger. “I do know I wasn't imagining the row in her bedroom last night. The other business, when I thought I heard that shout – it could have been too much heat, I suppose. But last night was enough for me. If you'd seen it you'd have run.”

“And this afternoon?” said Gwyn. “On the lawn?”

“Freak squall?” said Roger.

“Oh, man—”

“All right.”

“And the plates going blank?”

“The glaze—”

“And smashing? And the billiard-room? And the pellet in the trap? And the owls? And flowers? And
The Mabinogion?
”

“The whation?” said Roger.

“That book,” said Gwyn. “It's called
The Mabinogion
:‘the clear-running spring of Celtic genius', Dicky Nignog says. I used to think it was a load of old rope.”

“Didn't mean much to me,” said Roger. “What is it? Welsh myths?”

“Sort of,” said Gwyn. “I wish I'd taken more notice.”

“This is the stone,” said Roger, “and the hole goes right through it.”

“And the meadowsweet grew all around-around-around,” said Gwyn, “and the meadowsweet grew all around. You say the hole frames the trees on the Bryn? By, it does, too!”

“How is it you knew what the stone was if you've not seen it before?” said Roger.

“I know every cow-clap in this valley,” said Gwyn. “I know where to look for sheep after a snowstorm. I know who built the bridge to Foothill Farm. I know why Mrs May won't go in the post office. I know how to find the slates that point the road over the mountain if you're caught in a mist. I know where the foxes go when they're hunted. I even know what Mrs Harvey knows! – And I came here for the first time last week! Makes you laugh, doesn't it? My Mam hates the place, but she can't get rid of it, see? It feels like every night of my life's been spent listening to Mam in that back street in Aber, her going on and on about the valley. She started in the kitchen here when she was twelve. There was a full staff in them days, not just Huw trying to keep the weeds down.”

“Where's everybody gone to?” said Roger. “Most of the houses in the valley look empty.”

“Who's going to rent to us when stuffed shirts from Birmingham pay eight quid a week so they can swank about their cottage in Wales?”

“Would you want to live here?”

“I ought to be in Parliament,” said Gwyn.

He sat on the stone. “You're right,” he said. “It's a long way for a spear. But you heard it, didn't you? And then he screamed.”

“I don't count that. I'm only going on what I heard last night,” said Roger.

“And the lawn this afternoon.”

“You think it's haunted, then?”

“Ghosts don't eat mice,” said Gwyn. “Whatever chewed that mouse could chew me or you.”

“I give up,” said Roger. “But if there's any more of it I'm off, I'll tell you.”

“How will you manage?” said Gwyn.

“Dad's steerable when you know how.”

“And the new Mrs Bradley?” said Gwyn. “A kind of family honeymoon, is it?”

“Mind your own business,” said Roger. He spiked the tripod into the earth and set up the camera.

“What happened to your real Mam?” said Gwyn.

“I told you to mind your own business.”

“She around then?”

Roger looked over the camera at Gwyn. “I'll fill you in,” he said. “If you open your big mouth once more I'll fill you in.”

“OK,” said Gwyn.

“Right.”

Gwyn concentrated on scratching his initials in the stone, and Roger bent to read the exposure meter, adjusted the lens.

“Not haunted,” said Gwyn after a while. “More like – still happening?”

“A tenth at f. 16,” said Roger. “I'll go up and down either side of that: can't afford to change the stop, though. What did you say?”

“Gwydion. One of the Three Golden Shoemakers of the Isle of Britain. That's him.”

“What are you blathering at?” said Roger.

“He was the wizard who made the wife out of flowers for Lleu Llaw Gyffes. It's coming back to me. We had it read at school a couple of years ago. Gwydion made Blodeuwedd for Lleu, and she fell in love with Gronw Pebyr—”

“That's what Alison said.”

“And Gronw killed Lleu here on this very spot: then Lleu killed Gronw, and Blodeuwedd was turned into an owl—”

“The problem is to line the camera up with this hole, so that you can see the trees,” said Roger, “but you have to be at least seven feet away, or you can't have the stone and the trees both in focus together. I want to use the rock texture as a frame for the trees in the distance. It should make an interesting composition.”

“Think of it, man!” said Gwyn. “A woman made of flowers and then changed into an owl. The plates, man! It's all there if we could see it!” He jumped down and ran towards the house.

“Where are you off to?” shouted Roger.

“Huw the Flitch! ‘Mind how you are looking at her.' He knows! The flamer!”

Roger went back to his camera. The light was fading quickly, and he decided to take the last frames of film on long exposures. He used the delayed setting for these. When he pressed the button the camera whirred for several seconds and then the shutter clicked. Whirr and click. Whirr and click. And the shadows seemed to come out of the river.

“Taking photos, are you?”

Roger yelped with fright. Huw Halfbacon was standing behind him. He was carrying some branches on his shoulder, and Roger had not heard him come along the river bank.

“What do you think you're doing, creeping up on me like that? I could have bust my camera!”

“I was bringing sticks,” said Huw. “For the fire. Yes.”

“Then why don't you fetch them from the wood?” said Roger. “It's choked with dead timber.”

“We don't go there,” said Huw.

“Why not?”

“Private.”

“Private? Don't be stupid: that notice is to keep hikers out, not you.”

“It is private family why we don't go in the wood,” said Huw. “That is all.” He swung his load to the ground and went down on one knee beside it. “You taking photo of the Stone of Gronw, are you?”

“No,” said Roger. “The Albert Memorial.”

“There's clever,” said Huw.

Whirr. click.

“Do you mind?” said Roger. “I'm trying to finish this before dark. Gwyn's looking for you.”

Huw began to suck at an unlit pipe, turning the charred bowl.

“It is old stone,” he said. “The Stone of Gronw.”

“I said, Gwyn's looking for you—”

“Not a bad man,” said Huw. “He is not all to blame. She is setting her cap at him, the other man's wife.”

“The one who was supposed to be made of flowers?” said Roger.

“Yes?” said Huw. “Blodeuwedd? You know her? You have raven's knowledge? Yes, she is setting her cap at him, the fine gentleman: Gronw Pebyr, Lord of Penllyn.”

“Don't you people round here talk about anything else?” said Roger. “You'd think it was the only thing that's ever happened in this valley.”