Wayfarer (16 page)

“Well, not now,” said Owen Jenkins. “I retired from the biology department some five years ago.”

“But…don't you…I mean, wasn't it hard to…” Timothy was flabbergasted. At last he cleared his throat and said weakly, “But you go to a Gospel Hall.”

“You think I shouldn't? Not the right place for a scientific type? Best resign from the church eldership then.” And he gave a wheezing laugh.

Embarrassed, Timothy fell silent.

“Now, I won't say there aren't a lot of foolish and ignorant believers in the world,” said Owen Jenkins after a moment. “And I even know some fine godly Brethren who decided not to pursue higher learning, for fear it would make them proud. But I wanted to find out everything I could about God's creation.”

“But what you learned…didn't any of it bother you? I mean, some of the things I've heard scientists say about God and the Bible…”

“…sound convincing, no doubt,” agreed the older man. “But you'd be surprised how much of that talk isn't really
science
at all. I won't say that now and then I don't come across some piece of data that doesn't fit quite comfortably with what I believe. But then I've talked to atheists who've had the same problem. There's not a belief in the world can save you from doubt.”

Timothy gave a reluctant nod. “I guess I just…some beliefs make more sense to me than others. I don't want to ever hide from the truth, you know? I want to know how things really are.”

Owen Jenkins leaned forward earnestly. “Not a thing wrong with that,” he said. “To look at the world as it is, study it with the mind God's given you, and believe: That's faith. But to hide from hard facts, or hide them from others, because you're afraid of where they might lead you…” He sat back again. “That's just ignorance.”

“So if I'm questioning my beliefs…you think that's actually good?”

Owen Jenkins peered at him from beneath his bushy brows. “Better than never questioning them? I'd say so. But you can't go on questioning forever. Sometime you're going to have to stake your reputation, maybe even your life, on what you believe. And when that moment comes…then you'll know where you really stand.”

Timothy picked at the crumbs on his plate, unable to think of a reply. He was afraid that the other man would
say
I'll be praying for you
, or some equally condescending remark, but he didn't. He only shuffled his chair back, said gently, “Have a good night, lad,” and left.

For a few more minutes Timothy sat at the table alone. Then he sighed and got up, wincing as the movement pulled at his injured side. Maybe he should dab some warm water and soap on it, try to clean it out before it got infected. He might be able to find some gauze and proper bandages if he hunted around a bit….

He was making his way through the sitting room when he caught sight of a bookshelf, and curiosity made him stop to look at it. A set of Matthew Henry's commentaries on the Bible, some devotionals and missionary biographies, the complete works of James Herriot, and a few volumes of Dickens: No surprises there. Farther down, however, he found books on gardening, home remedies, and travel, including one entitled
A Wayfarer's Guide to Wales
. He had just pulled it off the shelf and was leafing through it when Gwladys Jenkins spoke up unexpectedly from behind him:

“Like that, do you? Some lovely walks in there.”

Timothy started guiltily, nearly dropping the book before remembering that he had nothing to hide. “Er…yes,” he said. “I just…we're going to Cardigan tomorrow, and I thought…”

“Oh, of course, you'll want to do some sightseeing.” She shifted her laundry basket to the other hip and leaned forward to peer at the book over his shoulder. “What sorts of
things are you interested in? I was brought up near Cardigan myself, so I know all about those parts.”

His heart quickened. “Do you know a church named St. David's?”

“St. David's! My goodness, love, that's not in Cardigan, that's all the way down in Pembrokeshire.” She took the book from his hands, flipped quickly through the pages, and handed it back to him. “There it is on the map, see? A great old cathedral, it is, hundreds of years old. Right at the tip of Cardigan Bay.”

She was right, Timothy realized with dismay. There were so many references to Cardigan in the legends about the Children of Rhys, he'd just assumed St. David's church must be in or near Cardigan as well…but he'd been wrong. If only he hadn't been in such a rush back at the library! He'd made a terrible mistake, and now he and Linden were hours from where they needed to be.

Timothy closed the book and slid it back onto the shelf. “Thanks,” he said weakly.

“But you never mind,” said Gwladys Jenkins, “just ask those friends of yours about it, and see if they won't drive you down there anyway.” She patted his arm. “Now come along, and I'll show you to your room.”

“The coach to Cardigan leaves from the train station,” said Owen Jenkins as he drove them back into Aberystwyth the next morning. “So that's where I'll let you off, and you can get your ticket there.”

“That's very kind of you,” said Linden. She dared a challenging glance at Timothy as she spoke—they'd barely exchanged a word since last night's argument. But he was looking out the window and didn't seem to care.

As they came down the hill into the town, Linden caught her breath in surprise. In the darkness the place had seemed dreary and unwelcoming, with its narrow streets and tall, flat-faced houses that offered little
shelter from the rain. But by daylight, the buildings of Aberystwyth were a paint box of vibrant colors: forget-me-not blue and the deep pink of foxgloves, daffodil and mint and primrose. And rolling toward those brightly plastered buildings was a white-capped mass of water that stretched away into the distance until Linden's eyes ached from straining to see the end of it—Cardigan Bay, and beyond it the open sea.

When they reached the center of town, their host stopped the car, and they all got out. The streets were full of life now, people hurrying here and there, vehicles of all sizes stopping and starting and honking at one another. Linden watched the traffic with interest until she heard Professor Jenkins say to Timothy, “Here's a few pounds to see you on your way. And if you look in your backpacks, I think you'll find Gwlad's packed you both a bit of a lunch.”

Linden beamed at him. “I'll never forget what you've done for us,” she said. “I don't know what we'd have done without you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Timothy, and shook Owen Jenkins's hand. The older man nodded at them both with just a hint of a smile, then got back into his car and drove away.

“So?” said Linden, trying not to look at Timothy in case he snapped at her and they started quarreling again. “What now?”

“We find the coach to Cardigan,” said Timothy. “And when we get there, we take another one to Fishguard, and a
third one from there to St. David's. I'll let you know when it's safe to come out.”

He was right to expect her to hide in his pack, Linden knew. They needed to make their money last if they wanted to find the Children of Rhys—or even just stay ahead of the Blackwings. But it irritated her that he hadn't even
asked
.

“Fine,” she said shortly, and they set off across the street toward the station.

 

As the coach rumbled along the coastal highway half an hour later, Timothy caught glimpses of Cardigan Bay in the distance: lead-colored waves, rocky cliff sides, and here and there a wavering line of wet sand. Over the ocean the clouds hung so low that they looked like islands, and it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky began.

Doubt stabbed into him, sharper than the pain in his side. He hugged the backpack on his lap—there was nowhere else to put it, the bus was so full—and wondered if they really had any hope of finding the Children of Rhys. What if the legend he'd read about the faery islands and the herbs that made them visible was no more than some storyteller's wild imagination? How did Rob or any of them know that the Children existed at all, let alone that they had this magical naming stone?

And what if he never got to make that phone call to his parents and tell them the truth about why he'd gotten
himself suspended from Greenhill, because the Blackwings caught up with him first?

He took the key out of his pocket and clutched it, but the cold iron gave him no comfort. All at once he wanted very badly to talk to someone—no, not just anyone, he wanted to talk to Linden, and tell her he was sorry. But with a stout woman sitting in the seat right next to him, he could hardly start whispering to his backpack. All he could do was wait.

And wait some more, because the stop at Cardigan was on a busy street, and he only had a few minutes to catch the coach to their next destination. Which turned out to be almost as crowded as the last one, so again he was forced to remain silent, knowing Linden was only a few inches away and yet she might as well have been in Uganda for all the good it did either of them….

 

The inside of Timothy's pack smelled unpleasantly of damp, not to mention the dirty socks he'd stuffed into it that morning, and it galled Linden that she couldn't see a thing that was going on. This journey felt ten times longer to her than yesterday's had been. Still, at least she was warm and dry, with a full stomach—and after last night, she would never take any of those things for granted again.

She had lost all sense of time or direction and was half asleep from sheer boredom when she felt a soft bump and the mouth of the pack opened, letting in a gust of cool,
deliciously fresh air. Timothy was gazing down at her, his mouth crooked in a rueful smile.

“Sorry,” he said. “About everything.”

She'd been savoring her resentment all morning, but now it evaporated in the sheer relief of knowing they'd reached their destination at last. “It's all right,” she said. “I'm sorry, too.”

“Wait a minute,” Timothy cautioned in an undertone. “Just until these people walk past us…All right, they're gone. You can come out.”

It was easy for Linden to change size now; the hard thing was remembering that it had ever been difficult in the first place. “Oh!” she said as her head rose to the height of Timothy's shoulder. “I forgot to tell you! Last night I was so tired that I went to sleep at this size instead of remembering to make myself small, and I was still big when I woke up in the morning! Isn't that—” But then she saw what lay ahead of them and broke off, her lips parted in wonder.

They stood at the top of a cobbled street, beside a wall of uneven dove-gray stones. The lane ended in a soaring gateway flanked by square towers, and looking through it, Linden could see the spires of St. David's Cathedral.

It was old, older than the Oak by far, she could tell. To think that human hands had built this enormous church and preserved it over the long centuries amazed her, but even more exciting was the hope of what they might find
within its grounds—the magical herbs that would lead them to the Children of Rhys.

As they passed beneath the gate and into the churchyard, Timothy let out a low, disheartened whistle. “This place is huge,” he said. “We could be here until the Blackwings catch up with us.”

“Then we had better start looking, hadn't we?” Linden shielded her eyes with her hand as she surveyed the distant horizon. “But shouldn't we be able to see the ocean from here? It all looks like sky to me.”

“It's too cloudy,” said Timothy. “Or maybe the legend was wrong. I don't know.” He seemed defeated already, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped beneath the backpack's weight.

Linden looked behind her and saw a low-walled garden with a stone cottage behind it. Perhaps it hadn't been part of the original churchyard, but it might give her a better view…and she climbed up onto the tiny lawn, treading carefully to avoid the shoots of young daffodils that were just beginning to nudge through the grass.

At first she saw nothing beyond the cathedral but a haze of leafless trees and the rocky shoulder of a faraway hill. She stood on tiptoe, straining with all her senses…and gradually the island appeared to her, shining out from the mists.

It seemed almost to float, independent of the sea, and the grass that velveted its slopes was not the uncertain yellow-green of early spring but the deep emerald of midsummer.
A little wood grew on one side of the island, and its leaves too were green, as though winter had never touched them.

“Timothy!” she shouted down to him. “I see it!”

He scrambled up to join her, one hand pressed to his injured side. “Where?”

“Right there,” she said eagerly, pointing ahead. “A minute ago there was nothing, and then…”

Timothy squinted into the distance. “I don't see anything. Here, move over and let me stand where you are.”

Linden stepped to one side and he took her place, but his frown remained. “I can't see anything,” he said. “Are you sure it wasn't just the clouds?”

“I'm certain,” she said. “I can still see it now.”

Timothy let his hand drop back to his side. “Of course you can,” he said, sounding disgusted. “You're a faery yourself, and you knew what you were looking for—their glamour couldn't fool you. You could probably have spotted that island from the window of the coach, if only I'd given you the chance.” He kicked the turf, stomped a few paces—and stopped.

“Did you say
an
island?” he said. He sounded dazed, almost dreamy, and he was looking off at a different angle, beyond the cathedral tower.

Linden followed the line of his gaze, and let out a slow exhalation of surprise. He was right: There were two islands. But if he could see them as well…

She bent to examine the turf at Timothy's feet. What
she'd taken for daffodil shoots were actually a smooth-leaved plant she'd never seen before. When she broke off one of the leaves, the juice that welled out had a sweet, fruity scent, but it left no stickiness upon her fingers.

“I think we've found Gruffydd's magic herbs,” she said, smiling up at him.

 

With the iron key in his pocket, a clump of strange plants in his backpack, and his injured side clumsily patched together with bandages and gauze, Timothy felt like he'd just come back from a visit to the witch doctor—but he couldn't deny that the magical herbs seemed to do exactly as the legend claimed. Eyes fixed on the distant islands, he and Linden made their careful way down the slope of the churchyard, past the ruins of the Bishop's palace, and out beyond the stone walls of the cathedral yard. Within minutes they had found a footpath that would lead them toward the sea.

“How are we going to get out to the island?” Linden panted as they hurried along. It was past noon, the sun high above them, but the air was still cold enough to make Timothy's lungs ache. He had to catch his own breath before he could reply: “We'll have to hire a boat, I guess.”

Preferably one with a motor, or at least a good pair of oars. He hadn't a clue how to sail, but Paul had taken him rowing on his last visit to Oakhaven, and he'd learned a
few things then. Never mind that he'd probably rip his side open on the first stroke, or how likely it was that some current would grab hold of the boat and whisk the two of them straight out to sea….

The path grew rockier as they walked along, the countryside more open and wild. Soon they had left St. David's behind, and were edging around the side of a steep and rugged hill. Timothy paused to get his bearings, and when he looked out at the choppy waters of Cardigan Bay, he could now see three distinct green islands.

“We need to go over more this way,” he called back to Linden, but she had lagged behind, and he could no longer see her. He was cupping his hands to his mouth to shout again when he saw her flashing toward him at faery size, her wings buzzing frantically.

“They've found us!” she gasped, circling around him. “The Blackwings—they're here!”

Timothy looked up to see two familiar ragged shapes flapping across the sky toward them. The first raven's wings beat the air with smooth, powerful strokes, but the other's flight was halting, as though it had been injured….

He broke into a run, leaping from rock to rock with blind urgency as he angled down the gravelly slope toward the sea. The green islands looked so close—he knew he hadn't a prayer of reaching them, but there was nowhere else to go except back and he wasn't ready to give up, not like this, not yet—

The world pitched over and he hit the ground hard, skidding his palms raw on the stony ground. His side flared with agony as he rolled over, sickeningly certain the Blackwings had caught him in their spell—but then he saw his shoe trapped between two rocks, wedged there by nothing more sinister than his own carelessness. He wrenched his foot free, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ankle, then scrambled around and pried the shoe loose so he could put it back on.

“Hurry!” screamed Linden, her voice so high he could barely hear it. She was just a speck in the distance now: He'd never catch up to her. But the ravens were almost upon him, weaving through the air, a shimmering web of magic coalescing between their wings. Timothy limped down the hillside as quickly as he could, eyes raking the slope for some sign of cover. He'd seen a lopsided heap of stones on the far side of the hill, ruins of some ancient monument. If only he could find something like that, he might be able to hide—but though his gaze swept the ground in every direction, there was no sign of shelter.

A tingling heat raced up his back, and all his hair stood on end. Timothy knew at once that he'd been touched by magic—but as the electric feeling died, he realized that the iron key in his pocket was still protecting him.

Relieved, he scrambled around the side of the hill and back onto the footpath. The ravens wheeled above him, regrouping for another try…no, wait. There was only one
of them now. Where was the other? He looked around—and a great black shape leaped into him, snarling.

Timothy tumbled flat onto his back, rigid with horror as he stared up into the glowering eyes of an enormous hound. It bared its teeth, and hot breath steamed over his face, reeking of carrion. Then a word rumbled up from its throat, slurring over the dog's lips and tongue but horribly comprehensible just the same:

“
Checkmate
.”

He couldn't see Linden anywhere. Not that it mattered: There was nothing she could do.
You didn't warn us they could be dogs, too, Rob.

The dog reared up, heavy paws lifting from his shoulders—and suddenly he felt a booted foot on his chest instead. “I know about the iron you carry,” said a cool voice, and he looked up into the faery's hard, contemptuous eyes. “Attempt to touch it, and I will snap your neck.”