A String in the Harp (16 page)

“They certainly do look peculiar. Double-ended and one square sail each. Maybe something special for Christmas? A race of some kind?”

“They’re Irish,” said Peter, who’d been silent till now.

“How in blazes do
you
know?” asked his father, surprised. “You can hardly see them without the glasses!”

“They just are.”

“Let me see,” Jen demanded, and David gave her the binoculars. He frowned at Peter.

There were six boats visible through the glasses, sailing close together. Their sails were well filled with wind, they were broad and high-sided, rather like barges, with two pointed ends, so it was hard to tell at a glance which way they were going, but in a minute Jen saw they were tacking away from the coast—toward Ireland.

“My turn,” cried Becky impatiently. “I want to see!”

Reluctantly Jen passed the binoculars.

“They are sailing toward the Irish coast,” said Gwilym slowly, “but—”

“They look like replicas of the war ships used by the ancient Celts,” David said. “It must be some sort of pageant. An old Welsh custom, like burning a Viking ship the way they still do in the Shetlands every year.”

“They’re neat,” said Becky. “I wish I could see one close.”

“There’ll probably be a picture in the
Cambrian News
next week,” David replied.

Peter was too overwhelmed by what was happening to speak. He’d seen the ships once before, when Taliesin and the boy had been taken aboard them as prisoners. He knew they were Irish. He knew they weren’t replicas. But—everyone was straining to watch as the ships disappeared over the horizon—they had
all
seen them this time, not he alone! Of course, the others understood even less than he did, but they all had seen them.

Somehow, when the ships had gone, no one wanted to walk any further up the beach. Above the hills to the northeast, clouds were beginning to pile and the wind had a bite to it they hadn’t noticed while they were moving. Gwilym alone went on toward Ynyslas, reluctant to lose the light. He turned when he’d gone a dozen yards or so.

“If you want to go out along the Dovey tomorrow, I’ll be going,” he called. “Early, mind.”

“Of course, we do,” Becky declared. “When?”

“Half-past six. We can get a ride up to Ynyslas with my Dad if we’re sharp.”

“Why not the Bog?” Jen asked.

Gwilym shook his head. “Too wet since that storm. Not safe.”

“Well!” said Jen, when they were well out of earshot. “I thought he’d forgotten all about promising.”

“Not Gwilym. It was Dad being interested that did it,
though. You could tell. I bet he’d like it if you came, too.”

David shook his head, smiling. “We’ll see, but I doubt I can spare the time, much as I’d like to.”

To everyone’s surprise, Peter allowed that he might like to go, even though it meant getting up at six.

It was still dark when Jen and Becky fell out of bed next morning—dark and bone-chilling. But Becky declared it wasn’t nearly as hard to get ready for a special expedition at six as it was to get up for school at seven-thirty. She thumped on Peter’s door, and he came out of his room fully dressed, as if he’d been waiting for her.

David had given all three of them small knapsacks for Christmas, and they began rummaging for food to pack in them.

“I have no idea how long we’ll be out,” said Peter, “but I have no intention of going hungry.”

Becky sliced bread for sandwiches and Peter cut chunks off the cold turkey, while Jen made toast and cocoa for breakfast. They all got in each other’s way, scalded their mouths on the hot cocoa and dripped butter on the table quite amicably.

“I tell you, though,” Peter stated, shifting his knapsack to find the most comfortable spot, “I hope we don’t have to go too far before we can eat this stuff. It’s heavy.”

“You
shouldn’t complain. You put most of it in,” Becky observed.

“Come on,” said Jen, “we’ll miss Gwilym.”

He was waiting outside Bryn Celyn. Jen thought she saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes when he saw them emerge on time—in fact, five minutes early. She grinned to herself.

“We’re in time for the bus if we nip down to Williams’s smartish,” he greeted them and was off before anyone could respond. They could only gallop after him.

East, beyond the Bog and over the hills of Montgomeryshire, the sky was stained with first light. It moved across the sky like water spreading across a blotter, drawing mist
up from the country. A few windows on the hill were lighted, but not many people were up at half-past six the day after Christmas.

Hugh-the-Bus was. He sat leaning over the steering wheel of his bus, reading a two-day-old newspaper. He grinned at the Morgans as they stumbled on behind Gwilym. “Up early, is it? You’ll have a grand morning for it. Wind’s up, but sun’ll be out in two shakes, look you. Down to Ynyslas is it, Gwilym?”

“Don’t you mind having to work today?” asked Becky. “I thought it was a holiday.” The bus was empty but for the five of them.

“Aye, Boxing Day. But it’s not so bad, and twice the money, see. Someone has to.”

“It’s the babies,” said Gwilym darkly.

“And for you!” said his father with a laugh.

The Morgans looked puzzled.

“My sisters,” Gwilym explained. “Susan and Sheila and both with babies in the house.”

“Two mums and a gram and the bath full of nappies and the sink full of bottles.” Hugh-the-Bus chuckled. “More than a man can stand, and for three days. Better it is to leave them fussing and go.”

“Worse than with summer visitors,” added Gwilym. “At least with visitors you aren’t expected to take an interest. But babies—”

“You’re an uncle!” exclaimed Becky, delighted.

“Aye, he is that,” agreed Hugh-the-Bus solemnly. “Twice over.”

“Ahh,” protested Gwilym, disgusted.

The only soul to be seen down the length of Borth was the paper boy on his cycle. Hugh-the Bus saluted him as he drove majestically down the middle of the long straight road to the Ynyslas Turn by the golf links.

“Right you are! Have a good day then, and mind you
don’t let Gwilym drag you too many miles!” With a wave of his hand, Hugh-the-Bus left them and turned inland along the river.

“Well, come on then,” said Gwilym, striking out across the dunes.

The hard, bright air filled their lungs and scoured their faces as they tramped down to the sea. Gwilym took them out to the sand spit at the mouth of the Dovey where fresh met salt water. It must have been a mile or so, but they covered it quickly. To Jen the world appeared unusually sharp, in perfect focus, every detail clear, from the pebbles and strings of seaweed at her feet to the distant windy horizon.

“You can see so far!” she shouted against the wind. “What’s the land out there?”

“That’s up in Caernarvon,” Gwilym told her. “It’s the Lleyn Peninsula and beyond it, further to the west, you can just see a bump, can you?”

“Wait.” Jen peered in the direction of his hand, northwest. “Yes, just barely. What is it?”

“Bardsey Island. Supposed to be a grand place for birds,” he said longingly.

“Have you never been there?” asked Becky. “It doesn’t look far.”

“Might as well be the other side of Ireland. I’ve no one to go with me, and no money to get there. Mum doesn’t approve of hitching and she’ll not hear of me taking my motorbike.”

“I didn’t know you had a motorbike,” said Peter.

“Aye. Bought it last year off the student Mum had living in. It needed a lot of work, but I got it running. Don’t have a proper license yet, only ‘L’ plates, but I’m going for it next year. Mum doesn’t approve, but it’s my own money and Dad said I could do what I liked with it.”

Peter looked at Gwilym with new eyes. Here at last was something he understood. “Can I see it sometime?”

“Tisn’t much. Not fancy, you know.”

“Just the same?”

“Aye.”

Becky prodded him. “What’s that the other direction?”

“Pembroke. Strumble Head, that’d be. You can see both ends of Wales from here when it’s clear like this.”

“Not very much to it,” remarked Peter.

“Enough,” said Gwilym. “There’s a lot to Wales, you know.”

“You sound like Mr. Evans. Do you believe in magic?” Becky asked suddenly.

Gwilym’s face stiffened, and Jen looked warily at her sister. Peter alone was unconscious. He whistled softly as he gazed down the coast at Strumble Head. “Why Strumble Head?” he wondered aloud.

“Why should I?” asked Gwilym suspiciously.

“Other people around here do. Mr. Evans up at Llechwedd Melyn was telling us about it.”

“Do people in America?”

“Not like that. At least not people
we
know. They believe in things like witches and exorcism.”

“That’s just because they think it’s fashionable,” Jen broke in irritably. “But it’s not, it’s silly! And the other’s just superstition, not really magic at all, Becky, it’s just in your mind.”

“How do you know?” inquired Peter. “You sound like an expert.”

“Anyone with any sense would say just what I have,” snapped Jen. “Magic is for fairy tales, like Aled said.”

Gwilym looked uncomfortable. “We’ll not see anything if we stand here all morning.” He changed the subject. “We’ll just head up the estuary.”

Peter walked along beside Gwilym agreeably, his thumbs tucked in the straps of his knapsack. He appeared quite unperturbed by Jen’s irritation, which irritated her still
further. His moods seemed to change as quickly as the Welsh weather; she wondered what he was up to.

“There,” said Gwilym after a bit. Becky yelped as Jen trod on her toes. “You can’t shout or you’ll scare them,” admonished Gwilym.

“Sorry,” apologized Jen. “What is it?”

“Goldeneye. They’re sea duck. Pretty common, but better than nothing.” Jen could just distinguish a clutch of small white ducks with dark heads on the far side of the river. Behind them the cottages of Aberdovey tumbled down the hillside looking like a toy village.

“And pochard,” reported Gwilym, sweeping the estuary with his glasses. “Whitish with brown heads and dark breasts.”

“What are the big ducks?” asked Becky, pointing.

“Shelduck. Red bills. There are lots of them.”

The names meant nothing to Jen. Gradually they worked their way along the inside of the sandy spit built by the river, gazing dutifully in the direction Gwilym’s binoculars pointed, trying to pick out the tiny specks he had no trouble identifying. All around stretched the hard, ripple-marked tide flats, still puddled with water from the last high tide, which reflected splinters of the morning sky. The wind smelled strongly of salt and wet sand. Jen was surprised to find she was quite happy just ambling behind Gwilym and Becky, her mind empty. Becky chattered on to Gwilym, asking questions, learning birds.

Peter was content, too. It was hard, but he was beginning to learn patience and the day was far from over. The Key lay comfortably warm against him. It, too, was waiting.

It was nine when they stopped beside the river and shared round the turkey sandwiches. Gwilym took out a small notebook and wrote down what they’d seen so far. They sat on an abandoned railroad sleeper, idly watching a boy upstream from them who was puttering about in a little round boat, too far away to be more than just part of the view. Until Gwilym
said, pocketing the notebook, “Hullo. He’s got a coracle. You don’t often see them, specially this far north.”

Then, of course, he had to pass around his binoculars again and explain what a coracle was. “A traditional Welsh boat. Used to use them for fishing, made of tanned skins years and years ago. Now they use tarred canvas. Just made to show tourists now mostly. Down to Newquay I’ve seen them, but this is the first I’ve seen on the Dovey.”

The boat was almost bowl-shaped, and the boy in it, roughly dressed with a thatch of curly gold hair, was working intently on something in the water close to the riverbank.

“We can find out what it is when we get up there,” said Becky. None of them could guess what he was doing.

“If we decide to go on up the river,” said Gwilym. “We can do that or start back from here.”

“Follow the river,” said Peter promptly.

Jen was more cautious. She remembered what Hugh-the-Bus had said about Gwilym dragging them too many miles. “How far is it that way?”

“Too far to Machynlleth, but we’ll join up with the road in about six miles and catch a bus back to town if you like. Makes no difference to me whichever, though I’d like a closer look at the coracle myself.”

“Then let’s go on.” Becky agreed with Peter.

“Six miles—” began Jen dubiously.

“But flat,” coaxed Becky. Jen gave in.

However, when they reached the place they’d seen the coracle, the boy had disappeared.

“I did want to see how it worked,” said Becky, disappointed.

“Well, it’s still here,” said Peter. He’d gotten ahead of the others when Gwilym had stopped to look at a flock of knots feeding on the mud. At this information, Jen gave up trying to make anything out of the little dun-colored dots and hurried on with Becky. Peter was standing beside the coracle, which
had been left upside down above the high tide line. It looked like a huge black turtle, legs and head drawn into its shell, lying there. It was the same boat they’d seen on the river, and its stiff dark skin was still wet.

“It’s leather,” Peter remarked, touching it. Jen and Becky both felt the coracle. The hide was stretched tight over a basketlike frame: the whole boat couldn’t possibly have held more than one person. Becky lifted an end a few inches off the ground experimentally.

“It’s light. I bet I could carry it. Wouldn’t it be neat to have a boat like this?”

“Put it down,” Jen said quickly. “It isn’t ours and we don’t even know who it belongs to.” The coracle made her distinctly uneasy; it was such an unlikely-looking object to find on an ordinary riverbank.

“I wonder what he was doing with it.” Becky went down to the river’s edge.

“It’s an old one, that,” said Gwilym, joining them. “Made of animal skins, like the ones I told you about.” He inspected it curiously. “It’s in awfully good shape.” It made a hollow sound like a drum when he thumped it gently with his knuckles.