A String in the Harp (37 page)

“Then you must find a way of giving it back.”

“But how?” Dr. Rhys was right, Peter knew it at once, but indeed, how?

“It has told you a great deal already. Do you not think the Key will tell you that also?”

“There isn’t much time . . .”

“No, but perhaps there is enough. Harp and tuning key were a bard’s chief possessions,” Dr. Rhys said quietly. “He was not careless with either one. Certainly Taliesin would not have been. Had you considered that you might be part of this pattern you speak of? You are meant to carry the Key?”

“But I haven’t done anything with it,” Peter protested.

“You yourself say the pattern is not completed yet. Be patient. I am sure you will know what is to be done with the Key, Peter.”

Their eyes met and held—an American schoolboy and a middle-aged Welsh scholar. Between them was a moment of perfect understanding.

“Do you want to see it?” Peter asked, reaching for the chain.

“Indeed, I want to very much,” said Dr. Rhys shaking his head sadly, “but you must not show me. I would be able to identify it if I saw it, and then I should have no choice but to make you give it to John Owen.”

“But you do believe me?”

“Yes. But a sixth-century harp key—one that may have belonged to Taliesin himself? That is a national treasure, Peter Morgan. Nothing like it has yet been found.”

“I’m sorry,” said Peter, “because I would like to show you, but I see what you mean.”

“And I am sorry. But,” Dr. Rhys brightened a little, “would you like some tea? It’s time for a cup, I think. You can tell me what you made of the rest of
The Mabinogion!
”

T
O THE EAST
the dawn sky was bright with the expectation of sun. It had rained hard during the night and the traveler had taken shelter in a tumbledown hut, already several miles behind him. His swinging stride carried him along a road that was little more than rutted mud with chips of puddle caught between the furrows, reflecting the April sky. He traveled light, his cloak flung back, his harp on his shoulder, a small skin pouch at his belt, his only other possession, the silver key, hung about his neck on its chain.

The road led downward, winding out of the hills toward the sea, and the man’s step was quick and sure upon it. Somewhere along his way, he had been joined by a scruffy little brown dog with nothing better to do than follow, and they had become companions.

The air was sweet; rich with bird song and the smell of waking earth seasoned with the sea and the shrilling of gulls.

Taliesin passed huts where the inhabitants were just stirring, rolling out half-asleep to begin the day’s chores: work in the vegetable patches, look to the beasts, cut wood. And Taliesin’s eyes grew bright with remembering . . . it was so many
years ago that he had been a boy in such a hut. People paid little mind to him as he walked by.

Peter knew the country, too. He felt he had dreamed it once, that it was old in his memory though the Key had never shown it to him before. There were no familiar details or landmarks, but there was a sense of home, and he caught the joy in Taliesin’s heart. Taliesin himself sang a gay, infectious walking-song.

There were a great many fascinating smells for the little dog to investigate on both sides of the road. Every now and then he shook himself away from them and raced to catch up with his new man, determined not to be left behind.

Whenever he was wished good-day, Taliesin broke his song and called back in a voice that gladly affirmed the morning’s goodness. The Way he traveled was old even in Taliesin’s time. It had been known to the Dark Folk before the Romans, and to the Legions of the Eagle that had dared the wildness of the hills and forests and magic; most of those Legions had followed the Way into Cymru but never home again.

Taliesin left it only once, to climb a smooth, bare hill that rose on the right. From its summit the world spread out to the west: league upon league of wind-scoured sea, a vastness of fierce blue sky without a flaw in it, and a jagged scar of beach running as far as could be seen north to south. In that moment of revelation, Peter saw with Taliesin’s eyes and ached for the unspoiled freedom: no roads, no bungalows or caravans, no shops or crawling lines of traffic, no footprints on the sand. The world was new and beautiful.

On the crown of the hill stood a circle of weathered gray stones, grouped around one tall standing stone, which pointed like a finger to the north, to Maelgwn’s fortress, Dyganwy, built on the highest of two hills above the River Conwy. Although at the northernmost end of Gwynedd, Dyganwy was at the center of the most powerful of the Cymric kingdoms. And even it had been built years after the gaunt
stone had been hauled erect on this hill. Peter’s sense of time had no meaning here.

Taliesin stood next to the stone now, as straight but not as tall, and lifted his arms to the sun as it rose silently above the eastern hills, flooding the country with gold, casting shadows from the stones.

“I am home!” cried Taliesin.

***

“I must admit, Jen, I’m very glad your aunt and uncle are three thousand miles away,” said David, “and that I don’t have to try to explain any of this to them in person. I can’t see either of them swallowing it.”

Jen grinned at her father. “Aunt Beth would probably declare you an unfit parent.”

But David’s face was grave. “I’m afraid that’s not funny. There are times when I wonder myself. It’s quite possible that I’ve made a very serious mistake with Peter, you know, and if I have, he could be in bad trouble. I’m not at all happy about his involvement with this object of his. It seems to have a terrific hold over him.”

Jen nodded soberly. “I know. I was afraid of it—in fact I still am. He’s absolutely serious about it, it’s changed his whole attitude. When I first came, the only thing he wanted was to go back to Amherst, now I’m not sure he wants that anymore.”

“I haven’t done much to help, have I? I ought to have seen long ago that there was more than stubbornness in Peter’s behavior, but I didn’t look at him hard enough. I left you and Becky to cope, and that wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

It was a straightforward apology, and it both embarrassed and pleased Jen. David was speaking to her without restraint, as he would to an adult.

They stood leaning against the railing at the south end of the Aberystwyth Prom, the sudden green bulk of Constitution Hill above them. Only a few students had wandered down
this far; Jen and David were essentially alone. She had met him at the University after his Monday class and he’d suggested the walk.

All her life, Jen reflected now, she had truly believed that with age came wisdom; that when she finally grew up all the complexities she wrestled with would straighten themselves out for her and she would be able to deal with life confidently, with perfect assurance. She had only to wait.

But it wasn’t so. Her father, who ought to know all the answers by this time, had just told her that he, too, was still groping. Oddly, Jen felt closer to him at this moment than she ever had before; he was as human as she and as much in need of reassurance and faith. Was he better at hiding it than she, or had she simply not noticed before?

“What are you thinking so hard about?” asked David with a smile.

“I was just wondering what other people worry about,” Jen answered. “People like the Evanses and Dr. Rhys and Mrs. Davies.”

“Lots of things, I imagine, some important, some not.” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Jen, will you give me an honest answer? Do you think there’s something the matter with Peter? I know he’s had a hard year; I expected more of him than I had any right to, and perhaps he hasn’t been able to handle it. You’ve seen more of him than I have—he told you about this business he’s gotten into long before he had to tell me. My own fault. What do you think?” It was a hard question for him to ask. Jen saw it in his face.

And it wasn’t easy to answer. She needed far more time to sort out all the changes she’d come through in the past months, but her father needed an honest answer, and she had to give it as best she could.

“I wouldn’t be sure,” she said carefully, “if it weren’t for Becky. There’s nothing at all wrong with her, except what’s wrong with the rest of us—we still miss Mother, we get homesick, we get cross with each other. But Becky believes Peter.
When he first told me this story about a key he’d found on the beach and the peculiar power it had, I thought he’d made it up. He was unhappy and lonely and he needed something to do with himself. Then Becky got into it and now Dr. Rhys as well. I don’t know any more. But if you mean do I think Peter’s sick—no.”

“What about this—key, did you call it? No, I don’t want to know what it is, I’ve told you that. I want to know what Peter claims it does. Finding it has affected him a good deal, hasn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” said Jen uncomfortably.

David looked at her hard. “You don’t want to talk about it, do you?”

Jen sighed. “I can’t, Dad. I really wouldn’t know what I was talking about. Peter’s story sounded so impossible when he first told me—it still does—there didn’t seem to be any question of believing him. I didn’t.”

“But?”

“Peter’s one thing, but now there’re Becky and Dr. Rhys.
They
do believe him.” She hesitated, then said, “If you want to know what the key does, you’ve got to ask one of them. They’re sure, I’m not.”

“Still, you think Peter ought to be left alone. You think I can trust him to be responsible?”

Jen nodded.

“Does Peter still want to go home so much?”

“I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem important to him right now.”

“Peter has got some impressive allies, Jen: Becky, Gwyn Rhys—even Mr. Evans in a way. Now you.” David sighed. “I promised I’d wait until Dr. Owen arrives and I won’t break my word to Peter. I’ve just got to hope he can sort this out himself, I don’t want to see him hurt any more than he has been. But”—he turned to Jen with a rueful smile—“come on, I’ll buy you an ice cream. It’s time we started back to Borth.”

At the far end of the Prom, the amusement pier and the
old University building were hazy in the afternoon light. The windows of all the little guest houses and hotels that lined the bay shone gold in the west-slanting sun, above them a jumble of slate roofs and chimneys.

“I’ve gotten to like Aberystwyth,” David remarked thoughtfully. “It’s a funny place, but I’ll miss it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jen.

“In another two months the University year will be over. I’ve got to decide what we do next. Beth expects us back, Amherst College expects me back, and you three have school. There isn’t a lot of time left.”

“Then you have decided we go back,” said Jen flatly.

“I suppose so. The University’s offered to keep me on if I want to stay, though, and I have to give them an answer in the next two weeks. I should just tell them no and be done with it, but I’ve been putting it off.”

“Ych y fi.”
Without thinking, Jen used one of Mrs. Evans’s expressions and was startled to hear her father laugh. Then she joined him.

***

Becky and Gwilym met Peter walking slowly along the sea wall toward Ynyslas at the end of the afternoon. They had come from watching ducks and were hungry and cheerful; Becky saw Peter before he noticed them.

“Hey, Peter!”

“Oh. Hullo.” He smiled absently. “See much?”

“The usual sea ducks,” Gwilym replied. “Nothing very exciting.”

“We’re going home for tea—come with us?” Becky offered.

But Peter shook his head. “I’ll be in later. And you needn’t worry, I left a note for Dad! I’m just going to the end of the wall.”

“Jen’s got cream buns.”

“Save me one.” Peter passed them and kept walking. He
heard Becky and Gwilym start on, Becky beginning to hum
Men of Harlech
and Gwilym joining her with a recently discovered bass. Peter smiled to himself. He would have gone back with them if it hadn’t seemed more important to be alone right now and ready for whatever came next. Dr. Rhys had given him the confidence he needed to hang onto the Key and trust his own judgment.

The lights were coming on in the houses across the road, the sea was merging with the twilight. There was a girl walking a dog on the sand. Then sky, sea wall, girl and dog suddenly fell to pieces before him and rearranged themselves in a new pattern, like colored glass in a kaleidoscope, catching Peter off balance for an instant. The voice of the Key came to him, cold and somber. Peter slid off the wall and leaned against it, planting his feet firmly in the sand, then gave himself up to the song.

Clouds, thick and dark, massed in the sky, and out of them came the steadily rising grumble of thunder. Shadow rolled across the sea, turning it the color of steel, and the wind knocked the tops off the waves leaving them white and jagged. The tiny village of Llanfair had been built to withstand storms. The dwellings were thick-walled and thatched double to hold out the rain and salt spray, and they claimed whatever shelter they could in hollows and against the sand hills, their backs to the sea.

As soon as a hut was deserted, the weather began to destroy it, working between the stones, tearing at the roof, driving sand through the door. It was such a hut Taliesin had returned to. When he had been a boy called Gwion he had lived here with his mother and father and eight brothers and sisters. He had been taken from them by an old blind man when he was just twelve and set upon the path he had followed ever since. The hut was long empty, the family gone: taken by disease, war, new masters, or husbands. The fireplace was neglected, the one small room quite empty.

But Taliesin knew the place as surely as the storm petrels know where to return each spring after the winter at sea. He made no attempt at first to intrude on the people of Llanfair, nor did they disturb him. They were curious, they sent speculative glances his way, but they were silent. Taliesin shared his homecoming with only the small brown dog he called Hu. They slept together at night, wrapped in the man’s travelstained cloak, and by day they scavenged the windy beach, or sat quietly among the dunes, or climbed the hills.