The Winter Witch (25 page)

“Morgana,” says my husband quietly, “watch me. I will set the pace. If you need me, use your whistle, or come forward if you must. If the ponies start to move too quickly you must slow them, or they will push the cattle to an unnatural pace, and that way accidents lie.” As if seeing the recollection this statement brings to mind he adds with a smile, “Show them, my wild one. Show them there are two drovers from Ffynnon Las working this herd.”

I smile back briefly and then urge Prince into a brisk canter so that we might take up our position with the ponies. I pass Edwyn Nails, who gazes at me in a manner that almost brings a blush to my cheeks; a manner that should not be employed to look upon another man’s wife, I feel. Cai checks that everyone is in place, sitting securely even as Angel spins around, prancing and snorting. The horse is excitable, and sweat already lends a sheen to his arched neck, but Cai is not perturbed by such antics and holds the reins gently. At last he raises his hat high and gives the mustering cry of “Ho!
Heiptrw ho!
Hup!” and the drove starts on its lumbering, noisy, perilous way.

What a procession we comprise! Cai rides at the front, his calls serving both to lead the cattle onward, and to warn people up ahead of the approaching herd. For any cattle encountered loose along the way will be compelled by instinct to join the others, and, as Cai told me, it would be the devil’s own job to separate them from the drove once again. The beasts themselves are even more jumpy and boisterous than is their habit, now that several farms’ worth have been brought together. They bellow and blast, stirring up a perpetual cloud of dust with their newly shod hooves, jostling and buffeting one another for the safest position or the best mouthful of grass. Bracken is in his element, dashing about to nip the heels of slowcoaches, tail wagging, boundless energy willingly put to use.

There is one other mounted drover, a wiry man known simply as Meredith. I am told he appears for this drove each year, regular as a harvest moon, always on a different horse of doubtful provenance, never encumbered by wife or offspring, his two preoccupations being the cattle and the ale, both of which will be available to him in abundance for the coming three weeks. He rides behind the beasts, pushing them along, cutting off the path to retrieve any strays, wearing his long duster coat despite the warm day.

Walking with him is Edwyn Nails, his height giving him a long easy stride so that he has no difficulty keeping up with the moving herd. He looks for all the world as if he would snap like a twig if he found himself on the wrong side of a Welsh Black’s temper, but I have seen how he handled the beasts at the shoeing. He is a cattleman, every skinny bit of him, and as such will be an asset. Even so, I find his constant ogling of me disquieting and resolve not to be alone with him.

Behind him are the ponies. They are shocked to find themselves part of such a rumbustious cavalcade, and there is a deal of whinnying and uncalled for bucking. The older mares are steadier than the rest, but those with foals are understandably anxious. The babes themselves seem to view the whole exercise as a game and flit about, curly tails over their backs, heads high, giving their mothers the bother of calling to them all the time. Prince and I cut among them, cajoling and admonishing. He is crucial to their cooperation. As herd leader they will follow him; as parent the youngsters will respect him; as stallion the mares will, however reluctantly, go where he bids them. I scarce have to tell him what to do, but am merely a passenger offering occasional caution or encouragement through hand or heel.

Next in this curious carnival come Idwal Watson and his sheep. The noise they make with their continual bleating drowns out even the cows. They sound to me like so many old women, all complaining about their sore feet and empty bellies, and rolling their unholy eyes at the two black-and-white sheepdogs that run back and fore beside them, tongues lolling over sharp teeth, grandfather wolf glinting in their eyes. Watson himself is distinguished as shepherd by the long wooden crook he carries and the melodious whistling with which he controls his collies.

The creaking wagon of Dai the Forge follows on. His piebald cob clops along, blue eye half closed, mane trembling, and back twitching against the attention of irksome flies, his great feathered hooves demonstrating a remarkable economy of movement. In the driver’s seat Dai lets the reins lie loose in one hand, leaving the other free to whip off his cap so that he might wave it above his head when the mood takes him, with a booming cry of “Get on, you slovenly creatures!” or “
Duw,
there’s some ugly backsides to be staring at for weeks on end! Ho, hup!” It is well known he has no time for sheep.

Padding quietly on foot, forming the rear of the procession, are the women and boys. There are four in all; Cerys, the wife of Dai the Forge (who is never allowed to ride in the wagon), and their twin teenage boys, Ieuan and Iowydd; and Spitting Sara, her skin weather worn, her eyes heavy lidded, of indeterminable age but an appearance that suggests she has seen more droves than anyone else present. She has earned her nickname for her fondness for chewing tobacco and the resultant need to frequently fling phlegm and brown juice from her mouth The women and boys knit as they walk, and will sell their stockings in markets along the way. Spitting Sara has already started up a song, the words of which she sings out all the while continuing to chew.

We move up, away from the town, winding along the lane that takes us past Soar-y-Mynydd chapel and on up, up, up until we are atop the highest hill in the area; the limit of the horizon that can be seen from the mountain behind Ffynnon Las. This is not a route I am familiar with, having arrived via Llandovery. Next we ascend and descend the twisting steepness that is known hereabouts as the Devil’s Staircase, and with good reason. By the time we reach the riverbed and the ancient pass of Abergwesyn we are all showing early signs of fatigue. This is a marvelous place indeed. I can almost hear the footsteps of the thousands of travelers over hundreds of years who have trod this path. The gap between the hills is narrow, dropping down steeply to follow a slim river bordered by marshy grass and a firmer, drier track. The riverbed is stony, with many flat boulders of immense size, worn smooth over centuries, gleaming slick and cool beneath the summer sun. I see a Kingfisher dart from its perch and snatch a minnow from the fast-moving water, its wings an iridescent flash of brightness against the cloud grey of the stones.

We work to keep the livestock out of the water, but it is too tempting for them after the climb. There are no deep bogs here, but having the cattle dawdle in the shallow water and the ponies pause to splash about slows the forward movement of the drove horribly. Cai has said that we will not pause today, but continue straight to our overnight stop. His reasoning is that it is better to have a short first day than to face the confusion of stopping and starting when the animals are as yet unaccustomed to travel, and no proper rhythm has been achieved. We are all pressed to get them going again, putting the dogs to work harder and drawing louder and more commanding cries from the men. At last we turn away from the stream, through the village itself, which comprises only a few houses and an inn, which makes us all lick our lips. We must content ourselves with swigs from the skins tied to our saddles, however, and urge our charges on farther.

By the time we reach Llanwrtyd Wells it is clear to all of us that a rest is crucial. Sound as Cai’s planning was, the beasts have their own opinions. The heat of the day has tired them terribly, and in their fatigue they have become stubborn and quarrelsome. Cai directs us to push them into a pasture on the edge of the village.

“We’ll give them an hour,” says he. “No more, mind. We’ve the worst climb up ahead.”

The cattle settle meekly to grazing in the meadow, as do the ponies. The sheep make a pretense of being too scared to feed, but greed soon overcomes them and they too put their heads down. Within minutes the small field is full to bursting with stock, all, happily, too tired and hungry to bother with each other. Cai sends the women to fetch ale and pies from the nearest inn and people quickly avail themselves of shady spots. Dai calls to me as I lead Prince toward the trough by the gate.

“Well, Mrs. Ffynnon Las, how do you like the droving life so far?”

I smile back at him and give a little shrug. We both know it is too early to tell how successful I might prove to be at mustering the ponies. We have not yet been properly tested. No doubt the time will come.

“Morgana.” Cai takes Prince’s reins from me. “We can tie the horses under that oak. Come, sit with me.” He hitches Angel first, leaving his rein long enough that he can nibble the grass at the base of the tree trunk. Prince flattens his ears against his head and goes to bite his new stablemate. “Now then, Prince!” Cai berates him. “Show some manners,
bachgen,
” says he, looping the pony’s reins over a low branch a short distance away. We loosen their girths and find our own cool patch beneath the outstretched arms of the aged tree. Cerys arrives with foaming ale and warm meat pies and we sit in companionable silence, intent on our refreshment, quietly pleased with the way the morning has progressed. It strikes me that this is the most relaxed we have been together for some time. Can it be that, away from the farm, away from the notion of being husband and wife at home, we can find a new ease together? We have a shared purpose, and that must be our focus, instead, perhaps, of the scrutiny our marriage has so far come under at Ffynnon Las, whether we are alone or in company.

All too soon our respite is at an end. We push the lethargic cattle through the gate first, and there is a certain amount of fuss and bother with both ponies and sheep before they are organized into their rightful places once again. The road is rougher here and the ponies slow their pace, picking their way over the sharper stones. The most noticeable change, though, is the steepness of the incline. Whereas the trek out of Tregaron was uphill, we climbed it over some distance, making the task less arduous than this unforgiving pitch. Now the cattle move laboriously, effort obvious in each step. The landscape falls away from us in far-reaching vistas to the north, but we have our backs to such glory and are intent only on the summit, so that the area around every one of us shrinks to the patch of track ahead that can be reached in one pace or two at most. Even the sheep have ceased their bleating to conserve energy. As the animals toil in the afternoon sun they give off a malodorous stench of sweaty skin, hot urine, warm feces, and belching breath. The Procession starts to stretch, so that Cai must keep halting the front-running bullocks, and the ewes at the rear must be pushed on firmly to keep up. The slower the drove moves, the more apt beasts are to break off on their own, so that we are all engaged in the tiring business of coaxing wanderers back to the body of the herd. Through it all I spy the women plodding ever onward, still knitting, as if the needles work entirely on reflex alone. I notice, though, that Spitting Sara has no breath left for singing.

Shortly before six o’clock, a shout from Cai indicates we have reached our destination. The ground has flattened now, as we arrive on the wide plateau of the Epynt mountain. There are no farmhouses here, but a single, lonely building, with only a handful of Scots pines for company. A wooden sign, its paint paled by many winters, declares it to be the Drover’s Arms, and for all its shabbiness it is to us the most wonderful inn we have ever beheld in our lives, for never was a group of travelers so sore in need of rest and refreshment.

Spurred on by our own desire for the day’s work to be done, and that of the animals to be left in peace to graze and doze, the herds are quickly penned in the holding enclosures behind the inn. I remove Prince’s tack and take him over to the water pump to fetch a pail of water. He stands patiently while I pour it over his body. Steam rises, and the little horse gives a sigh of contentment before shaking vigorously, sprinkling me with sweaty droplets. I catch sight of Cai laughing at me quietly. As soon as I slip the halter from Prince he kneels in the dust and rolls with enthusiasm, ridding himself of itches and loose hair. By the time he scrambles to his feet he is covered in dry mud and looks a sight. He tolerates having his ears rubbed and then trots off to graze.

The women fetch pots from the rear of Dai’s wagon and set about putting some
cawl
to boil over the already glowing camp- fire. The men move swiftly into the inn in search of ale.

Cai comes to stand beside me. For a moment we simply watch the herd grazing, sharing the satisfaction of seeing work completed for the day and our charges brought safely to their enclosure.

“A good day, Morgana,” says he. “I couldn’t ask for better for the start of the drove. No mishaps, and we’ve made good time.” He waves his arm at the cattle. “They are tired, mind, but they’ll rest well here tonight. The walking will come easier to them as we go on, see?” He smiles at me. “You did well,
cariad.
For a beginner.”

I am too pleased by his public use of such an expression of endearment to mind the implied criticism.

Cai bids me follow him inside. The interior of the building is blissfully cool, its thick stone walls keeping out the summer heat. I follow him up a twisting stone stairway to a low-ceilinged bedroom. There is a sagging bed and a washstand with jug and bowl.

“This is for you,” says he. “I won’t leave the herd on the first night. With the breeze in the right direction they’re still close enough to smell home. They might take it into their heads to return, see? I’ll camp out with them tonight.” He shuffles back to the door, a little hesitant. Is he waiting for me to protest? I wonder. “There will be supper downstairs when you’re ready,” he tells me, and then disappears. I am reminded of our wedding night, and another lonely bedroom, in another lonely Drover’s Arms. As I ease my aching feet out of my boots I am aware my weariness is not entirely due to the physical demands of the day. I take advantage of the washstand. It is heavenly to feel the cool water against my skin. I rinse my blouse and hang it out of the window to dry, before slipping into my second one. I might not always have the opportunity of such comforts, so I had best make the most of them where I find them.