A wave of ice-cold air suddenly hit Gwyn's body, throwing him back into the bracken. As he lay there, shocked and staring upwards, the huge hull of the silver ship passed right over him, and he could see fragments of ice, like sparks, falling away from it. He could see patterns of flowers and strange creatures engraved in the silver, and then the ice was in his eyes and he had to close them. He curled himself into a ball, shaking with the pain of bitter cold that enveloped him.
A dull thud shook the ground. Something scraped across the rocks and filled the air with a sigh.
Gwyn lay hidden in the bracken for a long time, curled up tight with eyes closed, too frightened and amazed to move. When he finally stood up, the freezing cold air was gone. He looked behind him, around and above him, but the mountain was empty. There was snow on the bracken and in one flat field beyond the bracken, but there was no sign of a ship of any kind. Yet he had seen one, heard one, felt the bitter cold of its passage through the air.
Gwyn began to run. Now that it was light, he had no difficulty finding his way across the northern slopes. Soon he was back in familiar fields. But when he came to within sight of Ty Bryn, he paused a moment, then kept on running, down the track, past his gate, past his grandmother's cottage, until he reached the Lloyds' farmhouse. He flung open the gate, rushed up the path and, ignoring the bell, beat upon the door with his fists, shouting, "Alun! Alun! Come quick! I want to tell you something! Now! Now! Now!"
Within the house someone shouted angrily. It must have been Mr. Lloyd. Then there were footsteps pattering on the stairs and down the hallway.
The front door opened and Mrs. Lloyd stood there in a pink bathrobe, with rollers in her hair and her face all red and shiny.
"Whatever is it, Gwyn Griffiths?" she said. "Accident or fire?"
"No fire, Mrs. Lloyd. I want Alun. I have to tell him something. It's urgent!"
"No fire, no accident," snapped Mrs. Lloyd. "Then what are you doing here? We've not had breakfast. Why can't it wait till school?"
"Because it's just happened!" Gwyn stamped his foot impatiently. "I've got to see Alun."
Mrs. Lloyd was angry. She seemed about to send Gwyn away, but something in the boy standing tense and dark against the dawn clouds made her hesitate. "Alun! You'd better come down," she called. "It's Gwyn Griffiths. I don't know what it's about, but you'd better come."
"Shut that door," Mr. Lloyd shouted from above. "I can feel the cold up here."
"Come inside and wait!" Mrs. Lloyd pulled Gwyn into the house and shut the door. "I don't know— you've got a nerve these days, you boys."
She shuffled into the kitchen, leaving Gwyn alone in the shadows by the door. It was cold in the Lloyds' house. The narrow hall was crammed with bicycles, boots, coats half-hanging on hooks. It was carpeted with odd gloves, felt-tip pens, comics, and broken toys, and there were two pairs of muddy jeans hanging on the bannisters.
Alun appeared at the top of the stairs in pajamas that were too small. He was trying to reduce the cold gap round his stomach with one hand, while rubbing his eyes with the other. "What is it?" he asked sleepily.
"Come down here," Gwyn whispered. "Come closer."
Alun trudged down reluctantly and approached Gwyn. "Tell, then," he said.
Gwyn took a breath. He tried to choose the right words, so that Alun would believe what he said. "I've been on the mountain. I couldn't sleep, so I went for a look at the sea. . . ."
"In the dark?" Alun was impressed. "You're brave. I couldn't do that."
"There was a moon. It was quite bright really," Gwyn paused. "Anyway, while I was there I . . . I . . ."
"Go on!" Alun yawned and clutched his stomach, thinking of warm porridge.
"Well—you've got to believe me"—Gwyn hesitated dramatically—"I saw a spaceship!" He waited for a response, but none came.
"What?" Alun said at last.
"I saw a ship . . . fall out of space. It came right over the sea. ... It was silver and had a sort of sail . . . and it was cold, ever so cold. I couldn't breathe with the cold of it. I had to lie all curled up, it hurt so much. And when I got up, it had gone!"
Alun remained silent. He stared at his bare toes and scratched his head.
"Do you believe me? Tell me!" Gwyn demanded.
There was no reply.
"You don't believe me, do you?" Gwyn cried. "Why? Why?"
"Sssssh! They'll hear!" Alun said.
"So what?"
"They think you're a loony already."
"Do you? D'you think I'm a loony?" Gwyn asked fiercely. "I did see a ship. Why don't you believe me?"
"I don't know. It sounds impossible—a sail and all. Sounds silly. Spaceships aren't like that."
Gwyn felt defeated. Somehow he had used the wrong words. He would never make Alun believe, not like this, standing in a cold hallway before breakfast. "Well, don't believe me then," he said, "but don't tell either, will you? Don't tell anyone else."
"O.K.! O.K.!" said Alun. "You'd better go. Your mam'll be worried!"
"I'll go!" Gwyn opened the door and stepped onto the porch. But before Alun could shut him out, he said again, "You won't tell what I said, will you? It's important!"
Alun was so relieved at having rid himself of Gwyn's disturbing presence, he did not notice the urgency in his friend's voice. "O.K.!" he said. "I've got to shut the door now, I'm freezing!"
Chapter 5
EIRLYS
Alun did tell. He did not mean to hurt or ridicule Gwyn, and he only told one person. But that was enough.
The one person Alun told was Gary Pritchard. Gary Pritchard told his gang: Merfyn Jones, Dewi Davis, and Brian Roberts. Dewi Davis was the biggest tease in the class and within two days everyone in school had heard about Gwyn Griffiths and his "spaceship."
Little whispering groups were formed in the playground. There were murmurings in the cafeteria, and children watched while Gwyn ate in silence, staring steadily at his plate so that he would not meet their eyes. Girls giggled in the coatroom and even five-year-olds nudged each other when he passed.
And Gwyn made it easy for them. He never denied that he had seen a silver ship, nor did he try to explain or defend his story. He withdrew. He went to school, did his work, sat alone in the playground, and spoke to no one. He came home, fed the hens, and had a snack. He tried to respond to his mother's probing chatter without giving too much away, for he felt he had to protect her. He did not want her to know that his friends thought him crazy. But Mrs. Griffiths sensed something was wrong.
And then one evening Alun showed up. He had tried in vain to talk to Gwyn during their walks home from the bus, but since the gossiping began, Gwyn had deliberately avoided his old friend. He had run all the way home, passing the Lloyds on the lane, so that he would not hear them if they laughed.
Mrs. Griffiths was pleased to see Alun. She drew him into the kitchen saying, "Look who's here! We haven't seen you for a bit, Alun. Take your coat off!"
"No!" Gwyn leapt up and pushed Alun back into the hallway, slamming the kitchen door behind him. "What d'you want?" he asked suspiciously.
"Just a chat," said Alun nervously.
"What's there to chat about?"
"About the things you said. About the spaceship, and that," Alun replied, fingering the buttons on his coat.
"You don't believe, and you told," Gwyn said coldly.
"I know. I know and I'm sorry. I just wanted to talk about it." Alun sounded desperate.
"You want to spread more funny stories, I suppose."
"No . . . no," Alun said. "I just wanted to—"
"You can shove off," said Gwyn. He opened the front door and pushed Alun out on the porch. He caught a glimpse of Alun's white face under the porch light as he shut the door. "I'm busy," he called through the door, "so don't bother me again."
And he was busy, he and Arianwen. Every night she spun a web in the corner of Gwyn's bedroom, between the end of the sloping ceiling and the cupboard. And there would always be something i
n the web. A tiny, faraway landscape, white and shining, or strange trees with icy leaves. Or a lake, or was it a sea? with ice floes bobbing on the water and a silver ship with sails like cobwebs, gliding over the surface.
And when he ran his fingers over the silver pipe he could hear waves breaking on the shore. He could hear icicles singing when the wind blew through the trees, and children's voices calling over the snow. And he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he was hearing sounds from another world.
Once Arianwen spun a larger cobweb again, covering an entire wall. The white tower appeared, and the same houses. Children came out to play in the square beneath the tower. Pale children with wonderfully serene faces, not shouting as earthbound children would have done, but calling in soft, musical voices. It began to snow, and suddenly all the children stood still and turned to look in the same direction. They looked right into the web. They looked at Gwyn and they smiled, and then they waved. It was as though someone had said, "Look, children! He's watching you! Wave to him!" And their bright eyes were so inviting Gwyn felt a longing to be with them, to be touched and soothed by them.
But who had told the children to turn? Gwyn realized he had never seen an adult in Arianwen's webs, never heard an adult voice. Who was looking after the faraway children? Perhaps they had just seen the "thing" that was sending the pictures down to Arianwen's web, a satellite perhaps, or a ship, another star, or another spider, whirling round in space. And they had turned to wave to it.
A few weeks before the end of the term, three new children appeared at school. They were children from the city, two boys from poor families who had no room for them, and a girl—an orphan it was said. They had all been put into the care of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert, a warmhearted couple with four girls, a large farmhouse, and an eagerness to help children less fortunate than their own.
John, Eirlys, and Dafydd were officially entering the school the following term, but had been allowed three weeks of settling in before the Christmas holidays. Miss Pugh, the principal, was a little put out. She had expected only two children, eight-year-old boys, to put in a class where there was still space for at least five more. There were thirty children in Gwyn's class, where Eirlys would have to go. Mr. James, their teacher, a rather fastidious man, was already complaining that he could feel the children breathing on him. He gave Eirlys a tiny desk at the back of the class, where no one seemed to notice her.
In the excitement of Christmas preparations some of the children forgot about Gwyn and his "stories." But for Gary Pritchard and his gang, baiting Gwyn Griffiths was still more entertaining than anything else they could think of, especially when they saw a nicker of anger beginning to appear in their victim's dark eyes.
And then one Monday Dewi Davis went too far. It was a bright, cold day. Snow had fallen in the night, clean white snow that was kicked and muddied by children running into school. But snow fell again during the first lesson and, as luck would have it, stopped just before the first break. The children were presented with a beautiful white playground in which to slide and throw snowballs.
Dewi Davis could never resist a snowball, just as he could never resist shoving girls with white socks into puddles, or putting worms down the backs of squeamish classmates. He took a lot of trouble with Gwyn's snowball, patting and shaping it until it was rock-hard and as big as his own head. Then he followed Gwyn round the playground, as Gwyn, deep in thought, made patterns in the snow with his feet.
Soon Dewi had an audience. Children watched expectantly while Gwyn trudged unaware through the snow. Dewi stopped about three meters behind Gwyn and called in his slow lisping voice, "Hello, Mr. Magic. Seen any spaceships lately?"
Gwyn began to turn, but before he could see Dewi, the huge snowball hit him on the side of the face. A pain seared through his ear into his head.
Girls gasped and some giggled. Boys shouted and laughed, and someone said, "Go on, get him!"
Gwyn turned a full half circle and stared at Dewi Davis. He stared at his fat silly face and the grin on his thick pink lips, and he wanted to hurt him. He brought up his clenched right fist and thrust it out towards Dewi, opening his fingers wide as he did so. A low hiss came from within him, hardly belonging to him and not his voice at all, more like a wild animal.
There was nothing in Gwyn's hand, no stone, no snow. But something came out of his hand and hit Dewi in the middle of his face. He saw Dewi's nose grow and darken to purple, and saw hurt and amazement on Dewi's round face. Only he and Dewi knew that there had been nothing in his hand.
Then, suddenly, the rest of the gang were upon him. Someone hit him in the face, and someone else punched his stomach. His hair was tugged and his arms were jerked backwards until he screamed. And then his legs were pulled from under him, and he crashed onto the ground.
Everyone stopped shouting and stared at Gwyn, motionless in the mud and snow. The bell rang, and almost simultaneously, Dewi Davis began to scream for attention. The children drifted away as Mr. James ran to Dewi and helped him from the playground. The teacher never noticed Gwyn lying in a corner.
The whole of Gwyn's body ached, but his head hurt most of all. He could not get up and did not want to. There was blood on the snow beside him, and his lip felt swollen and sticky. The playground was empty. He wondered if he would have to lie there all day. Perhaps the snow would fall again and no one would see him until it was time to go home. He managed to pull himself up until he was kneeling on all fours, but it was an effort. He could not get any further because something in his back hurt whenever he moved.
And then he saw that he was not alone. Someone was standing on the other side of the playground. Someone in gray with long, fair hair and a blue hat. It was Eirlys. The girl began to walk towards Gwyn slowly, as though she was approaching a creature she did not wish to alarm. When she reached Gwyn she bent down and put her arms around his body. Then, without a word, she lifted him to his feet. She was very frail, and Gwyn could not understand where her strength came from. Her hair was so soft it was like touching water, and her face, close to his, was almost as pale as the snow. He had never really looked at her before. Now he realized with a shock that he knew her. He had seen her somewhere but could not remember where.
They walked across the playground together, still without speaking, his arms resting on her shoulders, her arm round his waist. Although his legs ached, he tried not to stumble or lean too heavily on the girl. When they reached the school door, Eirlys withdrew her arm and then took his hand from her shoulder. Her fingers were ice-cold. Gwyn gasped when she touched his hand.
"What is it?" she asked.
"You're so cold," he replied.
Eirlys smiled. Her eyes were greeny blue, like arctic water. It was as though they had once been another color, but that other color had been washed away.
When they got to the classroom Gwyn told Mr. James that he had slipped in the snow. Eirlys said nothing. Mr. James nodded. "Get on with your work now," he said.
Eirlys and Gwyn went to their desks. Everyone stared. Dewi Davis was still holding his nose, and Gwyn remembered what he had done. All through the next lesson, through the pain in his head, he kept thinking of what he had done to Dewi Davis. He had hit him with magic. Something had come out of his hand and flown into Dewi's face, something that had come to him from Gwydion, the magician, and from Gwy-dion's son, who had once ruled Gwynedd. And it was the same thing that had turned the seaweed into a ship, the brooch into a spider, and the whistle into a silver pipe. These last three, he realized, had merely been waiting for him to release them. They had been there all the time, just waiting for his call. But when he had hit Dewi Davis, he had done it by himself. He had wanted to hurt Dewi, to smash his silly, cruel face, and he had done it, not with a stone nor with his fist, but with his will and the power that had come from Gwydion. If he could do that, what could he not do?
While Gwyn dreamed over his desk, he was unaware of Eirlys watching him. But Alun Lloyd noticed, and he wondered why the girl gaz
ed at Gwyn with her aquamarine eyes. Alun was uneasy.
During the day Gwyn's aches and pains receded, and he was able to hobble to the school bus unaided. When he got off the bus, however, he could not run up the lane, and he felt trapped. Alun was lingering behind the rest of his family, watching him.
"You O.K.?" Alun asked Gwyn.
"Yes, I'm O.K."
"D'you want me to walk up with you?"
"No," Gwyn replied. "I said I was all right, didn't I?"
"Are you sure?" Alun persisted. He turned to face Gwyn and began to walk up the hill backwards.
"They didn't hurt me that bad," Gwyn said angrily. "I just can't walk that fast."
"I suppose she's going to help you?" Alun said. He was still walking backwards and looking at someone behind Gwyn.
"Who?"
"Her!" Alun nodded in the direction of the main road. Then he turned and ran up the lane.
Gwyn glanced over his shoulder to see what Alun had meant. Eirlys was walking up towards him.
"What are you doing?" Gwyn shouted. "You don't get off here!"
The girl just smiled and kept coming.
"You'll be in trouble! How're you going to get home?"
"I'll walk," said Eirlys.
"Oh heck!" cried Gwyn.
"Don't worry!" The girl continued her approach and Gwyn waited, unable to turn his back on her.
"It'll be all right," she said when she was beside him. "I'll just come home with you. You might need someone, with all those bruises." She tapped his arm and went ahead up the hill.
When they turned a bend and Nain's cottage suddenly came into view, Eirlys stopped and stared at the building.
"My grandmother lives there," Gwyn said.
"Does she." Eirlys spoke the words not as a question, but as a response that was expected of her.