Gwyn’s grandmother gave him five gifts for his birthday, his ninth birthday. They were very unusual gifts and if Gwyn had not been the sort of boy he was, he might have been disappointed.

      ‘Happy Birthday!’ said his grandmother, turning her basket upside down.

      Gwyn stared at the objects on the kitchen floor, none of them wrapped in bright birthday paper: a piece of seaweed, a yellow scarf, a tin whistle, a twisted metal brooch, and a small, broken horse.

      ‘Thank you, Nain!’ said Gwyn, calling his grandmother the name she liked best.

      ‘Time to find out if you are a magician, Gwydion Gwyn!’ said Nain.

      ‘A magician?’ Gwyn inquired.

      ‘Time to remember your ancestors: Math, Lord of Gwynedd, Gwydion and Gilfaethwy!’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘The magicians, boy! They lived here, in these mountains, maybe a thousand years ago, and they could do anything they wanted, turn men into eagles and soldiers into dust; they could make dreams come true, and so, perhaps could you!’

      On special occasions Nain often said peculiar things. Gwyn could not think of a reply.

      ‘There has been an ache in this house since your sister – went,’ said Nain, ‘the ache of emptiness. You need help. If you have inherited the power of Gwydion you can use it to get your heart’s desire.’ She turned on her heel. ‘I won’t stay for tea!’

      ‘We’ve only just had breakfast, Nain!’

      ‘Nevertheless . . .’ She swept away, down the passage and through the open front door, her black hair sparkling in the golden mist that hung over the garden, her dress as gaudy as the autumn flowers crowding by the gate. Then she looked back and sang out, ‘Give them to the wind, Gwydion Gwyn, one by one, and you’ll see!’

      Gwyn took the gifts up to his bedroom and laid them on the windowsill. They looked the most improbable effects for a magician.

      ‘What’s she on about now?’ He scratched at his uncombed hair. From his tiny attic window he could see Nain’s dark head bobbing down the mountain track. ‘She travels too fast for a grandmother,’ Gwyn muttered. ‘If my ancestors were magicians, does that make her a witch?’

      His father’s voice roared up the stairs, ‘Have you done the chickens then, Gwyn? It’s Saturday. What about the gate? The sheep will be in the garden again. Was that your grandmother? Why didn’t she stay?’

      Gwyn answered none of these questions. He gathered Nain’s gifts together, put them in a drawer and went downstairs. His father was outside, shouting at the cows now, as he drove them down the track to pasture.

      Gwyn sighed and pulled on his boots. His grandmother had delayed him, but she had remembered his birthday. His father did not wish to remember. There was no rest on Saturday for Gwyn. No time for football matches, no bicycle to ride down to the town. He was the only help his father had on the farm, and weekends were days for catching up with all the work he had missed during the week.

      He tried not to think of Bethan, his sister, as he scattered corn to the hens, and searched for eggs in the barn. But when he went to examine the gate, he could not forget.

      Beyond the vivid autumn daisies there was a cluster of white flowers nestling beneath the stone wall. Bethan had brought them up from the wood and planted them there, safe against the winds that tore across the mountain. Perhaps, even then, she had known that one day she would be gone, and wanted to leave something for them to remember her by.

      ‘Gwyn, I’ve something for you.’ His mother was leaning out of the kitchen window.

      ‘I’ve to do the gate, Dad says!’

      ‘Do it later; it’s your birthday, Gwyn. Come and see what I’ve got for you!’

      Gwyn dropped his tool box and ran inside.

      ‘I’ve only just wrapped it,’ his mother apologised. ‘Did Nain bring you anything?’

      ‘Yes. I thought everyone else had forgotten.’

      ‘Of course not. I was so busy last night, I couldn’t find the paper. Here you are!’ His mother held out something very small, wrapped in shiny green paper.

      Gwyn took the present, noticing that the paper had gold stars on it.

      ‘I chose the paper specially.’ Mrs Griffiths smiled anxiously.

      ‘Wow!’ Gwyn had torn off the paper and revealed a black watch in a transparent plastic box. Replacing the numbers, tiny silver moons encircled the dark face of the watch and, as Gwyn moved it, the hands sparkled like shooting stars.

      ‘Oh, thanks, Mam!’ Gwyn clasped the box to his chest and flung his free arm round his mother’s neck.

      ‘It’s from us both, Gwyn. Your dad and me!’

      ‘Yes, Mam,’ Gwyn said, though he knew his mother had not spoken the truth. His father did not give him gifts.

      ‘I knew you’d like it; always looking at the stars, you are, you funny boy. Take care of it now!’

      ‘Course I will. It’s more the sort of present for a magician. Nain gave me such strange things.’

      His mother drew away from him. ‘What things? What do you mean, a magician? Has Nain been spouting nonsense again?’

      ‘Come and see!’ Gwyn led his mother up to the attic and opened his top drawer. ‘There!’ He pointed to Nain’s gifts.

      Mrs Griffiths frowned at the five objects laid in a row on Gwyn’s white school shirt. ‘Whatever is she on about now? I wish she wouldn’t.’ She picked up the broken horse and turned it over in her hands.

      ‘It has no ears, Mam,’ Gwyn remarked, ‘and no tail. Why did she give me a broken horse?’

      ‘Goodness knows!’ His mother held the horse closer and peered at a tiny label tied round its neck. ‘It’s in Welsh,’ she said, ‘but it’s not your grandmother’s writing. It’s so faint. “Dim hon!” I think that’s what it says. “Not this!”’

      ‘What does it mean, Mam, “Not this!”? Why did she give it to me if I’m not to use it?’

      His mother shook her head. ‘I never know why Nain does things.’

      ‘She said it was time to see if I was a magician, like my ancestors.’

      ‘Don’t pay too much attention to your grandmother,’ Mrs Griffiths said wearily. ‘She’s getting old and she dreams.’

      ‘Her hair is black,’ Gwyn reminded her.

      ‘Her hair is black, but her eyes don’t see things the way they used to!’ Mam picked up the yellow scarf. ‘This too? Did Nain bring this?’

      ‘Yes. It’s Bethan’s isn’t it?’

      His mother frowned. ‘It disappeared with her. She must have been wearing it the night she went, but the police found nothing next morning, nothing at all. How strange! If Nain found it why didn’t she say?’ She held the scarf close to her face.

      ‘You can smell the flowers,’ said Gwyn. ‘D’you remember? She used to dry the