The Snow Spider Trilogy. Jenny Nimmo
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secret,’ Nain admonished him. ‘Never abuse your power. You must be alone if you are to achieve your heart’s desire.’
‘What’s the use of magic if no one knows about it?’ Gwyn exclaimed irritably. ‘And how do I get my heart’s desire?’
‘You know very well,’ Nain replied unhelpfully. ‘Think about the scarf. Think about using it. And now you’d better leave me, and eat the supper that is growing cold on your mother’s table.’
The room had become dark without their noticing it. The fire had almost died and the few remaining embers glowed like tiny jewels in the grate. Gwyn was unwilling to leave his grandmother; he wanted to talk on into the night. But Nain was not of the same mind, it seemed. She lit a lamp and began to pace about her room, moving books and ornaments in a disturbed and thoughtless manner, as though she was trying either to forget or to remember something.
Gwyn pulled himself up from the pile of cushions and moved to the door. ‘Goodnight then, Nain!’ he said.
The tall figure, all red and gold in the lamplight, did not even turn towards him. But when he reluctantly slipped out into the night, words came singing after him: ‘Cysgwch yn dawel, Gwydion Gwyn! Sleep quietly!’
When he got home the table was bare.
‘Did your grandmother give you a meal?’ his mother inquired, guessing where he had been.
‘No,’ said Gwyn. ‘I forgot to ask.’
Mrs Griffiths smiled. ‘What a one you are!’ She gave him a plate of stew kept warm on the stove.
Gwyn could not finish the meal and went upstairs early, muttering about homework.
He did not sleep quietly. It was a strange, wild night. The restless apple tree beneath his window disturbed him. He dreamt of Nain, tall for ten years, in a red dress, her black curls tied with a scarlet ribbon. She was listening to her great-great- grandmother, an old woman, a witch with long grey hair and wrinkled hands clasped in her dark lap, where a piece of seaweed lay, all soft and shining, as though it was still moving in water, not stranded on the knees of an old, old woman.
Gwyn gasped. He sat up, stiff and terrified. He felt for the bedside light and turned it on.
Arianwen was sitting on the silver pipe. Gwyn lifted the pipe until it was close to his face. He stared at the spider and the pipe, willing them to work for him. But they did not respond. He laid them carefully on the bedside table, and got out of bed.
His black watch told him that it was four o’clock; not yet dawn. He dressed and opened his top drawer. It was time for the seaweed. Yet he took out Bethan’s yellow scarf and, without knowing why, wrapped it slowly round his neck, pressing it to his face as he did so, and inhaling, once again, the musty sweet smell of roses. He closed his eyes and, for a moment, almost thought that he was close to an answer. But he had forgotten the question. It was something his grandmother had said: something about using the scarf. Try as he might to order his mind, he felt the answer and the question slipping away from him, until he was left with only the tangible effects: the scarf and the dry dusty stick of seaweed.
Gwyn tucked the seaweed into the pocket of his anorak and went downstairs, letting himself out of the back door into the yard.
There was a pale light in the sky but the birds were still at rest. The only sounds came from sheep moving on the hard mountain earth, and frosty hedgerows shivering in the cold air.
He did not ascend the mountain this time, but wandered northwards, through the lower slopes, seeking the breeze that came from the sea. Here the land was steep and barren. There were few sheep, no trees and no farms. Gigantic rocks thrust their way through the earth and torrents of ice-cold water tumbled over the stones. Gwyn longed for the comfort of a wall to cling to. The wide, dark space of empty land and sky threatened to sweep him away and swallow him. One step missed, he thought, and he would slip into nowhere.
And then he smelt the sea. Moonlight became dawn and colours appeared on the mountain. He was approaching the gentler western slopes. He started to climb upwards, gradually, field by field, keeping close to the stone walls, so that the breeze that had now veered into a wailing north-east wind, should not confuse his steps.
Gwyn had passed the fields and was standing in the centre of a steep stretch of bracken when it happened; when the thing in his pocket began to move and slide through his fingers, causing him to withdraw his hand and regard the soft purple fronds of what had, a few moments before, been a dried-up piece of seaweed. The transformation was unbelievable. Gwyn held the plant out before him and the slippery petal-like shapes flapped in the wind like a hovering bird. And then it was gone; the wind blew it out of his hand and out to sea. And all the birds above and below him awoke and called out, the grey sky was pierced with light and in that moment Gwyn knew what he had to do.
He took off the yellow scarf and flung it out to the sky, calling his sister’s name again and again, over the wind, over the brightening land and the upturned faces of startled sheep.
Then, from the west, where it was still dark, where the water was still black under the heavy clouds, there came a light, tiny at first, but growing as it fell towards the sea. It was a cool light, soft and silver and, as it came closer, Gwyn could make out the shape of a billowing sail, and the bows of a great ship. But the ship was not upon the sea, it was in the air above it, rising all the time, until it was opposite to him and approaching the mountain.
A wave of ice-cold air suddenly hit Gwyn’s body, throwing him back into the bracken, and 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, and curl 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; cold, curled-up tight, with eyes closed, too frightened and amazed to move and when he finally stood up, the cold, 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 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 in finding his way across the northern slopes. Soon he was back in familiar fields, but when he came to within sight of T
Within the house someone shouted angrily, it must have been Mr Lloyd. Then footsteps could be heard, pattering on the stairs and approaching down the passage.
The front door was opened and Mrs Lloyd stood there, in a pink dressing-gown, with rollers in her hair, 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 was about to send Gwyn away, but something about 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,’