The Snow Spider Trilogy. Jenny Nimmo
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die,’ she went on, dreamily, ‘either from cold, or falling, or the wet. And then I saw a light, far away. There weren’t any stars. The light came close and all around it the storm shone like a rainbow. I saw a sail and dancing creatures on a silver ship, just like you did. And I wanted to touch it, I wanted, so much, to be with it . . .’
‘And then?’ Gwyn begged.
‘They took me in!’
‘Who took you in?’
‘The children. Only they’re not really children, they’re quite old, and very wise. But they have never grown – like me. They took me to that other world. The place you saw in the web!’
‘And Berry?’
‘Berry was there too. She knew her name but her fleece was silvery-grey instead of black. And my hair was pale and so was my skin. And I never grew, and nor did she.’
‘Is it a good place?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Why did you come back?’
‘You called me, didn’t you? At first your calls were very faint, and then, when Nain gave you the gifts, your voice became so loud we couldn’t ignore it. We sent the spider because you wanted to see me. She was all we had. That’s how I could see you, back here – in cobwebs!’
‘Cobwebs?’ said Gwyn. ‘You mean there are more spiders? And you use them like . . . like television?’
Eirlys looked pityingly at him. ‘Not television,’ she said. ‘Our cobwebs are far more wonderful than that.’
‘Tell me more about the place out there. Could I go there?’
This time Eirlys ignored his question. ‘Find Arianwen!’ she said.
‘But how? Mam drowned her. She’s out there, under the ground. I’ve nothing left, no gifts to get her back. And I don’t know the words.’
Eirlys stared at him. ‘You’re a magician,’ she said. ‘You’re Gwydion Gwyn. You can get her back. Try!’
Gwyn felt ashamed. Under the compelling gaze of those arctic eyes, he left the chair beside the bed and slipped silently out of the room.
He went downstairs and pulled on his boots. The rain had stopped and there was nothing to remind him that he would need a coat. He opened the front door, and closed it noiselessly, behind him. Within seconds he was standing outside the circle of hawthorn trees. There was something heavy in the air, forcing the grey, twisted branches to bend towards the earth, thus discouraging any passage beneath them.
Gwyn hesitated. Was it possible that even the trees were possessed? He stepped quickly into the circle and gasped as a thorn tore into his shoulder.
The sodden ground was beginning to freeze and a white mist hung low over the grass. There was someone or something else within the circle. He could feel it, drawing him back towards the thorn trees. In order to resist it he had to fling himself to the ground and crawl towards the centre.
Once there, Gwyn did not know what to do. He tried to remember how he had felt when he had hit Dewi Davis, but this was different. Something was distracting him, tugging his mind away from what he wanted to do. He lay his head on the freezing earth and listened, but all he could hear was the air above him, crackling like an angry firework. And then he too began to get angry. A deep hatred of the thing that had killed Long John boiled up inside him. He pushed and pushed against it with his mind, until he felt it falling away, and he had a clear space in his head. He closed his eyes and thought of the bricks beneath the earth, the water from the kitchen sink within the bricks, the spider in the water. He brought up his hands, to rest beside his head, thrust downwards, and felt himself plunging through the earth, down, down, down!
Mrs Griffiths had come into the bedroom with a glass of milk. She gave the drink to Eirlys and then walked over to the window. ‘It’s snowing again,’ she said. ‘What a start to the winter.’
‘I love the snow,’ said Eirlys.
‘I know!’ Mrs Griffiths smiled, and then something through the window, caught her eye. ‘Someone’s out there,’ she said, ‘lying on the ground, and in the snow. Is it Gwyn?’
She opened the window to call to her son but suddenly a shaft of lightning pierced the snow and, with a deafening crack, hit the ground just where Gwyn lay. Mrs Griffiths screamed and fell to the floor. Eirlys, who had run to her, was the only one to see what happened within the circle of thorn trees.
She saw the ground sparkle and shake and Gwyn, arms outstretched, tossing like a bird in the wind. She saw his hands glowing in the snow, and the earth beneath them crack and a shower of glittering icicles fly up and festoon the trees like tinsel. And in one of the trees something shone brighter than a star, and she knew that Arianwen was safe.
Only then did Eirlys run to fetch a cold flannel. She laid it on Mrs Griffiths’ head and gently stroked her hair.
Mrs Griffiths opened her eyes. ‘It’s you,’ she said, and she took the girl’s hand. ‘What happened? I felt queer, and so afraid.’
‘It’s the snow,’ Eirlys replied. ‘It’s the whiteness. It makes you feel queer sometimes.’
Mrs Griffiths sat up, still keeping the girl’s hand clasped in hers. ‘It’s so good to have you here,’ she said.
They stayed quite still for a moment: the girl kneeling beside the woman, calm and silent, until Mrs Griffiths suddenly got to her feet exclaiming, ‘What a nurse I am. It’s you who’s supposed to be the patient. Back to bed now or the doctor will be telling me off!’
She had just tucked the girl’s blankets in again, when Gwyn appeared in the doorway. He was wet with snow and smiling triumphantly.
‘Gwyn! Was that you out there?’ his mother asked. ‘Lying in the snow? Are you mad?’
‘No, not mad – a magician!’ he replied.
Mrs Griffiths made a clicking noise with her tongue. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I wonder if Mrs Davis wasn’t right about you.’
‘Can I talk to Eirlys for a bit?’
‘You ought to be in school,’ his mother said, ‘but seeing as you aren’t, yes, you can have a chat. Change your clothes first, mind, and dry your hair!’
Gwyn retreated. When he returned, dry, to the bedroom, he was carrying his grandmother’s black book. ‘I’ve got Arianwen,’ he said, and he held out his hand, allowing the silver spider to crawl on to the patchwork quilt. ‘I had to fight for her; something was trying to stop me.’
‘I saw,’ said Eirlys. ‘You are a magician, Gwyn!’
Gwyn was gratified, yet a little embarrassed. ‘I’ve been looking at Nain’s book,’ he told the girl, ‘and I can read it. I never thought I could.’
‘Read it to me then, and we’ll try and find the demon in the broken horse!’
Gwyn sat on the bed and began to read the old Welsh legends, translating as he went. It was not an easy task, but the more he read, the more fluent he became and Eirlys heard again the stories that she half-remembered, from the time when Nain had sat where Gwyn was sitting now, and would talk on and on, until she slept.
She heard about kings and princes, magicians and giants, and even the knights of King Arthur, but nowhere could Gwyn find a broken horse.
‘Read about Princess Branwen,’ Eirlys said. ‘There are horses in that legend, I remember. It used to make me cry, but I’ve forgotten it.’
Gwyn began the story of Branwen. Before he had read two pages he suddenly stopped and said quietly, ‘I have found it. But it is too terrible to read aloud. I can’t read it!’
‘Tell me,’ said Eirlys.
‘I can’t!’ Gwyn stared at the