The Snow Spider Trilogy. Jenny Nimmo
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he said airily.
‘Gwyn, whatever are you up to?’ asked his mother. ‘Wash your hands and sit down.’
‘I’ve got to go upstairs,’ Gwyn insisted.
‘But Gwyn . . .’
‘Please, Mam!’
Mrs Griffiths shrugged and turned back to the stove. Her husband had begun to chew bacon and was not interested in Gwyn’s hasty flight through the kitchen.
Tumbling into his bedroom Gwyn scanned the place for something in which to hide his spider. He could think of nothing but the drawer. Placing the spider gently on to the yellow scarf, he pushed the drawer back, leaving a few centimetres for air, then fled downstairs.
He got an interrogation in the kitchen.
Mrs Griffiths began it. ‘Whatever made you run off like that this afternoon?’ she complained. ‘Didn’t you hear me call?’
‘No, it was windy,’ Gwyn replied cheerfully.
‘Well, what was it you were doing all that time? I rang Mrs Lloyd, you weren’t there.’
‘No,’ said Gwyn, ‘I wasn’t!’
‘Not giving much away, are you?’ Mr Griffiths muttered from behind a mug of tea. ‘It’s no use trying to get that cockerel now it’s dark,’ he went on irritably. ‘We’ll have to be up sharp in the morning.’
‘Won’t have any trouble waking if he’s out,’ Gwyn sniggered.
‘It would take more than a cockerel to wake you some mornings,’ laughed his mother. At least she had recovered her good humour.
After tea Mr Griffiths vanished into his workshop. His work-load of farm repairs seemed to increase rather than diminish, and Gwyn often wondered if it was his father’s way of avoiding conversation.
He thought, impatiently, of the drawer in his room, while his mother chattered about Christmas and the cockerel. Then, excusing himself with a quick hug, Gwyn left his mother to talk to the cat and, trying not to show an unnatural enthusiasm for bed, crossed the passage and climbed the stairs slowly, but two at a time.
His bedroom door was open and there appeared to be a soft glow within. On entering the room Gwyn froze. There were shadows on the wall: seven helmeted figures, motionless beside his bed. He turned, fearfully, to locate the source of light. It came from behind a row of toy spacemen standing on the chest of drawers. Gwyn breathed a sigh of relief and approached the spacemen.
The silver spider had climbed out of the drawer. It was glowing in the dark!
Gwyn brushed his toys aside and hesitantly held out his hand to the spider. It crawled into his open palm and, gently, he raised it closer to his face. The spider’s touch was icy cold, and yet the glow that it shed on his face had a certain strange warmth that seemed to penetrate every part of his body.
He held the spider for several minutes, admiring the exquisite pattern on its back and wondering whether there was more to the tiny creature than a superficial beauty. It had come in exchange for the brooch, of that he was certain. But was it really he who had transformed the brooch? Or had the extraordinary spider come from a place beyond his world? He resolved to keep it a secret until he could consult his grandmother the following evening.
Replacing the spider in the drawer, Gwyn went downstairs to fetch a book. When he returned the glow came from the bedpost and, deciding that he had no need of an electric light, he sat on the bed and read his book beside the spider. It was an exceptional sensation, reading by spiderlight.
* * *
Nain was gardening by lamplight when Gwyn found her. She was wearing her sunhat and a bright purple cardigan. The sky was dark and frost had begun to sparkle on the ground.
‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’ said Gwyn, approaching his grandmother down the cinder path.
‘I like to poke a few things about,’ she replied, ‘just to let them know I’ve got my eye on them.’
‘There’s not much growing, Nain,’ Gwyn remarked. ‘Not that you can see anything in this light.’
‘There’s tatws!’ she said defiantly, and heaved a plant out of the ground, scattering earth all over Gwyn’s white trainers. Not satisfied with this, she shook the plant violently and Gwyn sprang back, too late, to save the bottoms of his new school trousers.
‘Oh heck, Nain!’ he cried. ‘What did you do that for. I’ll get a row?’
‘Why didn’t you put your boots on, silly boy?’ she replied. ‘There’s mud all down the lane.’
‘I came for a chat, didn’t I? How was I to know I’d be attacked by a madwoman.’
‘Ha! Ha! Who’s mad, Gwydion Gwyn?’ Nain loved being teased. ‘Have you brought good news? Are you a magician, then?’
‘Can’t we go inside, Nain?’ Gwyn fingered the matchbox in his pocket. He did not want to confide under the stars, someone could be listening, out there in the dark.
‘Come on, then! We’ll leave the plants to doze for a bit and have a cup of tea.’ Nain dropped her potatoes, shook out her purple cardigan and stamped across to open the back door.
The inside of her house was like a bright bowl. All the corners had been rounded off with cupboards and bookcases, and upon every item of furniture there was heaped a jumble of books, bright clothes and exotic plants. The fronds of shawls, trailing leaves and garlands of beads festooned the furniture to such a degree that its identity could not easily be ascertained. The only source of light came from an oil-lamp, and as this was partially obscured by a tall fern, the whole place had a wild and mystical air about it.
Somewhere, through the jumble, a kettle lurked, and soon this was whistling merrily, while Nain sang from behind a screen embroidered with butterflies, and a canary chattered in its cage.
Gwyn looked round for a vacant seat. There was none. ‘What shall I do with the eggs, Nain?’ he called.
‘How many?’
Gwyn counted the eggs, nestling in a red woolly hat on the only armchair. ‘Seven,’ he replied.
‘Well! Well! They’ve all been in here today, then, and I never noticed.’ Nain chuckled to herself.
‘Why d’you let the hens in, Nain?’ Gwyn asked. ‘They’re such mucky things. Mam would have a fit.’
‘Huh! Your mam would have a fit if she looked under my bed, I expect,’ Nain giggled, ‘but there’s no need to go upsetting people for nothing. Bring the eggs out here.’
Gwyn held out the bottom of his jumper and gathered the eggs into it. He looked for his grandmother behind the screen but she had vanished, and so had the kitchen. There was only a narrow space between rows of plants and metres of crimson velvet. He found the kettle on the windowsill and put the eggs in a green hat beside it. Nain did not seem to be short of hats, so he felt the eggs would be safe enough for the moment. However, she had been known to wear two at a time and so he called out, ‘Don’t put your green hat on yet, Nain!’
His grandmother’s head popped out from a gap in the velvet. ‘Isn’t it grand?’ she purred. ‘I’m going to dance in it.’
‘The hat?’ Gwyn inquired.
‘This, silly boy.’ His grandmother stroked the crimson material.
‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Who knows?’
‘Nain, would you find yourself a cup of tea and then sit down and – concentrate. I’ve got something to show you!’ Gwyn fingered his matchbox again.
‘Was it the wind?’ Nain asked. ‘It was windy yesterday. I thought of you. Quick, a cup of tea.’ She withdrew her head and reappeared a moment later, carrying two