Aberystwyth Mon Amour

I said nothing.

'Cantref-y-Gwaelod,' she repeated.

'Cantref-y-Gwaelod?'

'The fabled dark-age kingdom. They say Lovespoon warned him off, told him to write about something else. But Brainbocs wouldn't listen.'

I was so surprised I said nothing for a while. Calamity stared nonchalantly out of the window as if the revelation that the Welsh teacher had killed a pupil for writing about a mythical kingdom was nothing more than you'd expect.

'This is the legendary kingdom that lay between here and Ireland? The one that sank beneath the waves ten thousand years ago?'

'Yes. They say on moonlit nights you can hear ghostly bells ringing across the sea.'

'I know.'

Do you believe that?'

'No.'

'Neither do I.'

'It's just a folk tale.'

'I'm just telling you what I hear.'

'But I can't see what's so bad about it.'

'Me neither. I once painted a picture of Cantref-y-Gwaelod in art. Scary.'

She slipped off the stool as if to leave and put a scrap of paper down on the counter.

'I got this, too. It's the address of Dai Brainbocs's Mam.'

* * *

I put the paper in my pocket and walked down Terrace Road towards the station. Like most kids who went to school in Aberystwyth I was familiar with the Cantref-y-Gwaelod myth. The folk tale version told how the kingdom lying in the lowland to the west had been protected from the sea by dykes and during a feast one night someone had left the sluice gates open. Similar stories were found all round the coast of Britain and seemed to be a folk memory of the land that was lost with the rising seas following the last ice age. A process that would have taken thousands of years, but which was telescoped into an overnight party in the popular version. Ghostly bells pealing across the waters on moonlit nights were also an integral part of the stories. The stories had some basis in fact — at low tide you could see the remains of an ancient forest on Borth Beach. And Mrs Pugh from Ynyslas had once famously won a rent rebate because of the bells keeping her awake at night. But there had never been any suggestion before that writing about it was bad for your health. Out of curiosity I walked through town to the Dragon's Lair on Station Square. A bell tinkled as I entered; it was one of those shops where you had to stoop to look around because there was so much stock, half of it hanging from the ceiling: a mixture of carved slate barometers, fudge and tea towels with recipes and, towards the back, a more serious selection of books. I headed for the tea towel section where I knew I could find a potted history of the kingdom which wouldn't make too many demands on my attention span. Geraint, the owner, came out from the back to greet me and we exchanged bore das.

'Haven't seen you here for a while, Louie! Are you looking for anything in particular?'

I picked up a tea towel depicting a history of the lost kingdom of Cantref-y-Gwaelod.

'Well, now,' said Geraint, 'you DO surprise me!'

'Really?'

'You're the last person I would expect to be asking about that. How many shall I put you down for? Two, three? Or is it just for yourself?'

'Sorry?'

'Tickets?'

'What are you talking about?'

'Tickets for Cantref-y-Gwaelod — that's what you meant isn't it?'

'You're selling tickets?'

'I can't promise anything, I can just put you on the list like everyone else.'

'I thought the place sank ten thousand years ago?'

'Oh yes.'

'Day out on a submarine, is it?'

'Not quite. Exodus.'

'Exodus?'

'Lovespoon is taking his people back.'

'Back where?'

'Back to Cantref-y-Gwaelod of course. Look, if you're not interested, that's fine. I've got plenty who are.'

'But how can he take people back. They don't come from there.'

'They did originally. Everyone did. Don't you know the story? When the place was flooded everyone who escaped went east. We're all descended from them. Even you.'

Geraint was grinning from ear to ear, but he usually did that anyway.

'So Lovespoon is masterminding an Exodus?'

'Take the folks out of servitude, like. Let my people go!'

'Who's in servitude round here?'

'You don't need chains to be in servitude, Louie. You should know that.'

'I suppose not. Won't it be a bit wet?'

'They're going to reclaim the land. Don't worry, it's all worked out. They're going to rebuild the sea defences and drain the land like in Holland.'

'How are they going to get there?'

'Ark.' Geraint crossed his arms with an air of smug satisfaction. 'It's not finished yet of course, but she'll be a real beauty when she is — four stabilisers, two hundred cabins with en suite, global positioning system and four cappuccino machines.'

'And all made out of gopher wood, I suppose.'

'Gopher wood and South American hardwoods from sustainable plantations. And modern high-performance plastics for below the water line.'

'Where's the ship?'

'Up at the school; special woodwork project:'

'And you're selling tickets for it.'

'Me and the other travel agents.'

'Are you going?'

Geraint faltered. 'Er . . . not immediately! Someone has to mind the shop.' He burst out laughing. 'Hey don't be going on at me! I get ten per cent on each ticket, so where's the harm? At worst they'll have a nice day out on Lovespoon's new boat. Come on. I've just put the kettle on.'

Outside the shop I took out the slip of paper Calamity had given me and looked at the address. Clarach. Four miles out of town and I could make a detour past the school on the way. It was lunch break when I arrived but though the playgrounds were full of children the games field was deserted. It was one of those numerous paradoxes that govern school life. Vast stretches of green fields which the municipality had set aside for play were out of bounds during playtime. Armed with the knowledge from Geraint I could see now that the new building, which I had initially thought resembled an upturned beetle, did indeed look like the beginnings of a ship. An Ark. Brainbocs, the finest schoolboy scholar of the century, had written an essay about the lost kingdom of Cantref-y-Gwaelod. Now his teacher Lovespoon was masterminding a scheme to reclaim the land and sail there in an Ark. What did it all mean? And, more to the point, how on earth were they going to get the boat to the sea? It was five miles away.

*

I found Dai Brainbocs's Mam in her cottage overlooking Clarach. It was the side which faced north and, permanently shielded from the sun, lived in sodden perma-gloom like the homeland of the Snow Queen. I parked my Wolsely Hornet in a lay-by set aside for undiscriminating picnickers and walked along the path cut into the side of the hill. The leaves underfoot squelched and the air had the cloying dampness of a tropical rainforest. The stones of the mouldering cottage had a cheesy consistency and water dripped from the eaves; where the drops fell there were malevolent looking white flowers that probably didn't grow anywhere else in Britain outside Kew Botanical Gardens. I knocked and called out, but getting no answer I pushed the door and went in.

Ma Brainbocs sat moving rhythmically back and forth on a rocking chair in the kitchen. She didn't see me, her head had fallen forward on to her chest and as she rocked she intoned the words 'all gone, all gone' softly to herself. I stood in the kitchen doorway and watched, aware as I did of a dark rheumatic chill seeping insistently up my legs from the floor.

'All gone,' she moaned, 'all gone, my lovely boy.'

'Mrs Brainbocs?'

'All gone, all gone.'

I placed a hand gently on her shoulder and she looked up with unfocused eyes.

'All gone, my boy, all gone.'

'Yes,' I said. 'He's gone. I've come to talk to you about him, about David.'