"Yes! You know I can't abide cobwebs." Mrs. Griffiths had finished the pastry, but still she did not look up.
"What did you do with it?"
"I put it down the drain," his mother said flatly. "Drowned it!"
Gwyn was speechless. He could not believe what he had heard. His mother had to be joking. He stared at her, hoping for a smile or a teasing word, but she kept tearing little pieces away from the pastry and would not meet his eyes.
And then Gwyn found himself screaming, "Drowned? Drowned? You can't have done that!"
"Well, I did!" At last his mother faced him. "You know I don't like spiders. Why did you keep it so long?" She could not explain to Gwyn that she was afraid, not only of the spider, but of the strange girl who could not be her daughter, yet seemed so like her, and who was beginning to take her daughter's place.
"You don't understand," Gwyn cried. "You don't know what you've done!" He ran to the kitchen sink. "Did you put it down here? Where does the drain go to?"
"The septic tank," Mrs. Griffiths said defiantly. Guilt was making her angry. "And you can't look there. Nothing can live in that stuff. The spider's dead."
Chapter 7
THE BROKEN HORSE
"No! No! No!" Gwyn rushed out of the kitchen and up to his room. He regarded the dark places where cobwebs had sparkled with snow from that other world. The room seemed unbearably empty without them. He flung himself onto the bed and tried to tell himself that Arianwen was not gone forever. Surely he had the power to bring her back.
But he had nothing left for the wind. All Nain's gifts had been used up: the brooch, the whistle, the seaweed, and the scarf. Only one thing remained — the broken horse.
Gwyn got up and went over to the chest of drawers. He tried to open the top drawer but it seemed to be stuck. He shook it and the silver pipe rolled off the top. He bent to pick it up, and as he touched it, a sound came from it like whispering or the sea.
He ignored the sound and left the pipe on his bed while he continued to wrestle with the drawer. It suddenly burst open and almost fell out with the force that Gwyn had exerted on it.
The black horse lay within. It was alone and broken, grotesque without ears and a tail. Its lips were parted as if in pain, and Gwyn was overwhelmed by a feeling of pity. He took the horse out of the drawer and examined it closely. "Dim hon!" he murmured, reading again the tiny scrap of yellowing paper tied to its neck. "Not this! Why Not this? This is all I have!"
From the bed the pipe whispered, "Not this! Not this! Not this!"
But Gwyn was not listening.
The following morning Gwyn woke up with a sore throat and a cold.
"You'd better stay indoors," his mother told him over breakfast. "No use getting worse or spreading your germs."
Gwyn was about to remark that other people carried germs about, but thought better of it. He would not mind missing a day of school. And if, by some miracle, Arianwen had escaped the septic tank, she would fare better if she had a friend nearby.
"I'm not staying in bed!" he said sulkily. He had not forgiven his mother.
"I didn't say in bed," she retorted.
"I don't want to stay indoors either."
"Please yourself! I'm only thinking of your own good!"
Mr. Griffiths did not seem to be aware of the harsh tones flying round the breakfast table. He took himself off to the milking shed, still whistling.
Gwyn went up to the attic and put on his coat. The sun was shining and the air was warm. He went downstairs and out through the back door into the yard. To the left a row of barns formed a right angle with a long cowshed directly opposite the back door. To the right, a stone wall completed the enclosure. Within the wall a wide gate led to the mountain path. And somewhere in the field beyond that gate lay the septic tank.
Gwyn climbed over the gate and jumped down into the field.
A circle of hawthorn trees surrounded the area where the septic tank lay buried under half a meter of earth. The trees were ancient, their gray branches scarred with deep fissures. It always came as a surprise when white blossoms appeared on them in spring. Sheep had ambled round the thorn trees and nibbled the grass smooth. Not even a thistle was left to give shelter to a small stray creature.
Gwyn stood at the edge of the circle and contemplated the place where Arianwen may have ended her journey from the kitchen sink. He imagined her silver body whirling in a tide of black greasy water, and he was filled with helpless rage.
Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he stepped away from the hawthorn circle and began to stroll up the mountain. As the path wound upward, the field beside it sloped gently down towards the valley until, a mile beyond the farmhouse at a sharp bend, there was a sheer drop of ten meters from the path to the field below. Here, where a low stone wall gave some protection for the unwary, Gwyn stopped. There was something hard in his right pocket. He withdrew his hand and found that he was holding the broken horse. He must have slipped it into his pocket by accident the night before.
He stared at the poor broken thing and then looked back at the farmhouse. A wreath of smoke streamed from the chimney into the blue sky. A blackbird sang in the orchard, and he could see his mother hanging out the laundry. A breeze had set the pillowcases flying, and a pink curtain flapped from an upstairs window. It was such a peaceful, ordinary scene. And then his gaze fell upon the ring of hawthorn trees, and he hated the morning for being beautiful while Arianwen was dying in the dark.
Gwyn swung out his right hand and then hesitated. The horse seemed to be staring at him with its wild lidless eyes, inviting him to set it free. Its maimed mouth was grinning in anticipation. All at once Gwyn felt afraid of what he was about to do, but his grasp had slackened, and in that moment a gust of wind tore the horse away. His hand tightened on empty air. The wind carried the tiny object over a flock of sheep that neither saw nor cared about it. Some of the animals raised their heads when the boy above them cried out, "Go! Go then, and bring her back to me if you can! Arianwen! Arianwen! Arianwen!"
The broken horse vanished from sight, and as it did so, a low moan rumbled through the air. A black cloud passed across the sun, and the white sheep became gray.
Gwyn turned away to continue his walk, but after he had gone a few steps it began to rain — only a few drops at first, and then suddenly it was as if a cloud had burst and water poured down upon his head in torrents. He began to run back down the path. By the time he reached the house, the rain had become a hailstorm. His mother was bundling the wet laundry back into the kitchen, and Gwyn took an armful from her, fearing that it was he who had brought the storm upon them.
And storm it was, sudden, frightening, and ferocious. It beat upon the windows and tore into the barn roofs, causing the cattle to shift and grumble in their stalls. It shook the gates until they opened, and the terrified sheep poured into the garden and the yard. The hens shrieked and flapped battered, soaking wings as they ran to the hen house. And once there they added their voices to the terrible discord of the other animals.
The sky turned inky black, and Mrs. Griffiths put the lights on in the house. But the power failed and they were left in the dark, surrounded by the sounds of distressed creatures that they could not help.
Mr. Griffiths burst through the back door, his big boots shiny with mud.
"The lane's like a river," he exclaimed. "I've never seen anything like it."
"What is it, Ivor?" whispered his wife. "It was such a beautiful day."
"Just a storm." Mr. Griffiths tried to sound calm. "It'll blow itself out eventually."
Will it? Gwyn thought. Have I done this?