Chapter 3
THE GIRL IN THE WEB
The farmhouse was empty when Gwyn reached home. Mr. Griffiths could be heard drilling in his workshop. Mrs. Griffiths had popped out to see a neighbor, leaving a note for her son on the kitchen table,
Soup on the stove.
Heat it up if it's cold
"The soup or the stove?" Gwyn muttered to himself. He opened the stove door, but the red embers looked so warm and comforting he was reluctant to cover them with fresh coal. He turned off the light and knelt beside the fire, holding out his hands to the warmth.
He must have put the matchbox down somewhere, and he must have left it open, because he suddenly became aware that Arianwen was climbing up the back of the armchair. When she reached the top she swung down to the arm, leaving a silver thread behind her. Up she went to the top again, and then down, her silk glistening in the firelight. Now the spider was swinging and spinning back and forth across the chair so fast that Gwyn could only see a spark shooting over an ever-widening sheet of silver.
"A cobweb!" he breathed.
And yet it was not a cobweb. There was someone there. Someone was sitting where the cobweb should have been. A girl with long pale hair and smiling eyes: Bethan, sitting just as she used to sit, with her legs tucked under her and one hand resting on the arm of the chair, the other supporting her chin as she gazed into the fire. Still Arianwen spun, tracing the girl's face, her fingers, her hair, until every feature became so clear Gwyn felt he could have touched the girl.
The tiny spider entwined the silk on one last corner and then ceased her feverish activity. She waited, just above the girl's head, allowing Gwyn to contemplate her creation without interruption.
Was the girl an illusion? An image on a silver screen? No, she was more than that. Gwyn could see the impression her elbow made on the arm of the chair. He could see the fibers in her skirt and the lines on her slim, pale hand.
Only Bethan had ever sat like that. Only Bethan had gazed into the fire in just that way. But his sister was dark with rosy cheeks, her skin tanned golden by the wind. This girl was fragile and so silver-pale she might have been made of gossamer.
"Bethan?" Gwyn whispered. He stretched out his hand towards the girl.
A ripple spread across the shining image, as water moves when a stone hits it. Gwyn did not notice a cool draft entering the kitchen as the door began to open.
"Bethan?" he said again.
The figure shivered violently as the door swung wider and the light went on. The girl in the cobweb hovered momentarily, then began to fragment and fade until Gwyn was left staring into an empty chair. His hand dropped to his side.
"Gwyn! What are you doing, love? What are you staring at?" His mother came round the chair and looked down at him, frowning anxiously.
Gwyn found that speech was not within his power. Part of his strength seemed to have evaporated with the girl.
"Who were you talking to? Why were you sitting in the dark?" Concern caused Mrs. Griffiths to speak sharply.
Her son swallowed but failed to utter a sound. He stared up at her helplessly.
"Stop it, Gwyn! Stop looking at me like that! Get up! Say something!" His mother shook his shoulders and pulled him to his feet.
He stumbled over to the table and sat down, trying desperately to drag himself away from the image in the cobweb. The girl had smiled at him before she vanished, and he knew that she was real.
Mrs. Griffiths ignored him now, busying herself about the stove, shovelling in coal, warming up the soup. By the time the soup sat steaming in a bowl before him, he had recovered enough to say, "Thanks, Mam!"
"Perhaps you can tell me what you were doing?" his mother persisted, calmer now that she had done something practical.
"I was just cold, Mam. It's nice by the stove when the door is open. I sort of. . dozed and. . couldn't wake up." Gwyn tried to explain away something his mother would neither believe nor understand.
"Well, you're a funny one. I would have been here, but I wanted to pickle some of those tomatoes, so I had to run down to Betty Lloyd for sugar." Mrs. Griffiths chattered on, somewhat nervously Gwyn thought, while he sat passively, trying to make appropriate remarks during her pauses.
His father's return from the workshop brought Gwyn to life. "Don't sit down, Dad!" he cried, leaping towards the armchair.
"What on earth? What's got into you, boy?" Mr. Griffiths was taken by surprise.
"It's a matchbox," Gwyn explained. "In the chair. I don't want it squashed."
"What's so special about a matchbox?"
"There's something in it, a particular sort of insect," stammered Gwyn. "For school," he added. "It's important, see?"
His father shook the cushions irritably. "Nothing there," he said, and sat down heavily in the chair.
"Here's a matchbox," said Mrs. Griffiths, "on the floor." She opened the box. "But there's nothing in it."
"Oh, heck!" Gwyn moaned.
"What sort of insect was it, love? Perhaps we can find it for you." His mother was always eager to help where school was concerned.
"A spider," Gwyn said.
"Oh, Gwyn," moaned Mrs. Griffiths, "not spiders. I've just cleaned this house from top to bottom. I can't abide cobwebs."
"Spiders eat flies," Gwyn retorted.
"There are no flies in this house," thundered Mr. Griffiths, "and when you've found your 'particular' spider, you keep it in that box. If I find it anywhere near my dinner, I'll squash it with my fist, school or no school!"
"You're a mean old. . man!" cried Gwyn.
Mrs. Griffiths gave an anguished sigh as her husband stood up. But Gwyn fled before another word could be spoken. He climbed up to his bedroom. Nothing followed, not even a shout.
He turned on the light as soon as he entered the room, so he was not immediately aware of the glow coming from the open top drawer. As he walked over to the window to draw the curtains, he looked down and saw Arianwen sitting on the whistle. Incredibly, she must have pulled the whistle from beneath the yellow scarf. But as Gwyn considered this, he realized it was no doubt a small feat for a creature who had just conjured a girl in her web. And what about the girl? Had she been mere gossamer after all, a trick of the firelight on a silver cobweb?
"Why couldn't you stay where you were?" Gwyn inquired of the spider. "You caused me a bit of bother just now!"
Arianwen moved slowly to the end of the whistle. It occurred to Gwyn that she had selected it for some special purpose.
"Now?" he asked in a whisper.
Arianwen crawled off the whistle.
Gwyn picked it up and held it to his lips. It was cracked; only a thin sound came from it. He shrugged and opened the window. Arianwen climbed out of the drawer and swung herself onto his sleeve.
"But there's no wind," he said softly. He held his arm up to the open window. "See, no wind at all."
The spider crawled onto the window frame and climbed up to the top. When she reached the center she let herself drop on a shining thread until she hung just above Gwyn's head, a tiny lantern glowing against the black sky.
Gwyn had been wrong. There was a wind, for now the spider was swaying in the open window. He could feel a breath of ice-cold air on his face.
"Shall I say something?" he mused. "What shall I say?"
Then, without any hesitation he called, "Gwydion! Gwydion! I am Gwydion! I am Math and Gil-faethwy!"
Even as he said the words, the breeze became an icy blast, rattling the window and tugging at his hair. He stepped back, amazed by the sudden violence in the air.