The Snow Spider Trilogy. Jenny Nimmo

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      ‘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 on to the bed and tried to tell himself that Arianwen had 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 appeared to have 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 continuted 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 should have escaped the septic tank, she would fare better if she had a friend near at hand.

      ‘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 good!’

      Mr Griffiths did not seem to be aware of the acrimony 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 anorak. The sun was shining and the air was warm. He went downstairs and out through the back door into the yard. To the left of the yard 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 on to the mountain track, and somewhere in the field beyond that gate lay the septic tank.

      Gwyn wandered towards the gate, climbed over it and jumped down into the field.

      A circle of hawthorn trees surrounded the area where the septic tank lay, buried under half a metre of earth. The trees were ancient, their grey branches scarred with deep fissures. It always came as a surprise when white blossom appeared on them in spring. Sheep had ambled round the thorn trees and nibbled the grass smooth. Not even a thistle had been left to give shelter to a small stray creature.

      Gwyn stood at the edge of the circle and contemplated the place where Arianwen СКАЧАТЬ