The Snow Spider Trilogy. Jenny Nimmo

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      Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he stepped away from the hawthorn circle and began to stroll up the mountain. As the track wound upward, so the field beside it sloped gently down towards the valley until, a mile beyond the farmhouse on a sharp bend, there occurred a sheer drop of ten metres between the track and the field below. Here Gwyn stopped, where a low stone wall gave some protection for the unwary. 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 washing. A breeze had set the pillowslips 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 thorn trees and he hated the morning for being beautiful while Arianwen was dying in the dark.

      Gwyn swung out his right hand, and 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 and his hand tightened on empty air. The wind carried the tiny object over a flock of sheep that neither saw nor cared about it, but 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 grey.

      Gwyn turned away to continue his walk, but after he had taken a few paces it began to rain, only a few drops at first, and then suddenly it was as if a cloud had burst above and water poured down upon his head in torrents. He began to run back down the track and by the time he reached the house the rain had become a hailstorm. His mother was bundling the wet washing back into the kitchen, and he 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 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 did not stop their noise but 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 track’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?

      They lit a candle and sat round the table drinking tea. Mrs Griffiths seemed the only one capable of speech. ‘Whatever’s happened?’ she kept murmuring. ‘It’s like the end of the world. And Gwyn with a cold, too.’

      The storm abated a little in the afternoon. The hail turned to rain again and they were able to attend to the animals. But the air still cracked and rumbled and the dog was too terrified to work effectively. Gwyn and his father had a hard time driving the sheep out of the garden and through torrents of running mud, to the field.

      They managed to get the ewes into an open barn, where they remained, anxious but subdued.

      ‘They’ll lose their lambs if it goes on like this,’ said Mr Griffiths.

      The yard had become a whirlpool and they had to use a torch to find their way safely to the cowsheds. The cows were in a state of panic. They trembled and twisted, bellowing mournfully. In the torchlight, the whites of their eyes bulged in their black faces and though they were full of milk they refused to be touched.

      Mr Griffiths loved his black cows. He loved to be close to them and he still milked by hand, ignoring the cold electric apparatus other farmers preferred. He stood in the cowshed suffering with his animals, dismayed by their condition.

      ‘What is it?’ he muttered. ‘It can’t be the storm. I’ve never seen them like this.’

      ‘Leave them till later, Dad,’ Gwyn suggested. ‘They’ll calm down when the wind dies.’

      ‘It’s like the devil’s in there,’ said his father, closing the big door on his cattle.

      They waded back to the kitchen door, leaving their sodden macs and boots in the narrow porch outside. A cloud of water followed them into the room but, for once, Mrs Griffiths did not seem concerned. She was looking out of the window on the opposite side of the room. ‘I’m thinking about Nain,’ she said. ‘The lane is like a river, her front door rattles even in a breeze and you never fixed her roof in spring, like you said you would, Ivor.’

      ‘I’ll go and see her in a bit.’ Her husband sighed and sank into a chair.

      ‘I’ll go,’ Gwyn offered. He wondered how Alun and the other Lloyds had fared in the storm.

      The Lloyds were already at home. Fearing that her little ones would be soaked if they had to walk up the lane, Mrs Lloyd had fetched her family by car. And just as well, for Iolo was mad with fear. He hated thunder.

      Alun was in the room he shared with his brothers. He was standing by the window, watching the rain while the twins argued on the floor behind him. Alun enjoyed a storm; he relished the noise and the violence. He gazed at the contortions of the trees, hoping that one might fall. And then he saw something.

      Someone was out in the storm. Someone small and alone: a pale shape, moving slowly against the wind and the water.

      The figure stopped opposite the Lloyds’ gate, on the other side of the lane. Alun saw a face, white in the light from the window, looking up at him, and he knew who it was. Her hood had fallen back and her soaking hair hung in ash-coloured strands over her hunched shoulders. She was holding one arm across her chest and looked frightened and exhausted.

      Alun quickly drew the curtains and turned away from the window.

      ‘What is it?’ asked Gareth. ‘What did you see out there? You look funny.’

      ‘I didn’t see nothing,’ Alun replied. ‘Only the storm.’

      ‘Looks like you saw a ghost to me,’ said Siôn.

      Gwyn was on the front porch, drawing on his boots. His mother helped him with his mac, buttoning it tightly at the neck.

      ‘Don’t be long, now,’ she said. ‘Just pop in and see if your grandmother needs anything. Come straight back or your cold’ll get worse.’

      ‘It’s gone,’ said Gwyn. ‘The water’s washed it away,’ and he tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in his throat.

      He ran down the side of the СКАЧАТЬ