The Snow Spider Trilogy. Jenny Nimmo

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      But the wind did not reply. It howled about Gwyn’s head and tore at his clothes, then slowly it died away taking, somewhere within its swirling streams and currents, the precious brooch, and leaving nothing in return.

      Then, from the west, came a silver-white cloud of snow, obscuring within minutes the sea, the surrounding mountains and the fields below. And, as the snow began to encircle and embrace him, Gwyn found himself chanting, ‘Math, Lord of Gwynedd, Gwydion and Gilfaethwy!’ This he repeated, over and over again, not knowing whether he was calling to the living or the dead. And all the while, huge snowflakes drifted silently about him, melting as they touched him, so that he did not turn into the snowman that he might otherwise have become.

      Gwyn stood motionless for what seemed like hours, enveloped in a soft, serene whiteness, waiting for an answer. Yet, had Nain promised him an answer? In the stillness he thought he heard a sound, very high and light, like icicles on glass.

      His legs began to ache, his face grew numb with cold and, when night clouds darkened the sky, he began his descent, resentful and forlorn.

      The lower slopes of the mountain were still green, the snow had not touched them and it was difficult for Gwyn to believe he had been standing deep in snow only minutes earlier. Only from the last field could the summit be seen, but by the time Gwyn reached the field the mountain was obscured by mist, and he could not tell if snow still lay above.

      It was dark when he got home. Before opening the back door he stamped his boots. His absence from the farm all day would not be appreciated, he realised, and he did not wish to aggravate the situation with muddy boots. He raised his hand to brush his shoulders free of the dust he usually managed to collect, and his fingers encountered something icy cold.

      Believing it to be a snowflake or even an icicle, Gwyn plucked it off his shoulder and moved closer to the kitchen window to examine what he had found. His mother had not yet drawn the curtains and light streamed into the yard.

      It was a snowflake; the most beautiful he had ever seen, for it was magnified into an exquisite and intricate pattern: a star glistening like crystal in the soft light. And then the most extraordinary thing happened. The star began to move and Gwyn stared amazed as it gradually assumed the shape of a tiny silver spider. Had the wind heard him after all? Was he a magician then?

      ‘Gwyn, is that you out there? You’ll have no tea if you hang about any longer.’ His mother had spied him from the window.

      Gwyn closed his fingers over the spider and tried to open the back door with his left hand. The door was jerked back violently and his father pulled him into the kitchen.

      ‘What the hell are you doing out there? You’re late! Can’t you open a door now?’ Mr Griffiths had flecks of mud on his spectacles; Gwyn tried not to look at them.

      ‘My hands are cold,’ he said.

      ‘Tea’ll be cold too,’ grumbled Mr Griffiths. ‘Get your boots off and sit down. Where were you this afternoon? You were needed. That mad cockerel’s out again. We won’t have a Christmas dinner if he doesn’t stay put.’

      With some difficulty Gwyn managed to remove his boots with his left hand. ‘I’m just going upstairs,’ he said airily.

      ‘Gwyn, whatever are you up to?’ asked his mother. ‘Wash your hands and sit down.’

      ‘I’ve got to go upstairs,’ Gwyn insisted.

      ‘But Gwyn . . .’

      ‘Please, Mam!’

      Mrs Griffiths shrugged and turned back to the stove. Her husband had begun to chew bacon and was not interested in Gwyn’s hasty flight through the kitchen.

      Tumbling into his bedroom Gwyn scanned the place for something in which to hide his spider. He could think of nothing but the drawer. Placing the spider gently on to the yellow scarf, he pushed the drawer back, leaving a few centimetres for air, then fled downstairs.

      He got an interrogation in the kitchen.

      Mrs Griffiths began it. ‘Whatever made you run off like that this afternoon?’ she complained. ‘Didn’t you hear me call?’

      ‘No, it was windy,’ Gwyn replied cheerfully.

      ‘Well, what was it you were doing all that time? I rang Mrs Lloyd, you weren’t there.’

      ‘No,’ said Gwyn, ‘I wasn’t!’

      ‘Not giving much away, are you?’ Mr Griffiths muttered from behind a mug of tea. ‘It’s no use trying to get that cockerel now it’s dark,’ he went on irritably. ‘We’ll have to be up sharp in the morning.’

      ‘Won’t have any trouble waking if he’s out,’ Gwyn sniggered.

      ‘It would take more than a cockerel to wake you some mornings,’ laughed his mother. At least she had recovered her good humour.

      After tea Mr Griffiths vanished into his workshop. His work-load of farm repairs seemed to increase rather than diminish, and Gwyn often wondered if it was his father’s way of avoiding conversation.

      He thought, impatiently, of the drawer in his room, while his mother chattered about Christmas and the cockerel. Then, excusing himself with a quick hug, Gwyn left his mother to talk to the cat and, trying not to show an unnatural enthusiasm for bed, crossed the passage and climbed the stairs slowly, but two at a time.

      His bedroom door was open and there appeared to be a soft glow within. On entering the room Gwyn froze. There were shadows on the wall: seven helmeted figures, motionless beside his bed. He turned, fearfully, to locate the source of light. It came from behind a row of toy spacemen standing on the chest of drawers. Gwyn breathed a sigh of relief and approached the spacemen.

      The silver spider had climbed out of the drawer. It was glowing in the dark!

      Gwyn brushed his toys aside and hesitantly held out his hand to the spider. It crawled into his open palm and, gently, he raised it closer to his face. The spider’s touch was icy cold, and yet the glow that it shed on his face had a certain strange warmth that seemed to penetrate every part of his body.

      He held the spider for several minutes, admiring the exquisite pattern on its back and wondering whether there was more to the tiny creature than a superficial beauty. It had come in exchange for the brooch, of that he was certain. But was it really he who had transformed the brooch? Or had the extraordinary spider come from a place beyond his world? He resolved to keep it a secret until he could consult his grandmother the following evening.

      Replacing the spider in the drawer, Gwyn went downstairs to fetch a book. When he returned the glow came from the bedpost and, deciding that he had no need of an electric light, he sat on the bed and read his book beside the spider. It was an exceptional sensation, reading by spiderlight.

      * * *

      Nain was gardening by lamplight when Gwyn found her. She was wearing her sunhat and a bright purple cardigan. The sky was dark and frost had begun to sparkle on the ground.

      ‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’ said Gwyn, approaching his grandmother down the cinder path.

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