The Snow Spider Trilogy. Jenny Nimmo

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СКАЧАТЬ Gwyn remarked. ‘Not that you can see anything in this light.’

      ‘There’s tatws!’ she said defiantly, and heaved a plant out of the ground, scattering earth all over Gwyn’s white trainers. Not satisfied with this, she shook the plant violently and Gwyn sprang back, too late, to save the bottoms of his new school trousers.

      ‘Oh heck, Nain!’ he cried. ‘What did you do that for. I’ll get a row?’

      ‘Why didn’t you put your boots on, silly boy?’ she replied. ‘There’s mud all down the lane.’

      ‘I came for a chat, didn’t I? How was I to know I’d be attacked by a madwoman.’

      ‘Ha! Ha! Who’s mad, Gwydion Gwyn?’ Nain loved being teased. ‘Have you brought good news? Are you a magician, then?’

      ‘Can’t we go inside, Nain?’ Gwyn fingered the matchbox in his pocket. He did not want to confide under the stars, someone could be listening, out there in the dark.

      ‘Come on, then! We’ll leave the plants to doze for a bit and have a cup of tea.’ Nain dropped her potatoes, shook out her purple cardigan and stamped across to open the back door.

      The inside of her house was like a bright bowl. All the corners had been rounded off with cupboards and bookcases, and upon every item of furniture there was heaped a jumble of books, bright clothes and exotic plants. The fronds of shawls, trailing leaves and garlands of beads festooned the furniture to such a degree that its identity could not easily be ascertained. The only source of light came from an oil-lamp, and as this was partially obscured by a tall fern, the whole place had a wild and mystical air about it.

      Somewhere, through the jumble, a kettle lurked, and soon this was whistling merrily, while Nain sang from behind a screen embroidered with butterflies, and a canary chattered in its cage.

      Gwyn looked round for a vacant seat. There was none. ‘What shall I do with the eggs, Nain?’ he called.

      ‘How many?’

      Gwyn counted the eggs, nestling in a red woolly hat on the only armchair. ‘Seven,’ he replied.

      ‘Well! Well! They’ve all been in here today, then, and I never noticed.’ Nain chuckled to herself.

      ‘Why d’you let the hens in, Nain?’ Gwyn asked. ‘They’re such mucky things. Mam would have a fit.’

      ‘Huh! Your mam would have a fit if she looked under my bed, I expect,’ Nain giggled, ‘but there’s no need to go upsetting people for nothing. Bring the eggs out here.’

      Gwyn held out the bottom of his jumper and gathered the eggs into it. He looked for his grandmother behind the screen but she had vanished, and so had the kitchen. There was only a narrow space between rows of plants and metres of crimson velvet. He found the kettle on the windowsill and put the eggs in a green hat beside it. Nain did not seem to be short of hats, so he felt the eggs would be safe enough for the moment. However, she had been known to wear two at a time and so he called out, ‘Don’t put your green hat on yet, Nain!’

      His grandmother’s head popped out from a gap in the velvet. ‘Isn’t it grand?’ she purred. ‘I’m going to dance in it.’

      ‘The hat?’ Gwyn inquired.

      ‘This, silly boy.’ His grandmother stroked the crimson material.

      ‘Where?’ he asked.

      ‘Who knows?’

      ‘Nain, would you find yourself a cup of tea and then sit down and – concentrate. I’ve got something to show you!’ Gwyn fingered his matchbox again.

      ‘Was it the wind?’ Nain asked. ‘It was windy yesterday. I thought of you. Quick, a cup of tea.’ She withdrew her head and reappeared a moment later, carrying two blue enamel mugs. ‘One for you?’

      ‘No thanks, Nain!’ His grandmother did not use conventional tea-leaves. Her tea was made from nettles or dried roots. Sometimes it was palatable, most often it was not. Today Gwyn preferred not to risk it.

      He waited until his grandmother had settled herself in the armchair and sipped her tea before he knelt beside her and took out the matchbox. He wanted her undivided attention for his revelation. Even so he was unprepared for the ecstatic gasp that accompanied Nain’s first glimpse of the spider, when he gently withdrew the lid. The tiny creature crawled on to his hand, glowing in the dark room, and Nain’s eyes sparkled like a child’s. ‘How did it come?’ Her whisper was harsh with excitement.

      ‘In the snow,’ Gwyn replied. ‘I thought it was a snowflake. It was the brooch, I think. I gave it to the wind, like you said, and this . . . came back!’

      ‘So,’ Nain murmured triumphantly, ‘you are a magician then, Gwydion Gwyn, as I thought. See what you have made!’

      ‘But did I make it, Nain? I believe it has come from somewhere else. Some far, far place . . . I don’t know, beyond the world, I think.’

      ‘Then you called it, you brought it here, Gwydion Gwyn. Did you call?’

      ‘I did but . . .’ Gwyn hesitated, ‘I called into the snow, the names you said: Math, Lord of Gwynedd, Gwydion and Gilfaethwy. Those were the only words.’

      ‘They were the right words, boy. You called to your ancestors. The magicians heard your voice and took the brooch to where it had to go, and now you have the spider!’ Nain took the spider from Gwyn and placed it on her arm. Then she got up and began to dance through the shadowy wilderness of her room. The tiny glowing creature moved slowly up her purple sleeve, until it came to her shoulder, and there it rested, shining like a star beneath her wild black curls.

      Gwyn watched and felt that it was Nain who was the magician and he the enchanted one.

      Suddenly his grandmother swooped back and, taking the spider from her hair, put it gently into his hands. ‘Arianwen,’ she said. ‘White silver! Call her Arianwen; she must have a name!’

      ‘And what now?’ asked Gwyn. ‘What becomes of Arianwen? Should I tell about her? Take her to a museum?’

      ‘Never! Never! Never!’ said Nain fiercely. ‘They wouldn’t understand. She has come from another world to bring you closer to the thing you want.’

      ‘I want to see my sister,’ said Gwyn. ‘I want things the way they were before she went.’

      Nain looked at Gwyn through half-closed eyes. ‘It’s just the beginning, Gwydion Gwyn, you’ll see. You’ll be alone, mind. You cannot tell. A magician can have his heart’s desire if he truly wishes it, but he will always be alone.’ She propelled her grandson gently but firmly towards the door. ‘Go home now or they’ll come looking, and never tell a soul!’

      

      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 neighbour, leaving a note for her son on the kitchen table,

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