The Snow Spider Trilogy. Jenny Nimmo

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      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, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, the other supporting her chin as she gazed into the fire. And still Arianwen spun, tracing the girl’s face, her fingers and 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, the fibres in her skirt, the lines on her slim, pale hand.

      Only Bethan had ever sat thus. Only Bethan had gazed into the fire in such a way. But his sister was dark, her cheeks were rosy, 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, and he stretched out his hand towards the girl.

      A ripple spread across the shining image, as water moves when a stone pierces the surface, but Gwyn did not notice a cool draught entering the kitchen as the door began to open.

      ‘Bethan?’ he said again.

      The figure shivered violently as the door swung wider, and then the light went on. The girl in the cobweb hovered momentarily and gradually began to fragment and to 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 meal was ready and sat steaming in a bowl before him, he had recovered enough to say, ‘Thanks, Mam!’

      ‘Perhaps you can tell me what you were doing, then?’ 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 . . . 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 and 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 in the few gaps that her commentary allowed.

      His father’s return from the workshop brought Gwyn to life. ‘Don’t sit down, Da!’ 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 armchair.

      ‘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, and her husband stood up. But Gwyn fled before another word could be spoken. He climbed up to his bedroom and nothing followed, not even a shout.

      He had 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. He walked over to the window to draw the curtains and looked down to see Arianwen sitting on the whistle. Incredibly, she must have pulled the whistle from beneath the yellow scarf. But, on consideration, Gwyn realised it was a small feat for a creature who had just conjured a girl into her web. And what of the girl now? 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 and 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 and only a thin sound came from it. He shrugged and opened the window. Arianwen climbed out of the drawer and swung herself on to his sleeve.

      ‘But there’s no wind,’ he said softly, and he held his arm up to the open window. ‘See, no wind at СКАЧАТЬ