A String in the Harp (38 page)

One day passed into another and Taliesin was at peace with his solitude, but he had not gone unnoticed. The boy Gwion had been one of many like himself, the bard Taliesin was not. And when this storm came, it brought more with it than wind and rain. It brought riders down from the north, out of Dyganwy, at their head Maelgwn himself, of whom it was written that he was “strong in arms, but stronger still in what kills the soul . . .” He was a great bear of a man with a black beard, unruly black hair and wild eyebrows above eyes that were hard as flint. The men who followed him would follow him to Arawn, Lord of Hell, if commanded and, according to many, were bound to in the end.

They rode up to the hut and Maelgwn’s voice bellowed through the growl of thunder: “Taliesin! It is Maelgwn Gwynedd who summons you!”

“I am here.” He appeared in the doorway, his legs slightly apart, his hands resting lightly on his hips.

Maelgwn dismounted, waving his men to keep their horses.

“Why have you come here?” he demanded.

“This is my home,” replied Taliesin mildly. “I’ve come home.”

A cold smile touched Maelgwn’s mouth, twisting it oddly. “You do not belong in Gwynedd, Taliesin. I should have thought you would know that without my telling you.”

“I do no harm to anyone here, Maelgwn.”

“You dare say that to me? You, who came to Gwynedd as a thief years past and stole what was rightfully mine with your treachery? Do you truly believe you could return unchallenged? If so, you are more of a fool than I had thought.”

“I stole nothing. Nor did I trick you. It was you who went south and stole from Gwyddno Garanhir. You agreed to the contest I proposed, Maelgwn.”

The king’s tangled brows drew together; he was not used to being answered back. “You!” he roared, pointing at Taliesin. “You are not welcome in Gwynedd!”

“I only want to be left to myself here in the village where I was born. I ask only this hut and the chance to make a bare living. I am old, Maelgwn, I do no harm. I want my peace.”

“You shall have none here! I will not permit you to stay in my country!”

Taliesin sighed. “I can do you no injury.”

“Your presence here offends me! I am not stupid, I do not forget. You wronged me, Taliesin, and I do not forgive. Ceretic!”

“Here, Sire.” A long, dour-looking man dismounted and came to stand beside Maelgwn.

“Take this man and—” the King paused and looked hard, consideringly, at Taliesin. “Put him in an empty coracle as he stands there and set it loose on the sea. I will have no more to do with him, I will waste no more time here! I do not wish to set eyes on him again, do you understand?”

Ceretic inclined his head and signaled for two more men.

“I am sorry.” Taliesin’s voice was sad and resigned. “You have no need to wish me ill.”

Maelgwn turned on his heel, leaped astride his nervous horse and cut hard with the hazel switch he carried in his belt. The horse bounded away, followed by all but the three men who had dismounted.

Taliesin raised his arms to show he had no weapon and
meant no resistance and went with them. The brown dog, Hu, stuck to him like a shadow. The men did not allow Taliesin to take either his harp or his cloak, and as he left the village this time, he did not look back.

***

One of Jen’s “assignments” from her father during the spring and summer terms was to keep a journal. “You need practice writing,” he told her. “You’ve got to keep at it or you get rusty. And I think you’ll be glad later if you keep a journal now.”

Jen began by doubting it. She found it a chore to think of things worth writing down at first, but gradually it got easier. She looked around herself and noticed details she would otherwise have missed; she thought harder about people and the country, the weather, herself, her family.

David trusted her to keep the notebook; he never asked to see it, but Jen learned to discuss parts of it with him. The distance between them dwindled and they could talk. There were still questions Jen knew her father couldn’t answer for her, and she often missed her mother. But the excruciating, immediate pain of loss was gone, instead she felt a gentle ache of longing.

Suddenly Jen had grown up. She couldn’t deny it whether she wanted to or not, and she needed time to herself to understand her new feelings. She hoped fervently that she would know enough to be able to help Becky when the time came. In spite of her self-sufficiency, Becky would need help.

The journal gained importance, for in it Jen could put her most private thoughts in some kind of order that made sense.

With the journal, the house, and her other schoolwork, Jen’s days were comfortably busy. She didn’t mind being alone while the others were off at school and University, but she was glad to see them when they came back at night. It was good to sit around the kitchen table, eating supper or doing homework with Becky, Peter, and David.

But the routine of life at Bryn Celyn was abruptly interrupted the second week of term when Peter appeared at the breakfast table Monday in his bathrobe and slippers.

“You’ll be terribly late!” exclaimed Becky. Then, “You look
awful!”

David glanced up from his bowl of cornflakes and saw Peter’s puffy, red face and running nose. “Good lord, what are you coming down with? You do look awful! Come here—have you got a fever?”

“I feel terrible. I’b dnot goig to school.” Peter sneezed violently.

David held him at arm’s length, his hand on Peter’s forehead. “You’re hot. Are you sick to your stomach?”

“Dno. Dnot yet.”

“Orange juice,” said Jen automatically, reaching for the pitcher. The Morgan family doctor had always said to drink quarts and quarts of orange juice, no matter what was the matter with any of them. Orange juice was linked in Jen’s mind with every kind of ailment from a broken collarbone to measles and influenza.

“Dno!” cried Peter, looking almost pale. “I couldn’t—don’t want anythig!”

“Back to bed,” ordered David. He checked his watch. “Jen, if you can hold the fort, I’ll go and call Mr. Griffith and tell him not to expect Peter in school for a few days. I’ll check with Dr. Pugh as well. It looks like a cold, but I want to be sure it isn’t worse.”

“I guess we’re lucky this is the first,” said Jen, resigned.

“You could get Mrs. Davies to help,” suggested Becky. “She’d be glad to give you all kinds of advice, I’m sure.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Jen tartly. “It may come to that, but not yet! Mothers get stuck with all kinds of dirty work, don’t they?”

Becky and David went. Jen put the kitchen in order and made a second piece of toast for herself, then looked in on
Peter. She’d always hated nurse games when she was a little girl, and it was no different now. Except that Peter was really sick and she had to look after him, but she hadn’t any idea what she ought to do for him.

“Peter?” She spoke to the long thin lump on his bed. The curtains were drawn across the window, making a dull gray patch on the wall. “Do you want anything?”

“Dno.”

“Are you warm enough?”

“I don’t want a
thig.
By head aches.”

“Well, if you’re sure. I’ll be in the house if you change your mind.” Jen withdrew thankfully and went upstairs to make her bed. But Peter stayed very much on her mind and she worried about him. He so seldom got sick.

David was home early and he brought Dr. Pugh, a small, dark Welshman with—Peter complained later—very cold hands. He poked about at Peter, made him open his mouth—“Wiyde, yess, wiyde, please”—and took his temperature. He wrote a few words on a prescription blank that might or might not have been in Welsh and handed it to David.

“Not to worry, Mr. Morgan. Keep him quiet for a few days and he will be right enough. Only a cold, it is.” He added cheerfully, “Infectious, you know.”

“Yes,” said David. “Thank you.”

“If either of you so much as sneezes, I won’t be responsible,” Jen warned when Dr. Pugh had gone. “One’s bad enough.”

“It could be you, of course,” Becky pointed out reasonably.

“Becky, go on down to the chemist and get this filled, will you please?” said David.

“Ab I goig to die?” asked Peter morosely from his bedroom.

“Not likely,” David replied briskly. “I wonder where you caught it?”

***

Peter spent an uncomfortable night. The pills Dr. Pugh prescribed did help clear his head and he could breathe more easily, but he was hot and restless. He was oppressed by an unexplained foreboding. Something was about to happen that he wouldn’t like at all, and he could not go to sleep no matter how hard he tried. He was awake, staring into the darkness above his head when David came in on his way to bed.

“Can’t sleep?”

“No.” Peter expected his father to say good-night and go up to bed, but instead David came in and sat on the edge of the bed. The light from the kitchen cut a bright triangle on the floor.

“I have masses of germs,” said Peter tentatively.

“I don’t doubt it!” David gave a chuckle. “It’s one of the hazards of being a parent.” He sat in silence and Peter began to wonder if David expected him to say something.

“I’ve been thinking,” said David at last. Peter waited, wary. “Thinking about next year and this year and whether it’s been worth the trouble. I’ve been offered a contract at the University for next year. I’ve told Jen about it.”

“Here?” asked Peter. David’s words were unexpected.

“Mmm. It’s too bad in a way because I’ll have to turn them down, but it’s nice to have been asked back.”

Four months earlier Peter would have been giddy with relief—the idea of another year in Borth would have filled him with horror. But the relief wasn’t there now, he was disappointed instead. “Why? I mean, why should we go back?” he said hiding it carefully.

“You of all people should ask?” In the half-light from the open door, David’s face looked amused. “For all the sensible reasons, of course. My job, your school, our house, Aunt Beth and Uncle Ted. We can’t just leave them over there indefinitely. I doubt Amherst will keep my position open another year, and you three cannot afford to miss any more school—your education’s too important to play with.”

“But we’ve been going to school here—Becky and I have,” protested Peter.

David nodded. “And how much have you gotten out of it? Becky’s managing, but I’m worried about you, Peter. Oh, I’m not blaming you for reacting to it the way you have, it just hasn’t worked very well. Like Jen, you’ll survive missing a year, but not two. Perhaps if I’d been more help, but it’s no good rehashing that. You may have been right when you asked what good it would do you to learn Welsh! But I hate to think the year’s been a complete mistake.”

Peter said with difficulty, “It hasn’t been. It’s been hard.”

“A lot harder than it needed to have been, you mean.” David’s smile was rueful.

“Have you made up your mind?”

“What do you think about it?”

“But have you made up your mind?” It was terribly important for Peter to know.

David got up slowly. “Almost. I don’t think there’s much choice. See if you can get some sleep, it’s after eleven.”

Peter was allowed to sleep late the next morning; the rest of his family crept carefully around the kitchen getting breakfast. It was raining and dark, and everyone felt subdued, in any event.

Jen saw Becky and David off, then sat down at the cluttered breakfast table to read
David Copperfield,
part of her reading list. She felt not the least compulsion to clear up. She simply pushed the debris off a small square of tabletop and got herself a fresh mug of cocoa. She wished Mrs. Davies would look in now and see her being deliberately negligent, then changed her mind and wished instead for Aunt Beth. A smile caught her mouth; she would say to Aunt Beth, “Look here, I’m perfectly capable of coping with all this, you know”—an airy wave of the hand—“but I don’t
choose
to right now! I’ll do it when I’m ready, and I’ll get all of it done besides.” The idea pleased her absurdly.

What, Jen wondered, did Aunt Beth really make of all this anyway? It was impossible to tell from the letters she sent, which were meant for the whole family, full of news of friends and the college, the weather and the town. Did Aunt Beth really believe her niece could manage a house for her family? Would she ever believe that undomestic Jen was actually learning to cook successfully?

There were moments when Jen herself scarcely believed it, when she would suddenly remember that Amherst was home and that home was very far away. She would see again the country as she had first seen it, strange, wild, inaccessible—unknown—and be filled with an irrational panic, incredulity that she had asked to take this on!

But at other times, just now for instance, she was aware of a deep new satisfaction. It
was
hard, but she could handle it. Her father had allowed her to learn this for herself, and she was grateful.

Jen tucked one of her feet under her and wrapped her hands around the mug for warmth. What if they hadn’t come? What would it be like if they’d all stayed in Amherst instead?

There was a crash behind her that made her jump and spill the cocoa. Peter had flung open his door. “Did you
have
to—” Jen began, but he interrupted.

“It’s gone! I’ve lost it! It isn’t here anymore!”

Jen turned quickly at the grief and desperation in her brother’s voice. His eyes were wide and staring, his face white. In his right hand he clutched an object—the Key—its chain dangling.

She stood up, afraid. “What’s gone, Peter?” She wondered if he’d been having a nightmare and wasn’t quite awake.

Slowly Peter looked from Jen to the Key and back. “It’s gone,” he repeated, his voice flat. “There’s nothing to it anymore. It’s just a piece of metal.”

“What? Did you have a dream?”

He shuddered convulsively. “No! It’s never been a dream,
any of it!” The knuckles of his right hand were white. “Oh, Jen!” he said suddenly, and she was horrified to see his face crumple. Tears fell soundlessly down his cheeks.

The shock of seeing her brother cry hit Jen hard. The first step toward him was almost impossible to take, but then she was there, her arm around him.