Mad Dog Moonlight (16 page)

As if to give Mad Dog a foretaste of what being
for it
meant, Mrs Anwen Jones slapped him in detention for the next week and said he was lucky not to be suspended. Here he was forced to write an account of what had happened on the mountain, where he'd gone wrong and why he'd never do it again. Then he had to
copy it out, and then copy it again.
Drafting
was what Mrs Anwen Jones called it – an important exercise in the National Curriculum, and he should thank her for giving him the chance to improve his skills. But Mad Dog had a string of other words for it, none of which were in the National Curriculum, and none of which were repeatable.

On the last day of what was not only his last term but his whole life in that school, Mad Dog handed in his efforts. By lunchtime, Mrs Anwen Jones had it back to him with ‘
sloppy work – untidy handwriting – bad spelling – you'll have to pull your socks up when you start at the comprehensive
' written all over it.

It was a far cry from the ticks on Mad Dog's Rheidol project, and hardly the way he'd imagined saying goodbye to his favourite teacher. For the rest of the day, he skulked around pretending he couldn't see the way that people were looking at him. Ever since coming back off the mountain, he'd been a marked man, and this last day was no different.

The day ended with a leavers' service which everybody attended. Afterwards it was a relief to get away. The rest of the class was crying, hugging each other, giving presents and taking photographs. But Mad Dog got into Aunty's car without looking at anybody, and didn't even relent when Mrs Anwen Jones came over and said, ‘All the best then, Ryan.'

‘Thanks,' he muttered, staring straight ahead of him. Aunty drove away and he didn't look back, not even once.

For days after that, Mad Dog skulked around the vardo, which wasn't the most exciting place to spend a summer holiday but was better than school. Most of
his time was spent on an old PlayStation that Uncle had brought home from work in the harbour office. Mad Dog had never shown the slightest interest in computer games before, but now he took to the PlayStation like a holed boat to a dry dock. With a screen in front of him and a controller in his hand, he didn't have to think about anything, least of all what had
really
happened up there on Plynlimon.

At night-time however, in the dark, with nothing to distract Mad Dog, the whole thing would come creeping back. Had something
really
chased him up there on the mountain? And, if not, why the panic? And why had that ruined cottage scared him so much? And that crossroads between valleys – why, when he'd turned back, had it looked so shockingly familiar?

Even the good bits about Plynlimon left Mad Dog with questions. Turquoise gadflies, bright pink fox-gloves and strings of ponds were all very well but why had he found himself so captivated by them? Why so easily had they cast their spell? And his
ffon
– the way he'd lost it and it had turned up again? What had that all been about? And that thing Grendel said about the light – what had
that
been about?

Mad Dog had no answers, and he wished the questions would go away. One thing was for certain, though – the world beyond his computer screen was a dangerous place, and it was best to stay indoors where it was safe.

Hardly surprisingly, it turned out to be a long summer holiday. Jobs around the hotel shaped a fair part of it, and the PlayStation and television shaped the rest. Mad Dog's friends phoned, apologising for making fun of him and trying to persuade him to come
down and play. Aunty's sisters phoned as well. Even though they hardly talked to Aunty any more, they still wanted Mad Dog to come and play, and said their sons were missing him. But Aunty said he wouldn't come, and she wasn't being awkward. It was true.

At some point during the holidays, Mad Dog wrote to the Ingram sisters thanking them for what they'd done for him and sending back their clothes. He never thought he'd hear from them again, and didn't particularly want to either, but a letter came straight back. It didn't say much, but it smelt of flowers and brought back memories of being rescued and feeling safe. He remembered sitting in the sisters' garden, lapping up the sunshine and drinking amber tea, and he remembered what they'd said about treasure on Plynlimon and people finding it if they were brave enough.

There was nothing brave about hiding in a caravan, but Mad Dog threw away the sisters' letter, telling himself that he didn't want to think about things like treasure, and being brave and mountains coming alive. If he never saw Plynlimon again it would be too soon for him, and the same went for the River Rheidol. He mightn't know for sure what river had flowed through that crossroad between the valleys, but he only had to think about it to not want to see the Rheidol ever again. It didn't feel like a friend any more. It didn't feel safe. Once there'd been comfort in the idea of one river running through Mad Dog's life. But Mad Dog had lost his faith in rivers. If he never saw one again, it would have been too soon.

So Mad Dog kept out of the way of the Rheidol. An entire summer holiday went by without him going
down to it even once. But the questions persisted, no matter what he did. His time on Plynlimon Mountain had unlocked something in him from which he couldn't escape.

Sometimes Mad Dog felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice with every unanswered question and forgotten memory in his entire life on the other side. ‘Why can't I just live an ordinary life?' he asked himself one day. ‘You know, wake up, get up, go out to play, come in again, have a good time, never think too much, never question things, simply just – oh, I don't know, just
be
? Why's my life got to be such a mystery?'

Mad Dog stared down at his
ffon
. Its intricately engraved topknot stared back at him with its moons, stars and bundle of letters spelling out a message that he'd never understood. WAOOC. Yet another mystery that he'd failed to unlock! Mad Dog's eyes ran over the letters, trying to work them out. Maybe they were unreadable because they had no meaning. Maybe they were just a bunch of shapes, and didn't spell out anything and there was nothing to unlock.

Mad Dog fetched a piece of paper and tried again, mixing up the letters to see if something new emerged. He expected nothing, but it was worth a try. If he could only crack this one small code, he told himself, then maybe he could crack some of the bigger mysteries in his life. Maybe one would lead him to the next, in a chain effect.

But WOOAC meant no more to him than AWOOC, WAOCO, CAOOW, CWOOA, OWAOC or any other combination that Mad Dog came up with. And giving the letters numbers made no difference either. Even
treating the word as a picture and standing it every way round, including on its head, made no difference.

‘What are you doing?' Elvis said.

He'd come in from playing at a friend's house down in the village. Mad Dog hardly ever saw him any more, and it wasn't just because Elvis was still upset with him for getting lost. Devil's Bridge was his home now. He had his own friends and they had their dens. He never played with Mad Dog, or hung around with him or talked about their life at No. 3. And he definitely never talked about their old life before No. 3.

‘I'm trying to work out what this means,' Mad Dog said, thrusting his
ffon
at Elvis.

Elvis pushed it back. ‘Why would I be interested in that old thing?' he said.

Mad Dog felt his hackles rising. ‘It's not an
old thing
,' he said. ‘It's a message from our parents.'

Elvis shrugged. ‘So what?' he said.

Mad Dog was shocked. ‘You shouldn't talk like that. Not about our parents. Our parents
loved
us, and you ought to give them some respect.'

Elvis looked unimpressed. ‘Where are they now?' he said. ‘I can't respect someone I've never met.'

‘They had to go away,' Mad Dog said.

‘Why did they do that?'

‘I don't know.'

Elvis shrugged again, as if to say
there you are
, and stomped off, leaving Mad Dog frustrated at his lack of interest. But one day things would change, he knew. His brother would grow up, and then he'd want to know everything. Who their parents were. What had happened to them. Where they'd come from. Why they had abandoned them.

He wouldn't always walk away. And if Mad Dog – who'd been there at the time, and lived through it all – didn't have the answers, then his brother would want to know why.

Halfway through August, the weather turned nasty. A series of squally storms hit Devil's Bridge and there was thunder at night and rain every day. Hotel guests turned tetchy, and Aunty said that as far as she was concerned her honeymoon period in the hotel business was definitely over. Complaints were made about stupid things that hadn't bothered guests before, and it wasn't helped by the kitchen ladies making a series of silly blunders, like serving new potatoes uncooked to table and putting desserts that were meant for the cooler in the warming oven instead.

Even out in the vardo, Mad Dog caught the general mood of tetchiness. He'd sit at the window, staring at the back of the hotel and watching rain coming down in sheets, telling himself that he hated Devil's Bridge and wishing that he was back at No. 3. When Aunty came in, he'd snap at her. When Uncle tried to talk to him, he wouldn't answer. When Elvis looked his way, he'd say, ‘What are you staring at? Haven't you got something better to do with your time?'

The feeling around the family was that Mad Dog was turning adolescent and couldn't help himself. But if his age was getting to him, it certainly wasn't the only thing. For starters there was a new school to worry about, beginning in a few weeks' time. And then there were all those questions about his past lodged inside Mad Dog's head.

Even when the rain clouds blew away, his mood stayed sour and grumpy. All over Devil's Bridge, wet roads steamed in the sunshine, trees drip-dried and Aunty's guests cheered up and started venturing outside. Suddenly the landscape they'd thought so grey and lacklustre shone like a jewel that they wanted to wear.

‘Thank God for that!' said Aunty, who'd had enough of guests under her feet all day long. ‘They've gone at last!'

She suggested that Mad Dog might like to do the same, instead of moping around the vardo all day and sitting up late watching rubbish on the telly. Why didn't he play with the children in the village? It would do him good, she said, and some of them would be going to the same comprehensive in the autumn, so it would be a chance to make friends.

But Mad Dog moped around indoors, ignoring all Aunty's advice. The only place where he felt truly safe was inside the vardo where the outside world couldn't get at him. Late-night horror movies on the telly were as nothing compared to leaves drying on trees or the smell of grass warming up. Mad Dog didn't want to see open hilltops any more, or forests, or the river glinting like gold down in the bottom of the gorge. These things were part of a world that scared him too much.

Even that evening, when the guests came out into the garden to eat beneath the rising moon, Mad Dog didn't want to go outside. Instead he shut his window, drew his curtains, built himself a brand new barricade, as if danger was imminent, and climbed into his bed. Not that he could get to sleep. The night was muggy, and the vardo was stuffy at the best of times. Even
later, after Aunty and Uncle had come to bed, the vardo was still as hot as a tin can.

In the end, Mad Dog got up to fetch a glass of water and open a couple of windows. He opened the front door as well, and the moon was shining over the hotel. It was as round and perfect as a cup of milk, and its silvery light flooded across the garden.

After weeks indoors, its impact was instant and overwhelming. Mad Dog stood watching patterns of light and shade stretching down the lawn, across the road and into the wood. And it was in those moments that he was lost.

Suddenly, scarcely knowing what he was doing, Mad Dog found himself flinging on clothes, struggling into trainers and heading out into the moonlight. He never meant to go any further than the edge of the garden – but that wasn't how things ended up.

When Mad Dog reached the edge of the garden, the road beyond it looked like a silver river calling him away. The wood looked silver too, its paths mosaics of light and shade. Mad Dog started down them without a second thought. When he reached the bottom of the valley and saw the river in front of him, he tore off his trainers, strung them round his neck and waded straight in.

No danger was down here in the wood. There was nothing to scare him. Why he'd stayed indoors all summer long, he didn't know. Feeling ridiculous for every minute he'd wasted in the vardo, Mad Dog started heading upstream.

The whole thing happened as smoothly as stepping on to an escalator. It was good to be back. Good beyond words. Mad Dog picked his way through
pools, discovering them again like old friends. It was far too magical a night for sweating in his tin-can bed. Instead he climbed over boulders and let the river lead him up to Parson's Bridge, where he'd broken his leg, then on beyond it.

Never for a moment did he think he'd gone too far, or contemplate turning back. He was captivated by the moonlight, and the river seemed to call him on. Even in the darkest places he followed it, as if a thread of light could be traced through its deep waters.

By dawn, Mad Dog had passed through the village of Ponterwyd, up on the main Aberystwyth road, and come out the other side. Here the deep gorges of the Vale of Rheidol fell behind him and the landscape opened out, revealing the landmass of Plynlimon. All summer long Mad Dog had hidden from it, and now here it was again.

For the first time since setting out, Mad Dog found himself shivering. There was no doubt where he'd been heading throughout the night, and he wished he'd thought to bring his
ffon
. The moon no longer wove its strange enchantment over him but even so, here in the clear light of morning, he knew he had to carry on. No longer was this just some midnight madness. It was the journey he'd been on all summer. Even shut up in the vardo, he'd been on this journey. And before this summer – before Plynlimon, and the school trip – he'd been on it even then.