[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
But Gwyn was not listening.
The following morning Gwyn woke up with a sore throat and a cold.
"You'd better stay indoors," his mother told him over breakfast. "No use
getting worse or spreading your germs."
Gwyn was about to remark that other people carried germs about, but thought
better of it. He would not mind missing a day of school. And if, by some
miracle, Arianwen had escaped the septic tank, she would fare better if she
had a friend nearby.
"I'm not staying in bed!" he said sulkily. He had not forgiven his mother.
"I didn't say in bed," she retorted.
"I don't want to stay indoors either."
"Please yourself! I'm only thinking of your own good!"
Mr. Griffiths did not seem to be aware of the harsh tones flying round the
breakfast table. He took himself off to the milking shed, still whistling.
Gwyn went up to the attic and put on his coat. The sun was shining and the air
was warm. He went down-stairs and out through the back door into the yard. To
the left a row of barns formed a right angle with a long cowshed directly
opposite the back door. To the right, a stone wall completed the enclosure.
Within the wall a wide gate led to the mountain path. And some-where in the
field beyond that gate lay the septic tank.
Gwyn climbed over the gate and jumped down into the field.
A circle of hawthorn trees surrounded the area where the septic tank lay
buried under half a meter of earth. The trees were ancient, their gray
branches scarred with deep fissures. It always came as a surprise when white
blossoms appeared on them in spring. Sheep had ambled round the thorn trees
and nibbled the grass smooth. Not even a thistle was left to give shelter to a
small stray creature.
Gwyn stood at the edge of the circle and contem-plated the place where
Arianwen may have ended her journey from the kitchen sink. He imagined her
silver body whirling in a tide of black greasy water, and he was filled with
helpless rage.
Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he stepped away from the hawthorn
circle and began to stroll up the mountain. As the path wound upward, the
field beside it sloped gently down towards the valley until, a mile beyond the
farmhouse at a sharp bend, there was a sheer drop of ten meters from the path
to the field below. Here, where a low stone wall gave some protection for the
unwary, Gwyn stopped. There was something hard in his right pocket. He
withdrew his hand and found that he was holding the broken horse. He must have
slipped it into his pocket by acci-dent the night before.
He stared at the poor broken thing and then looked back at the farmhouse. A
wreath of smoke streamed from the chimney into the blue sky. A blackbird sang
in the orchard, and he could see his mother hanging out the laundry. A breeze
had set the pillowcases flying, and a pink curtain flapped from an upstairs
window. It was such a peaceful, ordinary scene. And then his gaze fell upon
the ring of hawthorn trees, and he hated the morning for being beautiful while
Arianwen was dying in the dark.
Gwyn swung out his right hand and then hesitated. The horse seemed to be
staring at him with its wild lidless eyes, inviting him to set it free. Its
maimed mouth was grinning in anticipation. All at once Gwyn felt afraid of
what he was about to do, but his grasp had slackened, and in that moment a
gust of wind tore the horse away. His hand tightened on empty air. The wind
carried the tiny object over a flock of sheep that neither saw nor cared about
it. Some of the animals raised their heads when the boy above them cried out,
"Go! Go then, and bring her back to me if you can! Arianwen! Arianwen!
Page 32
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Arianwen!"
The broken horse vanished from sight, and as it did so, a low moan rumbled
through the air. A black cloud passed across the sun, and the white sheep
became gray.
Gwyn turned away to continue his walk, but after he had gone a few steps it
began to rain only a few drops at first, and then suddenly it was as if a
cloud had burst and water poured down upon his head in torrents. He began to
run back down the path. By the time he reached the house, the rain had become
a hailstorm. His mother was bundling the wet laundry back into the kitchen,
and Gwyn took an armful from her, fearing that it was he who had brought the
storm upon them.
And storm it was, sudden, frightening, and fero-cious. It beat upon the
windows and tore into the barn roofs, causing the cattle to shift and grumble
in their stalls. It shook the gates until they opened, and the terrified sheep
poured into the garden and the yard. The hens shrieked and flapped battered,
soaking wings as they ran to the hen house. And once there they added their
voices to the terrible discord of the other animals.
The sky turned inky black, and Mrs. Griffiths put the lights on in the house.
But the power failed and they were left in the dark, surrounded by the sounds
of distressed creatures that they could not help.
Mr. Griffiths burst through the back door, his big boots shiny with mud.
"The lane's like a river," he exclaimed. "I've never seen anything like it."
"What is it, Ivor?" whispered his wife. "It was such a beautiful day."
"Just a storm." Mr. Griffiths tried to sound calm. "It'll blow itself out
eventually."
Will it? Gwyn thought. Have I done this?
They lit a candle and sat round the table drinking tea. Mrs. Griffiths seemed
the only one capable of speech. "Whatever's happened?" she kept murmuring.
"It's like the end of the world. And Gwyn with a cold, too."
The storm abated a little in the afternoon. The hail turned to rain again, and
they were able to attend to the animals. But the air still cracked and
rumbled, and the dog was too terrified to work effectively. Gwyn and his
father had a hard time driving the sheep out of the garden and through
torrents of running mud to the field.
They managed to get the ewes into an open barn, where they remained, anxious
but subdued.
"They'll lose their lambs if it goes on like this," said Mr. Griffiths.
The yard had become a whirlpool, and they had to use a flashlight to find
their way safely to the cowsheds. The cows were in a state of panic. They
trembled and twisted, bellowing mournfully. In the beam of light, the whites
of their eyes bulged in their black faces. Though they were full of milk they
refused to be touched.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]