body seemed to strain he did not move. He was talking to himself, but Gwyn could not hear what he said, and he was dazzled by the glare of the sun when he tried to find what Huw was looking at. Then he saw. It was the whole sky.
There were no clouds, and the sky was drained white towards the sun. The air throbbed, flashed like blue lightning, sometimes dark, sometimes pale, and the pulse of the throbbing grew, and now the shades followed one another so quickly that Gwyn could see no more than a trembling which became a play of light on the sheen of a wing, but when he looked about him he felt that the trees and the rocks had never held such depth, and the line of the mountain made his heart shake.
“There’s daft,” said Gwyn.
He went up to Huw Halfbacon. Huw had not moved, and now Gwyn could hear what he was saying. It was almost a chant.
“Come, apple-sweet murmurer; come, harp of my gladness; come, summer, come.”
“Huw.”
“Come, apple-sweet murmurer; come, harp of my gladness; come, summer, come.”
“Huw?”
“Come, apple-sweet murmurer; come, harp of my gladness; come, summer, come.”
Huw looked at Gwyn, and looked through him. “She’s coming,” he said. “She won’t be long now.”
“Mam says you’re to make a board to nail over the loft in the house,” said Gwyn. “If I measure up, can you let the job last till tomorrow?”
Huw sighed, and began to shovel coke. “You want a board to nail up the loft, is that what you said?”
“Yes, but we need time to bring the plates down without Mam finding out.”
“Be careful.”
“Don’t you worry.”
“I’ll do that for you,” said Huw.
“Why has Mam taken against you?”
“You’d better ask her. I’ve no quarrel.”
“She’s been away from the valley all these years. You’d think she’d have got over any old rows. But she hasn’t spoken to you, has she?”
“Perhaps she is afraid in the English way,” said Huw. “But if they think I am weak in the head they should have seen my uncle. And Grandfather they would lock in their brick walls.”
“Why?”
“Grandfather?” said Huw. “He went mad, down through the wood by the river.”
“Here?” said Gwyn. “The wood in the garden, where it’s swampy?”
“Yes. We don’t go there.”
“Really, really mad?” said Gwyn.
“That’s what the English said. They would not let him stay here. He lost his job.”
“The English? Wasn’t the house lived in properly even then?”
“It has never been a home,” said Huw. “They come for a while, and go. And my grandfather had to go. They would not let him stay in the valley.”
“What happened to him?”
“He walked away. Sometimes we heard of him. He sent those plates. He was working in the big potteries, and he decorated the plates and sent them to the house, and a letter to say he was all right now, but word came soon after that he had died at Stoke.”
“But why were they put in the loft? And why did Mam have hysterics when I found them?”
“Ask her. She’s your mother,” said Huw. “Perhaps there’s always talk in a valley.”
“Is there anything needed for the house while we’re out shopping, Halfbacon?”
Roger and his father came into the yard.
“No, sir,” said Huw. “We are not wanting any stuff.”
“Good,” said Clive. “I’ll be off, then. Jot down what you want for your snaps, won’t you, Roger? Funny rock you have in the meadow, Halfbacon. Who drilled the hole in it?”
“It is the Stone of Gronw,” said Huw.
“Oh? What’s that when it’s at home, eh? Ha ha.”
“There is a man being killed at that place,” said Huw: “old time.”
“Was there now!”
“Yes,” said Huw. “He has been taking the other man’s wife.”
“That’s a bit off, I must say,” said Clive. “I suppose the stone’s a kind of memorial, eh? But who made the hole? You can see those trees through it at the top of the ridge.”
“Yes, sir,” said Huw. “He is standing on the bank of the river, see, and the husband is up there on the Bryn with a spear: and he is putting the stone between himself and the spear, and the spear is going right through the stone and him.”
“Oho,” said Clive.
“Why did he stand there and let it happen?” said Roger.
“Because he killed the husband the same way earlier to take the wife.”
“Tit for tat,” said Clive. “These old yarns, eh? Well, I must be off.”
“Yes, sir, that is how it is happening, old time.”
Gwyn went with Roger and his father towards the house.
“Will you be using the billiard-room today, Mr Bradley?”
“No,” said Clive. “I’ll be fishing as soon as we’re back: mustn’t waste this weather, you know. Help yourself, old son.”
“Here’s what I want for my camera, Dad,” said Roger. “It’s all there.”
“Fine,” said Clive. “Well, cheerio.”
“I was beginning to believe that maundering old liar,” said Roger.
“Huw wasn’t lying. Not deliberate,” said Gwyn.
“What? A spear making that hole? Thrown all the way from those trees? by a stiff?”
“Huw believes it.”
“You Welsh are all the same,” said Roger. “Scratch one and they all bleed.”
“What happened to you yesterday by the Stone of Gronw?” said Gwyn. “You knew what I meant when I was trying to explain how it felt when I picked up a plate. And then you started talking about the stone out of nowhere.”
“It was a feeling,” said Roger. “One minute everything’s OK – and
