to make dreams of the past real as well?
Slowly, carefully, Dafydd, Catrin and Edmund wound their way northwards from house to house and castle to castle, following ancient trackways and drove roads, newer cart tracks and roads. Over mountains and along river valleys they made their way from Presteigne to Bryn y Castell, near Knighton and on towards Newtown, then spent a week at the great castle at Welshpool. By the end of July they were at Oswestry then Chirk. After a discussion they decided to avoid Wrexham, where on their previous trip Dafydd had encountered the town’s resident bard who had vociferously resented their arrival. Instead they turned west towards Llangollen, where in past years they had found a far more favourable reception in the houses of one or two richer merchants and in a farmhouse on the hillside. From there they planned to travel south across the Berwyn Mountains towards Sycharth, the home of Dafydd’s most generous patron, the Lord of Glyndŵr. From there they would continue south, heading back towards home.
It had been a good summer. On the whole Catrin had enjoyed herself. Her father’s health had improved with good food and the stimulating company. He had blossomed and put on weight. They had visited old friends, made new ones and earned good payment; buried in the panniers on the pack mule was enough in gifts and coin to keep them over the following winter. Only their outward appearance of poverty and Edmund’s trusty sword kept them safe from being robbed, but this year they had been lucky and seen little of footpads and thieves, and those they had witnessed had been but shadows in the distance, on their way to accost other more wealthy-looking travellers.
But the time had come to think of home. It was imperative they reach the end of the journey before the weather broke and the roads became impassable. Besides, Catrin was finding it increasingly difficult to hide her dislike of Edmund from her father.
It had started with a disagreement over the places they were to visit. They were sitting beneath the shade of a copse of trees, resting the horses, and Dafydd was dozing, his back against the trunk of an ancient rowan.
‘You must wake him.’ Edmund had led each of the horses in turn down to a mountain brook and allowed them to drink. He had grown impatient, his eye on the horizon and the huge clouds piling up in the west. ‘There is a storm coming and it would be nice to be safely under cover before it breaks.’
Catrin stretched lazily. ‘Not yet. Let him sleep. He so seldom manages to find rest.’
‘He is always resting!’ Edmund snapped. ‘You wear yourself out running after him and he sits and allows you to wait on him hand and foot. You earn as much as him; you are as good a poet as him. Give yourself a little leeway for once.’
She scrambled to her feet. ‘Don’t you dare talk about him like that!’
‘Why not? It’s the truth. And you will be the first to worry and fret if he gets wet in the storm. Then it will all be “Hurry, Edmund, Tad mustn’t get soaked. Hurry, Edmund, Tad is shivering, we must find him shelter!”’ His voice slid into a falsetto parody of hers.
‘He’s right, Cat.’ Their raised voices had awoken Dafydd. He stretched and with a groan dragged himself to his feet. ‘I do not like getting soaked and that storm is obviously coming this way.’
‘I just wanted to allow you a few more moments of sleep,’ Catrin retorted.
‘And then you wake me with your shrieking,’ Dafydd grumbled. ‘Get the horses saddled, Edmund, and let’s be on our way.’
He stamped away from them and stood gazing out across the waving grasses of the sunlit moorland towards the mountains, where already they could see the occasional flash of lightning against the black of the western sky.
Catrin turned on Edmund furiously. ‘Now you’ve upset him!’ she snapped.
‘I’ve done nothing of the sort. He can see that storm as easily as I can. I’m amazed you don’t seem to understand it’s coming this way. You will be soaked too. Your cloak will be sodden. Your belongings in those bundles will be drenched as much as your father’s, and we will arrive looking like drowned rats!’ He turned away and reached for one of the saddles, humping it onto Dafydd’s horse. ‘What if your father’s books and scrolls get wet again?’ he called over his shoulder as he reached under the horse’s belly for the girth. ‘And your harp. It won’t be my fault if they are ruined one of these days!’
‘It will be your fault. It’s your job to pack them properly and look after us!’ she cried. She began to stuff all her own things into her saddlebag and turned to pick up her cloak. She had been sitting on it and it was creased and grass-stained. She shook it angrily. Edmund left Dafydd’s cob and turned to her pony. He lifted her saddle with ease, cinched it into place and then took the cloak out of her hands. ‘I’ll roll this for you and you can carry it in front of you. You will need it when it rains.’ His face was set with anger.
Her fury flared to meet his. Without giving herself time to think, she stepped away from him and turned to face the storm. A gust of wind caught her skirt and pulled it out behind her as she raised her right hand and whispered the words of command that would chase the storm away. Silently she breathed a thank you to Efa and knew that the woman would hear. It was ancient magic and powerful, invoking the gods of thunder. As she watched she saw the lightning slice across the horizon, a vicious spark, resentful of her command, but the next flash was further away. Turning back, she smiled.
Edmund had seen her. She saw the shock on his face. Weather magic was witchcraft.
She glared at him defiantly.
He said nothing.
It took only minutes to put the three of them on the road once more, the two riders following Edmund as he led the mule down the steep track. Catrin did not glance over her shoulder towards the retreating storm. Somehow it seemed important not to acknowledge its existence.
Andy hadn’t wanted to wake up. She had lain still, her eyes tight shut, grasping for the dream, but it had gone. With a sigh she went downstairs into the living room, and stood there looking at her piles of books. Her head was resonating with the story. So was it the house itself which was the custodian of Catrin’s narrative? And perhaps Rhona’s as well. If so, how? The idea was too exciting to ignore. House as an echo chamber. House as receiver of messages. House as medium for contact, not only with the past, but with parallel present existences.
Sitting cross-legged on the rug on the floor in front of her book collection, Andy began to shuffle through them, pausing every now and then to greet an old favourite, sorting them into different categories, discarding a few as not relevant to her present sphere of interest, piling others closer to read again soon. She had forgotten so much of this stuff, the fascination of combining serious scientific theory with the completely subjective nature of the actual experience.
What she needed was a couple of notebooks to start writing down the experiences so as not to lose the freshness of describing the moment. Even the best scientist must find it hard sometimes to resist the urge to improve on an account of things that had come up in the course of an experiment. She wanted to keep her record accurate.
She sat back at last, pushed her hair out of her eyes, then scrambled to her feet. Scooping up an armful of books, she carried them back to the kitchen and stacked them on the table. She was tempted to go down to Hay now, to buy a notebook. She eyed her car keys, lying on the dresser.
But she was desperate to go back and see what happened to Catrin and Edmund. They were so real in her head. That spark of anger between them had been so spontaneous, his shock as she murmured that spell to divert the thunderstorm so obvious she couldn’t bear to leave them like that,
