From Across the Ancient Waters (4 page)

Gwyneth walked gingerly into the blackness, hands spread in front of her. As well as she knew the place, subtle changes in the sea floor made her cautious lest some stone or wall of rock loom before her unseen.

All at once her toe caught something half buried at her foot. She stumbled and fell onto her stomach and elbows at once. She cried out softly, more from surprise than pain, as she hit the wet-packed floor. Quickly recovering herself, she rolled to one side on the sand and lifted one knee.

Suddenly a terrified shriek echoed through the darkened chamber.

A foot away, two dark eyes were staring straight at her!

Black and vacant, however, they were eyes that saw nothing. The human skull, whose empty sockets leered silently in the blackness, lay two-thirds buried in the sandy cave floor. Thin light from the cave’s mouth played eerily on the polished bony cranium. That its season for seeing was long past only heightened the dread of the hideous spectacle.

Gwyneth sprang to her feet and sprinted for the safety of sunlight. She did not once glance back in the direction of the macabre object uncovered by the storm. Not easily frightened, Gwyneth’s young heart now clutched at her chest with the horror of the unknown.

Lightning and rain and legends of lake creatures were one thing.

Dead human heads with black holes for eyes were another!

She dashed across the open sand, turned for the promontory, and scrambled frantically along the narrow trail. All the way up the rocky bluff the way she had come earlier she ran as if her life depended on it.

Reaching the plateau above the sea, she scarcely slowed. With what remaining speed her feet possessed, she set out across several fields and then over the wide moor toward the stone cottage at the edge of the hills where she and her father made their home.

Lord and Laborer

F
rom a high vantage point overlooking plateau, town, harbor, and the coastline of the sea for miles, two watchful eyes beheld the curiously speedy retreat of the girl away from Mochras Head inland across the flat moorland below.

It was not his custom to walk alone on the rolling hills and solitary high meadows of his estate. He was not a great walker. He preferred the back of a horse for transport to his own feet. But afternoon tea had precipitated a disagreeable dispute with his wife. Roderick Westbrooke, the Viscount Snowdon, had therefore sought the out-of-doors, not for whatever solace it offered but merely to get away from the house. His annoyance required movement to quiet itself.

Though his stables were well stocked with suitable mounts for any occasion, he was in no mood for a ride. It was too late in the day for that. He had wandered out with no particular destination in mind. He ambled aimlessly up from the house, kept on longer than planned, and now a mile from the manor still had none.

Lord Snowdon paused at the sight below him. He stood observing the flight, now across the road that connected the village of Llanfryniog to the main north-south thoroughfare. At length the blond-headed figure disappeared from his view.

Gradually he now made his way down the slope he had climbed. Descending a dense thicket of pine and fir toward a stream where it passed through a corner of his estate, he eventually completed a wide arc back toward the front of the house.

If only it
was
his estate, he mused sardonically … in
all
ways. That his name appeared on the title was such a mockery when he possessed no means by which to rule and enjoy life as a lord and viscount ought to be capable of.

The ridiculous inheritance laws could be so confounded unjust. They gave a man property and title but no means to use them if those means had been squandered before his time!

He had known all that, of course, when he married the earl’s daughter.
Her
wealth and
his
property seemed made for each other.

He had not paused long enough at the time to consider the consequences if she ever proved stubborn. Now he found himself on the horns of that very dilemma.

Technically, of course, it
was
his estate. The ground itself, the land, the house were entirely his possession. But what good did property by itself do a man? He couldn’t
spend
dirt or trees or grass or the stone blocks of which the manor was made.

He had to find a way to win her over to his point of view … or else find some other means to raise the cash he needed. The opportunity before him was one he mustn’t let slip by. True, it was only a yacht. But he had his heart set on the purchase. Yet without his wife’s funds, the thing would be dashed difficult, if not downright impossible.

Meanwhile, the child Roderick Westbrooke had seen reached the stone cottage of her home and burst inside. Her father had only moments before returned from the slate mine north of the village. He spun around at the sound of the door nearly crashing off its hinge.

“P–P–P–Papa, Papa,” stuttered his daughter. “Th–th–th—”

“What is it, Gwyneth, my child?” asked Barrie as he calmly approached with open arms. He had long ago learned that to soothe his daughter’s agitation was the quickest remedy for the difficulty of her tongue.

“It’s a … a h–h–h–h—”

Her father sat down and took her lovingly into his lap as if she were as young as the villagers thought her. He smiled with reassuring patience.

“Th–th–th–there’s a head, P–P–Papa,” she finally blurted out. “It’s b–b–b–buried in the s–s–s–sand.”

“Where, Gwyneth?” asked Barrie calmly.

“In th–th–th—In the c–c–c–cave, P–P–Papa.”

“Where, Gwyneth?”

“B–by the w–w–water. I stumbled over it and fell d–d–down.”

Her father stroked her wild hair and gently rocked her in his arms. Gradually she calmed.

“Are you hurt, little one?” the miner asked.

“No, Papa,” Gwyneth replied, leaning her head against his chest. Already the cave apparition was beginning to fade. Since she was not one ruled by fear, neither did she cling to it on the rare occasions it visited her. She was happy to let it go. She would soon laugh at the memory.

Assuming his daughter had seen some oddly shaped stone, or perhaps come upon a fragment of sheep bone fallen from the plateau above, Barrie thought it best to avoid further mention of it.

The two chatted casually a few minutes.

“Shall we have some tea, Gwyneth?” asked the father at length.

“Yes, Papa,” she replied, jumping down from his lap. “I will boil water.” She ran across the floor, picked up a small iron kettle, and dashed outside.

Her father rose and followed her toward the small kitchen that occupied half of the larger of the cottage’s two rooms. Upon arriving home, he had restoked the stove with coal and already begun water boiling for potatoes. He now bent to check the fire again then tossed in a second small shovel of fuel from the scuttle.

A moment later, Gwyneth lugged in the kettle of fresh water. She placed it on the stove.

He tossed a handful of potatoes into the iron pot, now beginning to steam, beside it. “Did you get bread from Grannie, Gwyneth?” he asked.

Her face fell. “I forgot, Papa,” she answered. “I meant to after I went down to the sea. But I forgot and ran straight home instead.”

“No harm done. We shall go see Grannie together while the potatoes boil.”

Adjusting the flue of the stove, Barrie turned and took his daughter’s hand. They left the cottage together and made their way down the sloping hillside toward the sea and to the village of Llanfryniog.

Trouble in Glasgow

A
sneaking figure of a lanky youth of sixteen sprinted along a wide Glasgow street. The echo of tinkling glass from a breaking shop window faded behind him. In his hand he clutched the booty he had retrieved through it.

He had no need of the antique sterling silver mug. Neither did he have the slightest interest in whatever money it might fetch. The shiny object struck a momentary fancy as he passed, nothing more. Mere seconds after spotting it, a brick from a nearby alley crashed through the window. The next instant he was sprinting along Gallowgate, mug in hand and a smile of youthfully devilish triumph on his face.

The mere thrill of theft drove him. It had been brought on by neither necessity nor upbringing. The lad’s training had in fact instilled an altogether different set of values than those of the lifestyle in which he had been engaged for the past year or two.

Unlike the most common of thieves, this youth came of wealth. His was a home highly respected in the city. He had been given all the privileges of his station yet was now doing his best to mock them. Like many adolescents—ruled by a lust for autonomy, seduced by premature self-reliance, possessed of self-gratification, and eschewing common sense in the choosing of associations—he had reached fourteen and suddenly found the constraint of goodness intolerable. Within another year, he had burst its bonds altogether. The adventure upon which he had now embarked contained just enough danger to act as a stimulant to his rebellion.

His only creed at present was to make mischief and to do that which was certain to be “disapproved of.” That such self-indulgent behavior could make anyone truly happy was doubtful. Nevertheless, such was the lad’s
motive operandi
. And he had given himself wholeheartedly to it. Whether the training he had received in his early years would in time reemerge to reverse the present decline of character, he alone would be capable of determining.

Clinging to the stone building at his left, he shot into a narrow close leading away from the wide thoroughfare. He could not help smiling to himself at how absurdly easy crime really was.

Suddenly his eyes shot open, and the smile disappeared from his lips. Thirty yards in front of him stood a policeman!

His running feet clattered to an echoing halt on the cobblestones. The evening fell momentarily silent. The boy stood as one paralyzed. His eyes drifted down to the large mug glistening in his hand.

With cocky nonchalance, he turned and began to saunter in the opposite direction. He had only taken a few steps, however, when he heard the policeman’s booted feet behind him. They were coming with steadily increasing tempo in his direction.

He wasn’t about to wait to see how this turned out!

In one quick motion, he tossed the mug clanking onto the stones of the alley, then turned and sprinted back for Gallowgate. He could outrun any policeman in Glasgow. He had no intention of being caught with the evidence.

“Stop … Hey, you!” shouted a voice behind him. “Stop, I say!”

Calling out again and with whistle blaring, the policeman broke into a run. But though he took up the chase with vigor, the lanky legs of youth quickly widened the distance between themselves and the middle-aged bluecoat.

A quick glance by the young rogue over his shoulder confirmed that he was out of danger. He continued at full speed, however, as the whistles and shouts gradually faded behind him. Around a corner he flew, along a long block, across the deserted street, left again, and—

Suddenly a great crash was followed by exclamations of astonishment and cries of pain. The teen went sprawling over the rough stones of the street and landed in a heap against a brick wall. Angry curses burst from his lips as he began to pick himself up.

Before he could completely recover, a great hand seized the scruff of his neck and hauled him back to his feet. “Ay, ‘tis you, is it, young Drummond?” said an unmistakable voice attached to the bulky frame he had collided with. “I thought as much. Ye’d be advised tae watch oot a mite better whaur ye’d bound.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the youth replied testily. “I might say the same for you, coming round the blind corner without letting a bloke know you’re there. Just let me go, will you!”

“I want tae ken what ye’re aboot runnin’ through the streets this time o’ the evenin’.”

“I’m about nothing that’s any of your business!” shot back the boy. He struggled in earnest to free himself, but to little avail. His captor was three times his size. The lad threw a nervous glance over his shoulder.

As he feared, soon another set of feet came running heavily toward them. “Stop him, Forbes!” shouted the exhausted pursuer. He lumbered to the scene, breathing heavily. “Keep a tight grip on him or he’ll bolt.”

“He’s aye gaein’ nowhere, officer,” replied the policeman called Forbes. “I’ve a good grip o’ him. Noo, young Drummond,” he said, turning again to the boy, “why dinna ye tell me what ye’ve been aboot like I asked ye?”

The Village

T
he village of Llanfryniog of North Wales spread out in random disorder away from the main street running through its center.

Several shops—the post, a baker, a dry goods store, a butcher, and a green grocer—were supplemented by a dozen or more homes that boasted an assorted miscellany of goods in their windows. Most of their offerings—from sweeties to tobacco to eggs, milk, potatoes, turnips, apples, candles, jams, and an infinite variety of homegrown and homemade products—could be purchased for a penny or two, but rarely more than a handful of shillings. Even this latter, however, would have been a considerable sum for most who passed by and gazed at the simply offered wares. There were also a variety of services available from a blacksmith, a cobbler, and a doctor from their homes on the outskirts of town.