The Owl Service (8 page)

Gwyn made towards the light. Alison had stopped, and Gwyn approached very slowly. He was within a few yards of her when the light was switched off.

Now what? She can't see any better than me, so she'll still be there: dead ahead, to the left of that stump –

The light came on again, but far over to the right, almost out of his vision.

What's she playing at?

It was moving at walking pace, flickering, as though the battery was giving out. Gwyn followed.

How's she got there so fast? I didn't hear her. He listened. The river was at the back of every sound, but his ears were used to the night.

She must have flew.

He followed the light. Alison began to zigzag.

She can't know I've rumbled her. What's she up to?

And the light went out again.

Not twice you don't, girlie.

Gwyn bent low to skyline Alison. She was somewhere near the edge of the wood, and the trees were black against the silver mountain.

Now then.

But the light came on even farther away, and well inside the wood. The battery was keeping up, but the light still flickered.

Weak connection, thought Gwyn. But how're you moving so fast? What's she after? Wanting to get me flustered so she can give me the slip?

Gwyn checked that Alison had not put him on the bright screen of moonlight. Still crouching, he ran for the cover of a tree, and stood up against it.

He was beginning to enjoy the game.

Hard luck, girlie. What are you going to do now?

The light was steady.

Your move, old stick.

Gwyn's head jerked back against the tree. The light was still there, but another had appeared, a hundred feet away to the left. Two of them. And the first light now came mincing towards him.

Gwyn swirled round the trunk. There was a third pale fire behind him. He saw that they were not torches, and never had been. He stood as if bound to the tree. They were flames. They had trapped him.

If I shout no one'll hear.

The flames walked, two at a distance, casual, backwards and forwards, marking him off from the world outside the wood, while the first flame came on.

Sometimes it sank to the ground, or paused, or turned aside from Gwyn for a moment. And then it came on.

This is where Huw's old feller went mad. Get me out of here. Get me out of here.

And sometimes the flame grew tall, and wavered, like laughter.

How do I stop from going mad? He wasn't hurt, was he? He couldn't stand it: inside: in his head. Think, man! You're not a peasant! Do something! Use your loaf!

‘The – acceleration. Acceleration of – of a free falling body – is thirty-two – thirty-two feet per second per second.'”

There were more flames. He was aware of them, but could not take his eyes off the big flame. It was moving slowly: tottering: playing with him, and coming nearer.

I shan't go mad. What did the old feller see? – Shut up! “‘The acceleration of a free falling body is thirty-two feet per second per second. Per second per second.'” It's only fire. That's all. What happened to him, though? “‘I before E, except after C'!” shouted Gwyn.

But the flame was as tall as he was, and stood before him.

“‘1536, Statute of Union! 1543, Wales divided into twelve counties! Representatives sent to Westminster!

“‘Matter consists of – of three – three classes of substance! An Element! A – a Compound! And a mixture! Describe an experiment!' Mam! ‘Grind! Grind – together! Together – ten grammes of fused sodium acetate and fifteen grammes of soda lime! Place some of the mixture in the test-tube, Mam, and heat strongly! Then – then NaC
₂
H
₃
O
₄
+ NaOH = Na
₂
CO
₃
+ CH
₁
!' It does! It does! It does!”

The other flames danced.

Gwyn stopped. It was very quiet in the wood. Gwyn stared at the flame. He let go of the tree, and took a slow step forward towards the blue fire, and another step.

“CH
₄
,” he said. “CH
₄
? One atom of carbon and four atoms of hydrogen. That's – methane –. Methane!”

Gwyn jumped at the flame. He landed on his hands and knees in water and rotten leaves, and the flame had gone.

Gwyn slashed through the mud and stamped at the nearest tongue. It disappeared.

“Methane!” Stamp. “Methane!” Splash. “Marsh gas!” Gwyn trampled the delicate veils, laughing wide-mouthed. “CH-piddling-Four!”

He fell against a dead sapling which snapped. The sharp noise brought him up. “Oh Crimond,” he said. “Alison.”

That's done it, that has. Thought yourself clever, didn't you waiting so patient and all? And you have to go and chuck it away when it's handed you on a plate. Ha! Plate! Two penn'orth of methane and you scream the house down. You'll be lucky if you get within a mile of them plates now – and by, won't it make a nice little story for dear little step-brother!

Gwyn headed out of the swamp. He was so angry with himself that he took no notice of the marsh gas, nor of the wood, nor of the moonlight, nor of the noise he made.

Oaf.

Peasant.

Welsh git.

“Achoo!”

He stopped on a stride.

“A-choo!”

The sneeze was near him. He listened, but he heard nothing to give him a direction.

Gwyn scanned the wood. To his right the ground was steep and very black. In front of him a raised causeway stretched across a pool to a gate in the boundary fence on his left. He waited for a movement to give her away. He turned his head from side to side, examining everything that lay in his arc of vision.

Got you.

She was standing under a tree at the end of the causeway, near the gate. He looked: and looked. She became clearer, standing half hidden by the dapple of leaves in the moonlight. He could see the line of her through the branches.

But has she seen me? She'll not have the plates there, and if I let on she'll act dim, and we'll be no nearer.

I'll sit you out this time, girlie. What's up? Think you heard something? Steady: if you move, I'll see you. Wait till we're nice and quiet again and you're sure nobody's after you, then it'll be safe to carry on – and I'll be behind you, Miss Alison.

“A-choo!”

Gwyn's teeth clenched. Alison had sneezed next to him, above, and a little to the right, where the wood was darkest. Gwyn made himself look.

“Stone me!” said Gwyn.

An old hen hut on iron wheels sat rotting in the marsh, and from inside the hut came a faint noise of moving crockery.

So who's by the fence?

The figure was still there at the end of the causeway, waiting under the tree, head and shoulders, and arms and the slim body, and then he saw, no less clearly, leaves and branches, thicket and moonlight, and no one waiting.

“Stone me!”

Gwyn kneaded his face with his hands and shook his head. His eyes were heavy with strain.

There was a window on the opposite side of the hut: chicken wire was nailed over it. Gwyn found the door, which had no lock, only an outside latch.

Alison was huddled over her torch, which she had propped against a stack of plates, and was cutting owls out of a roll of tracing paper. She worked quickly, discarding each owl as soon as it was finished to begin the next. The ribbed stacks surrounded her and reflected the torchlight. She rocked on her heels with concentration.

Gwyn drew back from the window.

“Alison,” he said quietly. “It's Gwyn.”

The light went out.

“Alison.”

He ran to the door.

“Alison. It's me. Gwyn. Don't be scared.”

There was no reply.

“Alison.”

He opened the door. The hut was a black hole, and he could see nothing.

“Alison. Don't act daft. I want to help you. Alison, I'm coming in. Shine your torch.”

“Go away.”

He put his hand on the door frame.

“Go. Away.”

There was a fluttering in the darkness, like wings, but dry and hard as a rattlesnake.

“Alison, I'm coming in.”

“Go. Away.”

The warning, the menace of the sound terrified him – the quick ruffling of the stacked plates.

“Don't, Alison. You've got to stop.”

“Go. Away.”

The plates clashed. Gwyn dived.

He hit Alison with his shoulder and pinned her arms to her sides. She fought, threshing, kicking, but Gwyn held her. His head was tucked close in to her anorak out of her reach. The dinner service splintered under them. Gwyn held her until her strength was gone, and he let her cry herself to silence.

Then he felt for the torch.

“You all right, are you?” said Gwyn.

“Yes.”

“Sorry if I hurt, but I had to stop you making those owls.”

“Why?”

“Why?” said Gwyn. “Don't you know why?”

“I have to make them,” said Alison. “I get all worked up and edgy, and its the only thing that makes me feel better.”

“Better?” said Gwyn. “Or flaked out?”

“I can't explain,” said Alison. “I feel I'm going to burst, and if I can trace the pattern it goes into that. I'd nearly finished. It wouldn't take long—”

“No,” said Gwyn. “You leave them, and go to bed.”

“I couldn't. I'm all strung up. Please let me finish them, then I'll be all right.”

“How do you make things take off?” sad Gwyn. “Like the book at me, and the plate at my Mam?”

“Do I?” said Alison. “It's this feeling I'm going to burst – it's losing your temper and being frightened, only more. My body gets tighter and tighter and – and then it's as if my skin's suddenly holes like that chicken wire, and it all shoots out.”

“Has it ever happened before you made the owls?”

“—No.”

“Then don't you see you have to stop?”

“I can't, Gwyn. You don't know what it's like. I must finish them.”

“How many are there to do?”

“I was on the last one. Please, Gwyn. Then I can sleep. I'm dead beat.”

“You look it,” said Gwyn. “OK. But you promise—”

“I promise,” said Alison, and she picked up the scissors.

She cut round the tracing she had made from the plate. She had taken only the main outline of the pattern, without much detail, but enough for her to make the owl.

“There,” she said. “That's the whole dinner service.”

“I'll have the scissors, please,” said Gwyn. “Thank you. Can I keep this owl?”

“Yes,” said Alison. “Do what you want.”

Gwyn folded the owl into his pocket.

“Now then, come on, back up the house.”

He put his hand on Alison's arm. She was trembling and her teeth began to chatter.

“Come on, Alison. You're done in.”

Alison clutched at his sleeve, twisting the cloth with both hands.

“I'm frightened. Help me. It's awful. You don't know. Please. Gwyn. I'm frightened. Gwyn.”

“I'm here,” said Gwyn. “What are you frightened of?”

“Everything,” said Alison. “I feel it's – I can't tell you. It's as if—”

“You keep saying you can't tell me, and I don't know. Why not try?”

“I haven't the words,” said Alison.

“Try.”

“Nothing's safe any more. I don't know where I am. ‘Yesterday', ‘today', ‘tomorrow' – they don't mean anything. I feel they're here at the same time: waiting.”

“How long have you felt this?”

“I don't know.”

“Since yesterday?”

“I don't know. I don't know what ‘yesterday' was.”

“And that's what's frightening you?”

“Not just that,” said Alison. “All of me's confused the same way. I keep wanting to laugh and cry.”

“Sounds dead metaphysical to me,” said Gwyn.

“I knew you wouldn't understand. Gwyn, I'm frightened. I'm frightened of what's outside.”

“Outside where?” said Gwyn.

“This hut.”

“What is outside this hut?”

“Everything.”

“Stop that!” said Gwyn. He shook Alison. “Don't play spooks with me! It's hysterics, man! Come up the house, now, and get some sleep.”

“Gwyn! No! I daren't! I'm safe here.”

“You can't spend your life in a hen hut, can you?” said Gwyn. “If you let yourself go you land up paralytic. You have to get a grip. Think of cold kippers.”

“Oh, Gwyn!”Alison nearly laughed.

“I mean it. It's a creepy old wood – so think of cold kippers. It's all in the mind.”

Gwyn took Alison's hand, and pushed the door open with his back. He saw Alison stare past his shoulder.

“Gwyn.”

“Cold kippers, remember?”

“Gwyn. Look.”

The smile stuck on his face. He looked.

A column of light stood at the end of the causeway, under the tree by the gate in the boundary fence. The column was tall, and narrowed at its top and base, and ridges of flame hung like draped cloth.

Alison began to moan.

“It's OK,” said Gwyn. “Alison, it's OK. It's what I was telling you.”

She pulled back towards the hut. “No,” she said. “Look.”

“It's only marsh gas,” said Gwyn. “You find it in places like this, where plants rot under water. It's harmless.”

“No,” said Alison.

“It's methane. You must have heard of it. It's a simple compound of carbon and hydrogen, and it's not poisonous. Come and see.”

“No. You don't understand,” said Alison.

“Shall I blow it out for you?” said Gwyn. “Or jump on it?”

“No! Gwyn! Please!”

“It's only marsh gas.”

“It may be marsh gas,” said Alison. “It doesn't matter what it is. Can't you see? It's being used!”