Ashes Under Uricon (The Change Book 1) (3 page)

I looked up at him. There were now tears in his eyes. I buried my head in his shoulder.

“Go on, then, Taid. But please don’t make it too long.”

What I remember best about the story that he told me was the fact that while he was speaking it stopped raining. And I forgot how hungry I was.

Reluctantly, I buried my head in Taid’s shoulder again, and closed my eyes.

“You must remember,” he began, “that this is a story about when I was a youngster myself. About your age, or maybe a little older. Before the Change. Everything I tell you now no longer exists or happens, but don’t worry about that.

“I was in a class we knew as ‘Lower Sixth Form’ studying for examinations that were called ‘A Levels’. We studied three subjects in those days, and I was doing English Literature, Welsh and Music. You won’t have heard of these, of course. I was taking Welsh even though it was not my native tongue and no one at home spoke it at all. Just out of interest, which we were allowed to do in those days.

“During the Easter holiday, when we had around two weeks off school, the Welsh teacher arranged for us to go on a course in mid-Wales. This was for two reasons. Everything happened in Welsh, so it improved our speaking and understanding. There were also lectures about what we called our ‘set texts’, in other words the books we were studying. Also in Welsh, of course. They were hard, I can tell you.”

He laughed. I lifted my head. Taid was lost in nostalgia for his boyhood days. I hoped that he wouldn’t get too carried away. It was still cold.

“So. There I was. There were only two of us studying Welsh that year. Not many students wanted to learn Welsh where I came from. The other boy cried off at the last moment, so I went on my own. Can you imagine? A whole week with everything in Welsh? It was hard at the time, but, I tell you what, my Welsh improved no end. By the time I left I was practically fluent.

“I’m rambling. Anyway, to the point. Mid-week, we were given an afternoon to ourselves. Some of the others on the course, many of whom lived quite near to the centre, went home. The rest arranged to go into the nearby town. I didn’t fancy that, so I left the group at the gates of the centre and struck out on my own. Just like now, I didn’t know where I was, or where I was going. I just walked. There was very little traffic on the road so I was able to stroll along quietly in the afternoon sunshine.

“I was enjoying myself, to be truthful, as this was the first time in nearly three days that I could think in English again. That was a relief, I can tell you. I had been walking for nearly an hour when I came across a set of huge wrought iron gates set just back off the road. On a board fixed on one of these gates was a sign that read ‘Plas Maen Heledd’. And guess what? The gate was open.

“Now you mustn’t think that this was some sort of gothic mansion with leaves blowing down the drive and the howls of demented animals. Not that that would mean anything to you, I suppose. No, this was simply a very neat driveway leading to a very lovely old Georgian mansion. Always one for an adventure, I headed in.

“As I drew nearer I was able to more fully appreciate how lovely the house was. It was a classic Georgian design. A central main building, three storeys high, four windows wide, with a wing on each side of one storey with two windows. In front of the main building five Corinthian style pillars supported a stone balustrade from which fluttered two flags, the Welsh and what appeared to be a royal one, red and gold with four lions. A gable topped the building, in the middle of which was a plaque that read ‘1653’. This building was therefore nearly four hundred years old. Even then, I knew enough to know that the design was at least a hundred years later than this, so the date must have been when the original house was built on this site.

“As I stood gazing at the house in wonderment, my eye caught sight of a figure standing in one of the windows in the left hand wing. Feeling like a caught-out intruder I was about to turn and run. As I did so, the window flew up, the figure leaned out and shouted, ‘Don’t go, young man. Do come in.’ I stopped dead in my tracks. I had expected to be told to clear off, not invited in. But the window closed, the figure disappeared, only to reappear very quickly in the now open doorway.

“It was a woman who seemed old to me, given that I was only sixteen, but who was probably in her mid-thirties. She was very elegantly dressed in what we used to call ‘country living’ style – a pale beige skirt over knee high brown leather boots with a very pale pink jumper partly covered by a green quilted gilet. She had masses of blonde hair that cascaded either side of her face. She smiled broadly and said, as I reached the door, ‘Do come in. I so rarely have visitors. Especially not handsome young men.’

“I can remember her words to this day. It was the first time that anyone had described me as ‘handsome’! I no doubt blushed deeply, which I did frequently at that age, but she was courteous enough not to mention it. Inside the door was an absolutely stunning hallway. The floor was an amazing sweep of black and white tiles, which disappeared into the distance. Half way along the hallway a flight of stairs swept up, plain and functional, but embellished with a finely carved curving banister. The scene was perfect, quite perfect.

“She took my hand and led me along the hallway until we reached a door on the right, beyond the staircase. ‘I’m sure this is why you’ve come,’ she whispered over her shoulder as she opened the door. Inside was the biggest library of books that I had ever seen in a private house. Every wall of the room, apart from two huge windows and the door through which we entered, was covered from floor to ceiling in shelves that were stacked with books. Books of all sorts of shapes and sizes, and, what astonished me most, of all sorts of ages.

“There was no furniture in the room bar a table that was equally covered in books and a leather arm chair. ‘Spend as long as you like in here, my dear,’ I heard her say as she left, closing the door behind her. I must say this alarmed me at first, left in that room with all those books. On my own. But soon my curiosity for books got the better of me. I walked around the room reading, or trying to read in some cases, the words on the spines. Every work of literature that I knew was there – the Romantic poets, the Metaphysicals, the Victorians. There must have been a hundred copies of the works of Tennyson. I lost count after about twenty. Just as many Shakespeares. Philosophers. Books in Latin – you would have liked those, I’m sure. Books in Greek, German, Italian, Spanish. Languages I did not recognise.

“Having walked around the room I returned to where I had started to find that the whole wall was filled with books in Welsh. I tell you, I did not think there
were
so many books in Welsh. It was astonishing. As with the rest of the room, the oldest looking books were on the shelves nearest the ceiling, with the ‘youngest’ books down near the floor. A ladder rested against the wall carrying the Welsh books. I climbed it. There, on the top shelf, was an ancient book, its spine barely legible. With a struggle I eventually made out ‘Y Gododdin’. Meant nothing to me at the time, of course. Now I know that it was probably one of the earliest known poems in Welsh.

“Gently, blowing away the dust, I pulled it from the shelf. It fell open, the pages somehow thicker than books I was used to. They were made of animal skin, not paper. I couldn’t believe it. Each page was covered in tiny, neat writing with no spaces between the words or punctuation, as far as I could make out. It was impossible to read, especially for a sixteen year old boy learning Welsh.”

He paused. I looked up again. He was rifling through the papers from the bag. He pulled one out, a yellow, stiff piece that looked more like card than paper. He handed it to me.

“What’s this?” I said.

“What was the first book I opened in Plas Maen Heledd library?”

“I don’t know. You said something that must have been Welsh since you were looking on the wall with Welsh books.”

“‘Y Gododdin’. One of the earliest Welsh poems. That’s a page from that book.” He smiled. “I can read it now. Look.” He leaned over and ran his finger over the page.

“
Gwyr a aeth Gatraeth oedd fraeth eu llu

 
Glasfed eu hancwyn a gwenwyn vu
”

“Okay. Okay,” I said. “So it’s Welsh. So what?”

“Did you hear what I said, Non? That is a page from that very book.”

“The one you saw in that house when you were a boy?”

“The same one. That page has been torn from the book I saw all those years ago.”

“How do you know that? There must have been hundreds of books like that before the Change.”

Taid laughed. “Not that one, cariad. There was only ever one known copy of that book. And that was the one. I studied the poem in university. I taught it in university until our benighted leaders closed them down. We knew there was one. But everybody thought it had been lost in a fire in the nineteenth century.”

“So how is it here now? Is it a forgery?”

“It’s a bloody good one, if it is. No. I think this is actually a genuine page from the book I saw in that house. And so are all these others.” He held up the sheaf of papers in his hand.

Then the door burst open.

“Just what I was looking for.” It was a woman’s voice. She stood in the doorway, apparently looking directly at us. She was carrying something under one arm but at first I could not make out what it was. Otherwise all that I could see was a long black raincoat with a large hood pulled over her head.

Taid pulled his arm tighter round my shoulders. “Don’t move,” he hissed into my ear. “What d’you want? Who are you?” His voice was firm.

“Who am I?” the woman answered. “Rather I ask who you are and why you are here.”

“What’s it to do with you?” Taid continued.

“Those papers belong to me,” she said. She lifted her free arm to indicate the sheaf of papers still in Taid’s hand.

“Show me your face.” Taid showed no sign of fear. I was shivering uncontrollably. Convinced this was a Guard.

“Richard Beynon-James. I never imagined it would be you.”

“What’s she holding?” I whispered to Taid.

“It’s a shotgun. Shush.”

“She can’t be your daughter, can she? Your grand-daughter?” The woman stepped forward out of the doorway. She placed the shotgun on the floor.

“Of all the people who could have my papers, I never thought it would be you.” She threw back the hood of her coat, revealing a mass of blonde hair. I heard Taid gasp.

“You can’t be ...” he said, releasing his grip on my shoulders. “It was fifty years or more ago.”

The woman undid her raincoat and shook water off it. “No, Richard. Not my mother. I’m Mererid.”

“But you look just like her,” Taid said, his voice now faltering.

“Your memory fails you.
 
I’m at least two inches taller than she was. The hair is a family trait.” She ran her fingers through it.

By now I was thoroughly confused. Anger rose inside me. Taid obviously knew – or thought he knew – this woman and she appeared to know him. How could this be? I stood up and took a step towards her.

“Taid,” I said aloud. “Who is this? And what’s a ‘shotgun’?”

The woman laughed. “She’s never seen a shotgun, I suppose. How the Change has affected our children. How’s your DogLat, little one?”

I ignored her.

“This is my grand-daughter, as you rightly surmised,” Taid said. “Her name is ...” I elbowed him. “Semele,” he said, groaning.

“Ah, Ovidian.” She smiled at me. “Am I not allowed to know your family name, young lady?”

“No,” I said. “You’re not my family. I have no idea who you are or why you are here. We are here in the middle of nowhere yet you suddenly appear, asking all sorts of questions. If you’re not a Guard, what are you doing here?”

“Aha. Now who’s asking all the questions, young Semele? Perhaps your grandfather can answer them. Eh, Richard?”

I turned to Taid. Annoyingly, he was smiling as well. “In good time, cariad. In good time.”

“You speak Welsh to her?” Her voice was sharp.

“Now and again. The odd word. When no one else is listening.”

“I’m listening. I could report you for that.”

“Yes, but you won’t. Not if I know you.”

“Do you know me?” She took off her raincoat. She was wearing clothes very similar to those Taid had described to me earlier. A pale pink jumper over a beige, pleated skirt. Even the knee-high boots were the same.

I stared at her, then looked at Taid. “She’s wearing ...”

“Yes, cariad,” he said. “The same clothes as the woman I was telling you about. Only she says she’s that woman’s daughter. And why should we disbelieve her?”

“What were you telling her about my mother, Richard? I’m intrigued.” Smoothing her skirt beneath her, the woman stood opposite us.

“First tell us one thing.” Taid took my hand and pulled me down to sit next to him. “It’s astonishing that you are wearing the same clothes as your mother when I met her fifty years ago. Don’t you agree, cariad?”

I nodded.

“You have almost exactly the same hair colouring and style. What’s going on?”

“That’s another story, Richard. For another time, I think. Your grand-daughter … what did you say your name was, child?”

“I didn’t,” I muttered.

“Semele. Her Ovidian name,” Taid said.

“Ah yes. Semele. Another intriguing factor. Yes, Semele would like you to explain how I come to be here, and why we know – or seem to know – each other. Wouldn’t you, Semele? I’m sure you must have a much nicer name than that, but I’m equally sure you’re not going to tell me. At present. Well, grandfather?”

“Taid,” I blurted.

“‘Time and tide wait for no man’? What was that, my dear?”

“She calls me Taid. The Welsh word for grandfather. As I’m sure you know.”

“Another offence punishable by law. I begin to see why I find the pair of you out here in the wilds of wherever. Well, at risk of punishment myself, are you going to explain our situation to your grand-daughter, Taid?” She emphasised the last word.

“I was half way through it when you so rudely interrupted us.”