Ashes Under Uricon (The Change Book 1) (4 page)

“Then quickly fill me in so that we can carry on. There’s a good Taid.” Again the emphasis.

I looked into her eyes. “He was telling me about the time he went to a house somewhere and saw some books. He thinks those papers are something to do with those books. Oh yes, and he saw a woman who looked just like you in the house. She locked him in the library.”

“She didn’t lock me in, cariad. She closed the door but it wasn’t locked.”

“I think we’re all ready to hear some more, aren’t we – what does he call you? - ‘cariad’?”

I scowled at her. Taid cleared his throat.

“I was on a course. To do with studying Welsh at A Level. We had a free afternoon so I had taken a walk on my own. I came across a lovely house called Plas Maen Heledd. To my surprise I was invited in by a lady who you say was your mother. She showed me into the library then left me there. Are you sure you don’t know this story?”

Unlike his usual smooth telling of a story, Taid was hesitant, his delivery staccato.

“I know all this is new to my grand-daughter, but are you sure you haven’t heard this before? From your mother? In much the same way as I was telling her?”

“My mother sadly passed away shortly after I was born, Richard. I was not as fortunate as young Semele here to have someone like you to tell me stories of the past.”

“Good lord, Mererid. You make me sound a thousand years old. Stories of the past, indeed. This is something that happened to me when I was about her age. Not that far back.”

“Before the Change, Richard. Might as well be prehistory to a child like her.”

“Well, yes. Maybe.” He looked at me. “Are you interested in what I’ve been telling you, cariad? Truthfully.”

I nodded.

“Much of what you’re saying must be meaningless to her. She doesn’t even know what a gun is, for goodness’ sake. You heard her version of the story as you’ve told it so far. I’m sure you used a few more words than she did, didn’t you?”

Taid looked downcast. “A few more, perhaps. There was a little more detail.”

I laughed. “Lots more, Taid. Lots more.”

She looked at me. “Do you want to hear the rest of your grandfather’s story, young lady? Or are we boring you?”

“Boredom is a state of mind,” I snapped.

“Well, you are a perfect example of post-Change child, aren’t you?”

“Leave her alone, Mererid.” Taid squeezed my hand. “How else is she to find out about life in the past? It’s people like me – like us – who are the last remnants of life before the Change.”

“Don’t count me in with you, Richard. I’m only half your age, remember.” She glared at him.

“But old enough to remember a time before the Change, I think.”

This discussion was going nowhere. “Can you just tell the story, Taid? Please? I still haven’t had anything to eat for two days.” It seemed to me that once he had finished his story we could move on. Away from this place. Away from this odd woman. I hoped.

“Just get on with it, Richard.” Her voice had that sharp edge to it again.

“I had climbed the ladder in the library and discovered on the top shelf a copy of ‘Y Gododdin’. As far as I knew then there was no known copy of the poem left in existence. Yet what I held in my hand seemed to be completely original. I couldn’t read it, of course, and if it hadn’t had the title on the spine I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what it was. But I knew of ‘Y Gododdin’ from my A Level Welsh teacher. He was always telling us stories about how far back Welsh poetry went and I knew that this was one of the earliest.

“What I couldn’t understand was how a copy of this poem, which had burned in a fire according to my teacher, should turn up here in this strange house in the middle of nowhere.”

“Not quite in the middle of nowhere, Richard. That’s a bit over the top, don’t you think?” she hissed.

If she kept on interrupting him, this story would take forever to reach the end. “Just carry on, Taid,” I said, nudging his arm.

“Well, I gently carried the book down the ladder, cleared a small space on the table and placed it there. I then went back up the ladder to see what else might be there. It was incredible. On every shelf there was at least one, sometimes two or more, books of poetry from every age in Welsh history. Dafydd ap Gwilym, Iolo Goch, Y Gogynfeirdd, Barddoniaeth yr Uchelwyr. Every one I remembered from the teacher’s stories. Most incredible of all there were books by Taliesin and Aneirin, the oldest known poets. And, unbelievably, the ‘Canu Heledd’. The earliest known poem by a woman in northern Europe, never mind Wales.

“I didn’t know very much about these things at the time, apart from the names of the poets and the poems, and when I looked through some of them I couldn’t make head nor tail of what was written. On the lower shelves were books from other centuries, right down to the 1920’s and 30’s. They were printed, of course, but each one was a first edition, no matter when it had been published. Although I could read the words in these, I had no idea who the poets were in most cases. The only one I recognised was T. H. Parry-Williams. He was one of my set texts.”

“
Beth ydwyt ti a minnau, frawd,

 
Ond swp o esgyrn mewn gwisg o gnawd?
”

She spoke Welsh as well as Taid. I was astonished. So was he.

“You know T.H.?”

“My favourite. Now you’ve made me really break the law, Richard Beynon-James. So, you found all these books. What happened next?”

“As I took a book from the bottom shelf to the table, I became aware that it was getting dark. When I looked at my watch I was horrified to discover that it was well past six. We were supposed to be in the centre for dinner at half past five. I ran to the door, opened it and looked up and down the hallway. There was no sign of the woman – your mother – or anyone else. I called ‘Hello’ a couple of times, but there was no response. I was seriously worried that I would be missed from dinner. I looked back into the library, my eyes falling on the pile of books I had placed on the table, then shut the door and left.

“I ran back to the centre. Out of breath, I dashed into the dining hall just as the others were leaving. A plate of cold food sat at my place. I sat down and ate as much as I could manage. When I looked up I saw the course director still sitting in his place on the high table. He beckoned me over.

“‘So what’s your explanation, Richard?’ This conversation was all in Welsh, remember, although my mind was still a bit scrambled from my afternoon adventure. I told him what I had been doing, apologising for being late, as I had not realised how much time had passed. I thought he would be thrilled when I told him what I had discovered. He simply stared at me. ‘Have you been drinking?’ he said. ‘No. What do you mean?’ I said. ‘Your story is plain nonsense. There is no house, Georgian or otherwise, along that road. Not until you get to the next town, anyway, and I’m sure you didn’t walk more than twenty-five miles and back this afternoon.’

“I did not understand what he was saying. At first I thought it might have been that my Welsh was at fault. He repeated his words – ‘there is no house along that road’ – and I definitely understood him. I protested, of course. He simply dismissed what I was saying. He told me that he was going to write a report to my teacher telling him that I had gone off drinking and come back with a fantastic story about a house with a library that didn’t exist in the area. And he did. I really got into trouble when I went back to school. The accusation of drunkenness stuck while I was in school and it made my last years there rather miserable.

“I know I was in that house. And I know what I saw there. And I know it existed. And I know it was your mother who invited me in. I have spent my life living down what everybody presumed was a pathetic excuse to cover a drunken escapade. Until now. Until I found these papers.”

He picked up the sheaf of papers and waved them at her. “These are real, aren’t they? Well, aren’t they, Mererid? Or are you going to tell me that I’m delusional?”

“You’re certainly not delusional, Richard. We are going to have to find out why, aren’t we?”

I was by now completely baffled. Taid had told a story that was apparently about a house and a library that did not exist. I was sure that he wasn’t lying, or inventing the story. He wasn’t like that. But houses don’t just disappear, do they?

Do they?

“What you have to realise, Richard, is that the Change did not happen quite as suddenly as everyone is led to believe.”

Mererid had moved away from where she stood next to Taid and had quietly opened the door. Outside it was now daylight, just. After leaning out, stretching her hand to check for rain, she had turned back to face us.

“It took many years to lay the foundations. Many years. To ensure that when it happened there could be no going back. Your experience was one of those foundation stones. A very small one amongst thousands upon thousands of others. The plans were devised before we were born. They knew from the beginning when the Change would take place – the exact day, even the exact hour. The planning and preparation was meticulous. Meticulous.”

She drew out the last word. At the time I was not sure exactly what it meant. I didn’t really understand what she was saying at all. ‘Foundation stones’, ‘plans’, ‘meticulous’. I knew what the Change was, of course. Everyone did. The whole country. ‘Before was Chaos. After was Order.’ It was written on the wall of every classroom, every gathering place.

We feared Chaos. We knew that it was to be avoided at all costs. Whatever it meant. It was difficult for my generation to understand how Taid’s generation had survived it. Whatever it was. The Change was the miracle that saved us. We all knew that. Everyone did.

“You did visit Plas Maen Heledd, Richard. That was no delusion. No delusion.” She had acquired a curious habit of repeating words and phrases. It was beginning to irritate me.

“Is your story something to do with Chaos?” I asked Taid, interrupting whatever she was trying to say.

She laughed. A short, bitter laugh.

“There was no ‘Chaos’, cariad,” she said, with a sardonic emphasis on the last word. “Disorder, why yes. Much disorder. Perhaps too much disorder. But Chaos? No. Not chaos.”

She was beginning to frighten me.

Taid, always aware of my feelings, intervened. “You can’t say these things to her, Mererid. She does not understand.”

She whispered something under her breath.

“Speak up. I can’t hear you,” Taid said.

“She must understand. Must understand.” She paused, then shouted, “She must understand!”

She turned and went out through the door. Taid got up and followed her. I could hear him calling her name outside, his voice dwindling as he moved further away from the hut. For a while I was almost afraid that I would never see him again, that he had gone back to Chaos, led by this woman who spoke of there never having been Chaos.

What did she mean by saying that? Why did she repeat those words ‘She must understand’? What must I understand? Fear rose up inside me and I curled myself into a ball, wondering what was to become of me.

Then I heard Taid’s voice, close at hand again. “Non? Non? Where are you, cariad?”

I uncurled and sat up. “Here, Taid. Where did you think I would be?”

“We have to follow her.”

“Follow her? Why? Where? She’s mad.” I was shouting. Again.

“Byddwch yn ddistaw. She’s not mad, cariad. Dewch ymlan. Come on.”

He had gathered the papers, stuffed them back in the bag and was waiting for me by the door.

“I’m not going to follow her,” I yelled. “She is mad, Taid. Those things she was saying. I don’t understand them. We don’t know where she’s going. Why should we follow her?”

“I’ll explain as we go along.” His voice had an edge of exasperation.

“No. You can follow her if you like. I’m staying here. How can she say there was no Chaos. Everyone knows there was. ‘Before was Chaos’. It’s everywhere. She must be mad if she’s saying there was no Chaos. Perhaps she’s Chaos. I’ve never really understood what it means anyway. But she frightens me, and that makes me think there’s something wrong. She’s weird.”

I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, defensively.

Taid came towards me. “Non, I have never shouted at you before, but unless you do as I ask, then I will leave you here to whatever fate awaits you.” His voice was deep and resonant. “We have to follow Mererid. She is the only person who can help us in our situation. Your attitude is simply making it harder for us to do so. Don’t you see?”
 

He sat down heavily beside me. “We can’t let it go now, cariad. If we lose her now, then we’re finished.”

I looked up. There were tears streaming down his face. I was shocked. I had never seen him like this before. I jumped up and threw my arms around him.

“Don’t cry, Taid. Please don’t cry. She frightens me.”

“She frightens me, too, Non. But I just know that she has the answers. I don’t know why I know. But I know we must follow her, before it’s too late. Please, cariad. We have to go.”

I released my arms and quickly scrambled to my feet. I reached the door before he stood up. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. As he passed through the door he grabbed my hand and pulled me after him.

Ten minutes later he slowed to a stop, gasping for breath. I had guessed that this would happen. Taid had problems with his breathing whenever he exerted himself, and he had set off from the hut at a pace that he would never be able to keep up.

He released my hand and sat down heavily on a stone at the side of the road. “Duwch, cariad,” he muttered, between gasps. “You’ll have to follow her on your own. I can’t keep up this pace for long.”

“Just calm down,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere without you. I still don’t understand why we have to follow that woman anyway.”

Taid’s breathing slowed. He looked at me, then looked away in the direction that she must have gone.
 

“How do you think she found us?”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning what I say. How do you think Mererid found us?”