Authors: Paula Brackston
I reach down into the pool and soak my arms, the chill of the water numbing the stinging cut on my finger. For a second I see a drop of blood swirl among the eddies before being diluted to nothing, and then the iciness works on my body to stop the flow. When I take out my hand and examine it the cut is almost invisible. Almost as if it never was.
* * *
Cai does not need to take his father’s watch out of his waistcoat pocket to know that it is already past noon. The ponies were at the far point of the high grazing, and finding them took him longer than he had anticipated. The herd was in fine fettle, coats gleaming, foals playful and growing well. The minute he was among them he was sorry he had not taken Morgana. He is certain she will share his love of these fiery little horses. Now, as he urges the old ginger mare down the steep slope to home, he feels he may have been too harsh on the girl. He cannot imagine why she was so hostile toward Isolda, but then, there are many things he has yet to understand about her. It could be she felt at a disadvantage, sitting there in her nightgown. Even if she did look enchanting. Perhaps she had not slept well—it was her first night at Ffynnon Las, after all, and she had been out in the meadow to greet the dawn. As the house comes into view he resolves to be more patient with her. She must be missing her mother. Time will soften her temper and help her to settle in. Or so he must believe.
In the yard he dismounts and takes the saddle and bridle off Honey. The horse is content to pick at the grass between the cobbles while he puts the tack on its rack in the storeroom. The little stone stable is full of lovingly cleaned and well-worn harnesses for driving, ploughing, and riding, all kept at a height to deter hungry mice. Cai opens the wooden gate into the small field at the back of the yard.
“Come on, then, girl. Off you go.”
Honey saunters into the field, her tail swishing lazily at the persistent flies that have been attracted by her sweaty coat. Cai gives her an affectionate pat on the rump as she passes. She is as unglamorous and homely a horse as he has ever owned, but her steady temperament and hardy constitution have endeared her to him over the years. He is doubtful, though, that she will be up to the rigors of the drove. He will have to find another mount before long, one more suited to three weeks of hard riding. Calling the dogs, who have paused to loll in the shade by the well, he makes his way back into the house. As he opens the back door he optimistically sniffs the air, hoping for some hint that a meal might be waiting for him. The overpowering stink of burnt food brings him almost to the point of retching.
“Morgana?” he calls, anxiety lending an edge to his voice. He finds the kitchen wreathed in drifting smoke from a hissing fire and a belching stewpot. “What in God’s name…?” Hurrying forward he seizes the coal tongs and carefully unhitches the pot from its hook before setting it down on the hearth. The corgis, who had been at his heel, retreat to find clean air elsewhere. The lid of the pot has been forced off by the boiling stew inside, which has spilled over onto the coals, resulting in a smoldering mess. The inside of the pot carries the remains of what might once have been carrots, parsnips, potatoes, and leeks, though Cai can recognize nothing.
“Morgana!” he yells. This time it is anger rather than concern that adds volume to his voice. A glance around the room tells him wherever she is, not only did she abandon the cooking but she did not so much as bother to clear away the breakfast things. The bread and milk and teacups remain on the table, coated in a layer of grime from the char-laden smoke. “Morgana!” He storms from the room and up the stairs, this time not hesitating at the door, but throwing it open. He is not truly surprised to find it empty, for he is quickly being made to realize that his new wife is not a person who enjoys being in the house. He is about to go in search of her when he catches sight of her crate of books. The lid is off, and though she has not yet had time to take them out, it appears she has been looking through the various volumes. Curiosity gets the better of him and he squats down beside the crate for a closer look. The first book he finds is a copy of
Pilgrim’s Progress,
in English. It is a little dog-eared, but the evidence is of wear, rather than neglect, with no stains of mildew or signs of worm damage. He opens the cover, and inside reads, in an elaborate hand,
Silas Morgan Pritchard 1821.
He picks up the next and finds the same. And the next. All the books, it seems, once belonged to Morgana’s father, for whom she was evidently named. It was her father, then, who sparked within her the love of the written word. This mysterious man about whom Mair would say no more beyond that his daughter had idolized him, and that he had disappeared one day when she was very small. Cai feels an understanding forming within himself; something so obvious, now that he has come to it, that he is amazed by his own slowness in not having fathomed the fact sooner. Morgana had ceased speaking when she was a young child, and that moment, that shutting off of her voice from the world, had been the very same moment her father had vanished from her life forever.
Cai sits back on his heels and tries to imagine how the pain of that loss must have struck the child. He recalls at once the agony of his grief for Catrin. His own response had, indeed, been to withdraw from the world. Was that not what Morgana had done, at least in the way, as a child, she was able? The door of the wardrobe is open and within it hang her few articles of clothing. Rising, he moves to look closer. There is a dress of dark blue cotton, clearly kept for best, perhaps chapel. It is pitifully plain, unfashionable, and patched in several places. The slips, pinafore, and petticoat show similar states of wear and repair. Cai feels a pang of pity for the girl. Here she is, landed up in a big draughty house with a stranger for a husband, and all manner of visitors coming to gawp at her, and she has not one decent garment in which to dress herself. Small wonder she wants to run and hide.
He senses rather than hears Morgana in the doorway, the suddenness of her appearance startling him so that he jumps. Self-consciously, he steps away from her clothes. How must it look to find him touching her undergarments and examining her linen! Embarrassment makes him sharper than is his intention.
“You left the
cawl
unattended. That was very foolish. I came home to find the kitchen full of smoke.” When she shows not the slightest suggestion of remorse he adds, “You could have burned the house down!”
Her response to this is to cast her eyes down. In doing so her gaze sweeps over her crate of books, and she notices that they have been disturbed. At once her demeanor changes from sullenly defensive to furious. She rushes to the wooden box, falling on her knees beside it. She grabs the books, placing them back inside just as they had been, and then snatches up the lid and slams it in place. She leaps to her feet, standing defensively in front of her prized possessions, her fists clenched at her sides, her face dark with rage.
Cai is unnerved by the intensity of her reaction. “I did no harm,” he says. “I see that they were books belonging to your father…”
He is not permitted to finish his sentence. Morgana runs at him, her loose hair streaming, fists raised. Instinctively Cai raises his own hands to protect himself, but she does not strike him. Instead she shoves him, hard, both hands pushing against his chest so that he is forced backward, off balance, staggering out of the room. The instant he is across the threshold she slams the door on him. All five of the paintings hanging on the landing crash to the ground, their glass seeming to smash before they even reach the floorboards, as if they were not so much shaken from their hooks as exploded. Cai stands still, his heart pounding. Only when he is convinced the storm is over does he turn and go downstairs.
4.
How dare he touch my books! He was rifling through my possessions, as if they belong to him now. As, indeed, they do. As I belong to him, I suppose. Am I to be left nothing of myself? I lift the lid from the crate once more, just to reassure myself that nothing has been taken. No, they are all here. He was looking at
Pilgrim’s Progress
. Has he ever read it, I wonder? Has he any interest in stories? I have seen no books in the house thus far. Perhaps he keeps them to himself, in his room. The room he will no doubt expect me to share with him one day. What would a man like Cai read? A man who has lived all his life in one place, save for droving, what would he choose to read?
Dada selected these books. Each and every one meant something to him; his choices were never whimsical or left to fate. He had his favorites. This one, with its fine red leather binding, he never tired of—
Tales from the Thousand and one Nights
. How he loved this book! And how I loved to hear him read from it, or to recount tales from memory, as he often did. The cover feels warm, as if my dada had just this minute left off reading it. As I run my thumb across it the title spells itself out to me, cut into the leather, even though the gilding has long been rubbed away by palm and lap. A heavy sadness settles upon me, as it so often does when I recall the pain of his leaving. When I remember how he was one day there, and the next not. And how when he went away he took my voice with him.
Of a sudden I am overcome by weariness. The journey, the dragging sorrow of homesickness, this strange house, unfamiliar society, the heat … all have taken their toll so that now all I wish to do is sleep. And yet I fear still I will not be able to. If I clutch Dada’s book close against me, tight to my heart, it may be I can bring to mind something of the warmth of his presence. Here, I will lay myself down on the rug in this pool of sunshine that brightens the colors of the woven wool. I close my eyes and wish I could go to where dear Dada is. But he is lost to me. So many times I have tried to find him, to travel as only I can to be near him. But he is gone. So completely. The only comfort left to me is to remember. To revisit those soft-edged images and rememberings of my time with him. To recall one of those precious moments my memory has entombed and preserved like an ancient treasure. A moment when he was close to me. I shut my ears to the cry of the serf’s cuckoo outside. I curl myself around the book, burying my nose in the dry, powdery pages so as to keep away the bitter aroma of burnt vegetables and sulphurous coal fumes that drift up the stairs. I screw my eyes tight shut, allowing only the dappled dance of the sun on my lids. Slowly images appear. A dark night, still and warm. A fire, outside, at the far end of the garden. And at last, Dada, sitting beside it, his face illuminated by the flames. He always preferred to be out of the house, much to Mam’s displeasure. So long as the weather would allow it, after eating he would retreat to this quiet little place, assemble twigs and branches, and within minutes would be settled by a cheerful blaze, his clay pipe in his hand, an ease relaxing his shoulders. An ease which eluded him when he was forced to remain enclosed with slate or thatch separating him from the stars. I would clamor for him to tell me a tale and, after a token resistance, he would agree, sucking on his pipe, eyes raised to heaven as if looking for divine guidance for his story selection. And then he would begin. Oh, he was an excellent storyteller! My young mind, flexible as willow, would follow the twists and turns of the adventure, pictures flashing bright before my eyes, the howls of wolves or the singing of maidens filling the night sky around me. I was enthralled. Spellbound. Indeed, most of his best-loved tales turned upon some sort of magic. Magic, he told me, was something to be taken seriously.
“Travelers understand about magic,” said he. “I’m not claiming they’re all sorcerers and such like, only that they know magic when they see it. Your Romany ancestors crisscrossed the globe, Morgana, and on their travels they saw many marvelous things and encountered many wonderful beings. That’s how they gained their knowledge, from distant lands and strange customs of even stranger people. Traveling was my habit, my natural state, you might say, until your mother caught me in her web.” He laughed. “She’s a good woman, your mam, but she’s not like you and me, girl.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial level. “You have the magic blood in you, Morgana. I’ve seen it. Do not fear it, as some do. It is a gift, though there are times you may not think it so.” He sucked hard on his pipe, which had gone out. He paused to light a spill in the fire and touch the glowing end to the bowl of tobacco. Abundant smoke temporarily obscured him, slowly dispersing, wisps of it curling from his nose. I was seven years old and I had a dragon for a father.
“If you are not able to travel,” he told me, “the next best thing is to read. Read all you can, girl. And store up that knowledge, for you never know when you will need it.” He paused, sitting straight, looking thoughtfully at me. I have often, over the years, tried to see what was behind that expression, what it was he was trying to tell me. “A person has to tread his own path, Morgana. Life will set things to pulling you in all directions, tugging you this way and that.” He puffed once more, leaning back so that the light from the fire could scarcely reach him, two smokinesses rendering him faint, ghostlike. The only substantial thing about him was his voice. “Tread your own path,” said he once more.
The next morning he was gone, and I never saw him again.
The memory lulls me to sleep and when I awake some hours have passed and the room is in darkness save for a short candle flickering on the windowsill. I am surprised to find the patchwork quilt has been taken from the bed and placed snugly over me. Cai must have done it. Must have come to speak with me, found me sleeping, and thought to make me more comfortable. The man is a riddle. I might sooner have expected him to wake me and tell me to make his supper. I rise and peer out of the window. The night is bright, constellations clear, the moon aglow. It is hard to judge the exact hour, but the house is quiet, as if I am the only one awake.
I drop the quilt onto the bed and snatch up my woolen shawl instead. I take the candle and lift the latch on my door carefully. Again, as I pass the door to Cai’s bedroom, I sense something out of kilter with the still silence of the night. I have the sensation of being observed. I pull my shawl tighter about me and continue downstairs. I have already identified those boards and stairs which complain at my footfalls, so I am able to descend to the kitchen quietly. The fire in the range is out. There is a faint smell of smoke lingering, but the unpleasant evidence of my calamitous attempt at cooking has gone. The table is cleared and everything returned to its proper place. Conflict unsettles me. I am glad proof of my clumsiness has been erased, but I am uncomfortable at the thought of my husband having to wash away the grime of my error. It should not fall to him. And now I feel strangely in his debt. Hunger rumbles in my stomach and I fetch a lump of cheese and a hunk of bread from the pantry. I am about to sit on the window seat when I see Cai is sleeping in the carver at the far end of the table. I wonder I have not woken him with my blundering about. How often, I wonder, has he fallen asleep down here? I remember after Dada went away I would sometimes find Mam in her chair by the kitchen range. She would explain it away as having been overtired and having drifted off. Only later did she admit to me she found her bed too lonely. Does he still miss his first wife so? Am I to compete with a ghost?