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And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth
-T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday
Hey, look at what I found in my pocket. Want a stone, Jenny?
Jane fingered the stone that she had discovered rolling in the bottom of her desk drawer. It was a strange blue-green color, and it seemed warm in her hand. The little stone brought up hazy memories of a trip to Wales, a lifetime ago. Wales had seemed magical, timeless and strange and eternal. She still had dreams about train rides across a flickering landscape, and a boy- two boys, both more ancient than she could imagine- and a sword.
Ah, she'd been reading The Once and Future King.
Will and Bran. She wondered what had happened to them. She'd kept in touch with Will for a few years, but then he had dropped out of touch, and just disappeared.
It happened.
Well, nothing could be done for them, but Wales, Wales she could visit again.
*
Cardiff was fun for about a day. Jane wandered around the city, checked the Roaldh Dahl Plass for Police Boxes or underground bases; all she found was a bemused Tourist Office clerk.
She followed a faint memory to Aberdyfi; found a hotel, and then set off determinedly for Happy Valley and Llyn Barfog.
There were plenty of tourists at Llyn Barfog. Some had driven, and others, like Jane, were on foot. She found a relatively peaceful spot and stopped to admire the view. The hills around her were rough and weathered, grey stone jutting out of rusty brown heather and green splashes of vegetation. Sheep wandered across the landscape. The lake itself was dotted with green lily-pads and fringed with pale reeds.
She vaguely recalled a lady; and a jewel, something special, just for her. An old story, a childhood memory frayed at the edges.
She shook it off as a small boy ran past her, intent upon reaching Echo Point. A tall man wearing sunglasses and a flatcap came meandering up the path after the little boy, and she let her gaze slide over him. He smiled at her absently, still looking for the boy. And then memories rushed back- his skin wasn't just pale, it was white. She'd be willing to bet that the flatcap was hiding a shock of white hair.
She unconsciously patted her pocket, and smiled back at the man. "Bran?" she asked, uncertainly.
He turned to look at her. "Hello," he said, smiling awkwardly. Do I know you?
She was surprised at the tight feeling in her chest. Of course he didn't remember her. Why should he?
"Bran Davies?" she said again, for confirmation. He raised his eyebrows, and glanced away for a moment, checking on the boy.
"It's Jane Drew, do you remember? A friend of Will Stanton's?"
He took off the sunglasses, revealing those startling yellow eyes (she had forgotten). His smile was genuine this time.
"Jane! Jenny! Of course! With the two brothers, Simon and Barney."
He took her outstretched hand, grinning. "Amazing!" he said, softly. "How are your brothers?"
She smiled back at him. "Oh, you know. Simon's a chiropractor- he doesn't do too badly. Barney-" Barney had just dropped out of Uni. "Barney's in between things," she finished cheerfully. "He's a very good artist."
She looked out at the scenery again. "He should come out here," she said.
Bran scanned the scenery, too. "It's been a long time," he said. His eyes settled on the boy, who, with all the fearlessness of youth, was standing close to the edge of the cliff shouting something unintelligible. Welsh.
"What's his name?" she asked.
"Arthur," Bran said, "but I mostly call him crwtyn - brat."
"Arthur?"
Bran laughed.
"Yes, his mother is a great fan of Douglas Adams," he said, slipping the sunglasses back on.
The stone in her pocket suddenly felt very heavy, and she was glad she hadn't mentioned it to him.
"Any other children?" she asked, watching Arthur as he shouted into the valley. He bounced delightedly at the echoes.
"Ah, no," Bran said. "No time."
She glanced at him.
"We divorced, and, oh- my father didn't have half a fit," he elaborated, smiling a little. He looked back at his son.
"Arthur!" he called. "Bant o'r ochr!"
The boy stopped bouncing and waved at his father.
"Silly thing," Bran muttered fondly. Jane smiled automatically. Her mind was far away, years away.
"You sang," she said suddenly. She looked up at him. "Remember? When we were all here. You sang, in Welsh. It was beautiful..." she finished wistfully.
His cheeks were red. "Did I?"
A family all wearing matching orange rain slickers trudged past them up the hill, arguing about what they were going to have for lunch.
Bran glanced at the clear sky and snorted.
"It might rain," he allowed. "In fact, it probably will."
"But you're Welsh," Jane said, "and that makes you impervious to rain."
He grinned at her, and she wished she could see his eyes. She suspected that he was laughing at her.
"That it does, Jenny," he said.
Yes, he was definitely laughing at her.
*
She was a little surprised when he offered her a ride back to Aberdyfi, and more surprised when, after dropping Arthur off at his mother's house, he asked if she wanted to go to dinner.
It was raining when reached The Wine Bar on the Wharf. They got a table by the window; Jane gazed pensively at the crashing surf while Bran ordered his meal. When the waiter had left, she tore her eyes away from the waves.
Bran had taken his glasses off, but his face was as inscrutiable as ever. Perhaps it was his eyes: such a strange color.
"Do you know the story of Cantre'r Gwaelod?" he asked. She shook her head.
Bran looked back over the water, fiddling with his napkin as he spoke. "The kingdom of Meirionnydd was ruled by King Gwyddno long ago. It was very fertile, so much so that it was said that any acre there was worth four acres elsewhere. There was a dyke," he pointed vaguely out the window, "to protect it from the sea."
Jane could see where this was going.
"One night a storm blew up. The watchman was drunk, asleep. So, the sea flooded the land of the Cantref, drowning everyone. All those voices, silenced at once." Bran looked out at the water again.
"But I think- I have an idea somehow that they went singing."
Jane reached out without thinking, and took his hand. He sounded as if he had been there, as though he had witnessed it. He squeezed her hand and smiled.
"Of course," he added, "there's some cities that have gone more recently. Tryweryn was flooded in 1965, to provide water for Liverpool."
"That's terrible," Jane said.
He smiled at her again. "Let's not talk politics. Tell me, Jenny, what are you up to these days?"
"Work," she said. "Very boring. Do you know that I still have that stone you gave me?"
She found the pebble in her pocket, and handed it across the table. Bran took the stone, studied it.
"I had forgotten all about this," he admitted, examining the stone. He glanced up at her, and pressed it back into her hand. "A pretty pebble for a pretty lady," he said.
Their food came then, so she blushed and smiled, and let the conversation drift to Simon's career and Owen Davies' health, and how frustrating the NHS could be.
*
Jane dreamed of Bran again that night, except that the boy and the man kept switching places, one becoming the other with the strange fluidity of dreams. She woke up the next day with a strange phrase in the back of her mind, something Welsh.
Y maent yr mynyddoedd yn canu, ac y mae'r arglwyddes yn dod.
*
She overslept in the morning, so that Bran had to ring her room to wake her up.
Come on, Jenny! You promised me a walk, and the rain's holding off. Don't make me come and get you!
She threw on the nearest clean clothes and dashed down to the lobby. Bran was waiting, tall and slender and composed, wearing a dark turtleneck and jeans. His hair was like a silver flame above his clothes.
"I've got the jeep, we'll have to drive a bit. It's worth it," he said, offering her his arm.
When they were just out of sight of Aberdyfi, Bran killed the engine. "That way," he said, pointing out the window at a narrow path that wound it's way down into a valley. He grabbed his pack, and set off at a brisk pace. Jane paused to pull her hair into a ponytail and then followed him. They walked in silence, eyes on the slick, treacherous terrain. Finally they reached a small, twisted tree that jutted abrubtly out of the landscape. It looked as if it had been there forever. Bran stopped, and set down his pack.
"I come up here to think," he said. "I like it- it's calming."
Jane nodded, and reached out to touch the dark bark of the tree. Six Sleepers shall ride, six Signs shall burn.
"And where the midsummer tree grows tall, by Pendragon's sword the Dark shall fall," she said.
"What's that, then? A poem?" Bran was smiling at her.
"I don't know," Jane said, suddenly embarrased.
He looked at the tree critically. "It's not exactly what I'd call tall," he said.
Jane smiled. "Sometimes things aren't quite what you expect," she said. Something tugged at the back of her mind, a childhood trip to Cornwall, strange rituals and stranger dreams.
"No, I suppose not," Bran said. He seemed lost in thought for a moment. He looked up at her and took a deep breath. "Look, Jenny- if this is about Arthur, if you don't-"
"Oh!" Jane said, startled. She hadn't given too much thought to Arthur. He was just a boy, just a new part of Bran.
"I mean, I know a divorced single father isn't-"
"No, no!" Jane said. She reached out and took his hand without thinking. He looked down at their joined hands.
"No, Bran. That's not a problem at all. I- I don't mind Arthur at all. How could I?"
She smiled at him, and he smiled back, hesitantly. She squeezed his hand.
"Bran Davies," she said, "I'm very glad that I came back to Wales."
"So am I," Bran said. He sat down under the tree, and opened the pack. "Now, how about lunch? It's not haute cuisine, but then you are in Wales."
Jane laughed, and sat down beside him on the damp grass.
"I think I like Wales," she said.
Bran put aside the pack, and reached out for her. She didn't resist when his arm snaked around her waist. He pulled her to his side.
"Jane-" he murmured. His face was inches from hers. She reached up and pulled off his glasses.
"You may have to teach me Welsh," she said softly. Bran smiled, and then he bent his head and kissed her.
And if it began to rain then, she didn't notice.