was gone.
‘Whatever’s that? Where did you get it?’ asked Mrs Griffiths, approaching the bed.
Gwyn decided to keep the voices to himself. ‘It’s a pipe, Mam. Nain gave it to me.’
‘Oh! That’s all.’ She dismissed the pipe as though it was a trivial bit of tin. ‘Try and get some sleep now, love, or you’ll never be up for the bus.’ She bent and kissed him.
‘I’ll be up, Mam,’ Gwyn assured her.
His mother went to the door and turned out the light. ‘That singing must have come from the Lloyds, they’re always late to bed,’ she muttered as she went downstairs. ‘It’s the cold. Funny how sound travels when it’s cold.’
Gwyn slept deeply but woke soon after dawn and felt for the pipe under his pillow. He drew it out and listened. The pipe was silent. It did not even look as bright, as magical as it had in the night. Gwyn was not disappointed. A magician cannot always be at work.
He dressed and went downstairs before his parents were awake; had eaten his breakfast and fed the chickens by the time his father came downstairs to put the kettle on.
‘What’s got into you, then?’ Mr Griffiths inquired when Gwyn sprang through the kitchen door.
‘Just woke up early. It’s a grand day, Dad!’ Gwyn said.
This statement received no reply, nor was one expected. The silences that sometimes yawned between father and son created an unbearable emptiness that neither seemed able to overcome. But they had become accustomed to the situation, and if they could not entirely avoid it, accepted it as best they could. It was usually Gwyn who fled from his father’s company, but on this occasion he was preoccupied and it was his father who left, to milk the cows.
A few moments later Mrs Griffiths shuffled down the stairs in torn slippers, still tying her apron strings. She was irritated to find herself the last one down. ‘Why didn’t someone call me,’ she complained.
‘It’s not late, Mam,’ Gwyn reassured her, ‘and I’ve had my breakfast.’
His mother began to bang and clatter about the kitchen nervously. Gwyn retreated from the noise and went into the garden.
The sun was full up now; he could feel the warmth of it on his face. The last leaves had fallen during the wild wind of the night before and bedecked the garden with splashes of red and gold. A mist hung in the valley, even obscuring his grand mother’s cottage, and Gwyn was glad that he lived in high country, where the air and the sky always seemed brighter.
At eight o’clock he began to walk down towards the main road. The school bus stopped at the end of the lane at twenty minutes past eight every morning, and did not wait for stragglers. It took Gwyn all of twenty minutes to reach the bus stop. For half a mile the route he took was little more than a steep track, rutted by the giant wheels of his father’s tractor and the hooves of sheep and cattle. He had to leap over puddles, mounds of mud and fallen leaves. Only when he had passed his grandmother’s cottage did his passage become easier. Here the track levelled off a little, the bends were less sharp and something resembling a lane began to emerge. By the time it had reached the Lloyds’ farmhouse the track had become a respectable size, tarmac-ed and wide enough for two passing cars.
The Lloyds had just erupted through their gate, all seven of them, arguing, chattering and swinging their bags. Mrs Lloyd stood behind the gate, while little Iolo clasped her skirt through the bars, weeping bitterly.
‘Stop it, Iolo. Be a good boy. Nerys, take his hand,’ Mrs Lloyd implored her oldest child.
‘Mam! Mam! Mam!’ wailed Iolo, kicking his sister away.
‘Mam can’t come, don’t be silly, Iolo! Alun, help Nerys. Hold his other hand.’
Alun obeyed. Avoiding the vicious thrusts of his youngest brother’s boot, he seized Iolo’s hand and swung him off his feet. Then he began to run down the lane while the little boy still clung to his neck, shrieking like a demon. The other Lloyds, thinking this great sport for the morning, followed close behind, whooping and yelling.
Gwyn envied them the noise, the arguments, even the crying. He came upon a similar scene every morning and it never failed to make him feel separate and alone. Sometimes he would hang behind, just watching, reluctant to intrude.
Today, however, Gwyn had something to announce. Today he did not feel alone. Different, yes, but not awkward and excluded.
‘Alun! Alun!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got news for you.’
Alun swung around, lowering Iolo to the ground, and the other Lloyds looked up at Gwyn as he came flying down the lane.
‘Go on,’ said Alun. ‘What news?’
‘I’m a magician,’ cried Gwyn. ‘A magician.’ And he ran past them all, his arms outstretched triumphantly, his satchel banging on his back.
‘A magician,’ scoffed Alun. ‘You’re mad, Gwyn Griffiths, that’s what you are,’ and forgetting his duty, left Iolo on the lane and gave furious chase.
‘Mad! Mad!’ echoed Siôn and Gareth, following Alun’s example.
‘Mad! Mad!’ cried Iolo excitedly, as he raced down the lane, away from Mam and his tears.
Soon there were four boys, tearing neck and neck, down the lane, and one not far behind; all shouting, ‘Mad! Mad! Mad!’ except for Gwyn, and he was laughing too much to say anything.
But the three girls, Nerys, Nia and Kate, always impressed by their dark neighbour, stood quite still and murmured, ‘A magician?’
Nain had warned him that he would be alone, but Gwyn had not realised what that would mean. After all, he had felt himself to be alone since Bethan went, but there had always been Alun when he needed company on the mountain or in the woods, to share a book or a game, to lend a sympathetic ear to confidences.
And for Alun the need had been as great. Gwyn was the one with an empty house and a quiet space to think and play in. And Gwyn was the clever one; the one to help with homework. It was Gwyn who had taught Alun to read. On winter evenings the two boys were seldom apart. Gwyn had never envisaged a time without Alun’s friendship and perhaps, if he had kept silent, that time would never have come. But it never occurred to Gwyn that Alun would find it impossible to believe him. He felt that he only had to find the right words in order to convince his friend, and on the homeward journey, that same afternoon, he once again brought up the subject of magicians.
Iolo always raced ahead when they got off the school bus. The older children, however, were not so keen to run uphill. They lingered on the lane, Siôn and Gareth arguing, the girls collecting wild flowers or coloured leaves. Alun and Gwyn always brought up the rear.
‘Have you heard of Math, Lord of Gwynedd?’ Gwyn began innocently.
‘Of course; he’s in the old Welsh stories. Dad talks about them,’ Alun replied.
‘And Gwydion?’
‘Yes, and how he made a ship from seaweed,’ Alun’s interest had been aroused.
‘I’d forgotten, Dad never talks. But Nain reminded me; she’s got more books than I’ve seen anywhere, except in the library.’
‘Your Nain’s a bit batty isn’t she?’ Alun had always been a little suspicious of Gwyn’s grandmother.
‘No! She’s not batty! She knows a lot,’ Gwyn replied. ‘She knew about me; about my being a magician!’
‘Now I know she’s batty. And you are too,’ Alun said good-naturedly.
Gwyn stopped quite still. His words came