Carole Hailey

Carole Hailey spent far too many years as a lawyer wishing she were a writer. She eventually stopped complaining and did something about it, banishing the law to her past. In her present, she lives on an isolated farm in West Wales surrounded by hills topped by Neolithic stone circles and Iron Age forts. The wild landscape and the ancient monuments and megaliths are major inspirations for her writing.
Contact: pantygroes [at] gmail [dot] com

Rain

 

Chapter 1

Present Day

Squatting back on his heels, he stared at the hole in the ground. He put down the trowel, eased off a glove and extended his forefinger tentatively, not yet allowing himself to believe that he had found it. He paused to look over each shoulder, making sure no-one had appeared over the brow of the hill since the last time he’d checked. Then he started moving his finger again, almost imperceptibly slowly, left hand holding his right forearm to still the shaking, until, eventually, his outstretched forefinger touched the bone. It was surprisingly white against the muddy browns of the dank earth that had enfolded it for so long. He stayed motionless, lightly resting his fingertip on the bone for a long while, until the shrill calls of the red kites wheeling through the air above him brought him back to himself.  

He spread his hand wide, pushing gently, increasing the pressure, until, with a tiny sucking noise, the bone freed itself from the sticky mud and was in his grasp. As his fingers closed protectively, the sound of blood in his ears grew deafening, amplified by the abrupt absence of the kites; looking up, he could see them in the distance climbing the thermals to speed away, heading north over the distant trees.

A fat rain drop fell onto his head, pulling his focus back. He looked around once more to make sure he was still alone on the hilltop and, wrapping the bone in cotton wool, he placed it gently inside a little plastic bag that he pulled from his pocket. Once the relic was secure, he rapidly filled in the hole as the rain fell steadily onto his bowed head. Task complete, he got to his feet and paced around the eighteen stones that made up the circle. He took seventy two paces to complete the circuit and back at his starting point he looked down at the base of the stone where he had been digging and was satisfied that he’d left no signs of what he had done. 

***

The day the rain started falling, as light as lamb’s breath, there was no reason to suppose that it wouldn’t stop, no indication that it would change so much and be the start of everything else. True, it had begun with a triple rainbow, so unusually perfect that the villagers paused to look up and marvel at the arcs of colour spanning the jumble of stone and slate houses. The bounties of gold at either end lay beyond reach in the sharp inclines of the hills that curved around the village like protective arms. Rain was so unremarkable and unremarked upon in Rhos-y-Groes that for many days nobody thought anything of it as they pulled on their damp raincoats and hauled their soggy wellingtons over thick socks.

No-one knew who was first to notice that something was amiss. When it was all over and the story was told, some claimed to have had a sense of foreboding from the beginning, but the truth was that it wasn’t until the fifth day that anyone ventured an observation about the unceasing, relentless rain, which seemed to be growing in strength hour by hour. The first comment was a throwaway remark in the village shop, made by Mary Evans as she searched unhopefully amongst the sparsely filled shelves for something appetising, her gaze sliding over packets of frozen fish in parsley sauce, individual tins of tomatoes pulled apart from their multi-buy packs, small jars of unappealing red and brown cooking sauces and, for the children, stale pick and mix sweets with the colours leached out of them. Putting a dusty tin of sardines on the counter, Mary said, “Rain should have stopped by now…”

David, who owned the shop, agreed, “Yes, it’s gone on a while…” before their conversation moved on to the theft of the sign from outside the pub which was the biggest news around those parts at that time.

One villager, who would have been amongst the first to know that something was not right, that the weather gods were, perhaps, not quite behaving themselves, was Owen Tregaron.  Although he owned a small two bedroomed cottage on the edge of the village, which he inherited when his mother died only a few weeks after his father, their illnesses competing for the finishing post, Owen was happier in the open spaces of the hills than down in the small valley which lay at their foot. Often, during the long summer evenings, he would lie in the circle of Cerrig Ysbryd, while the eighteen ancient stones which rose from the scrubby grass on the top of Bryn Darn hill watched over him. Owen would rest his head on his arms and listen to the red kites screeching overhead as they searched for shelter for the night.

Although he was a good-looking man, well into his forties, still in possession of a full head of curly dark hair and a deeply lined face that marked his years walking the hills, Owen had never married. It wasn’t a lack of desire for companionship, however there always came a time when women wanted more from him than he could give. They liked the income that came from his sheep, but were jealous of the relationship that he had with the hills where his animals grazed. They demanded that he return home directly he had finished his days’ labours, and not decide, without warning, to stay up above and sleep to the sound of the birds. In time, he had come to realise that he had to make a choice, and he chose the short sharp rises of the hills, the inky blackness of the peat, the stabbing prickle of the gorse, and the old, old, stones. 

So it was Owen that would have been aware sooner than most that something was wrong when the rain did not stop, the great drops plummeting earthwards creating vast mud baths on the hills, so that walking required absolute concentration in order to maintain a forward motion. He knew it wasn’t right, but he didn’t see anyone he wanted to tell; and in any case, he didn’t know what he would have said. He was lonely without the piercingly thin cries of the kites, who had outrun the weather, taking their hunt further north, but other than that, Owen was content to walk with his sheep and wait and watch.

In the village, the downpour gave birth to streams, springing up to flow along the pavements before pouring into the Afon Bywyd river where it skirted the western boundary of Rhos-y-Groes. On the seventeenth day, two of the streams ran closer and closer together, their borders nudging until they joined, immediately uniting with others to create faster, deeper cascades which swept down the streets. Caitlin Edwards’ mother grasped her arm painfully and as she took a long intake of breath to wail her disapproval, Mrs Edwards forced out a high pitched laugh to disguise her fear that the toddler was about to be swept off her feet. The laughter stopped abruptly as water breached the top of her boots and poured inside.  

Eventually, by the twentieth day, it had finally dawned on even the most unobservant resident that something was not right. Most people had theories, of course, and it being a Saturday, the villagers were out in force, clustering together like marooned ducks in the ever-decreasing dry pockets of street. They clutched their coats and umbrellas and children whilst debating heatedly and gesticulating at the flooded telephone box and the sandbags piled outside the village pub. 

In most of the street however, the water still ran more fast than deep and cars were just about able to navigate the road creating tidal waves and eddies that sloshed against the legs of people discussing the morning’s local television news. In the and finally… piece, the news presenter, Dai Williams’ son, mentioned a micro weather system stubbornly clinging to the Bryn Darn hill and the village of Rhos-y-Groes. Apparently, meteorologists were unable to explain why the system had not ceded to the larger weather-fronts which headed in from the Irish Sea before they parted, leaving the rain to continue falling unabated on the village and its protective hill.  

Indeed, John Williams said, noticeably flicking his eyes from side to side as he read the autocue, if you stood on the local beach you could apparently see incoming weather-fronts split in two as they made landfall. The piece ended with the news that a team of senior scientists had been dispatched to Rhos-y-Groes from the Met Office to conduct further investigations.  

Chapter 2 

The Past: AD 120

Garon had seen only twelve winters when he was allowed inside the stone circle of Cerrig Ysbryd for the first time. Since well before the first finger-light of dawn, his mother Efa, had been fussing around him and his twin sister Aeron, straightening and re-straightening their freshly washed tunics, picking imaginary flecks of mud from their newly braided green belts and plying them with porridge and nettle tea sweetened with honey. Aeron skipped around the hut, talking constantly and keeping herself just beyond the reach of Efa and her bone-comb. Garon bore his mother’s fussing with his usual stoic patience, but his stomach was as churned up as a ball of river eels and he could only drink a few sips of the tea and eat nothing at all of the porridge.

“Just a few spoons of it Garon,” his mother urged, putting the wooden bowl back into his hands, “you’ll need your strength for today.”

He held onto the bowl until Aeron finally submitted to Efa’s attempts to control her hair, then he put it down on the floor in the darkest corner of the hut. His mother would be annoyed when she found it later, but by then he would be beyond reach of her scolding. Turning away from the wall he saw his father watching him from across the fire. Ulwain beckoned him over - he was sitting well away from where Efa wrestled energetically with the mass of tangles on Aeron’s head. 

His father patted the floor next to him, and Garon sat down, taking care to pick a patch of firm, dry mud that wouldn’t mark his tunic. He sat upright, keeping his back clear of the soot-stained walls. His father leaned towards him, speaking quietly. 

“On the day of my initiation I don’t know whether I was more excited or terrified,” he said, looking down at his son, “how are you feeling Garon?” 

Garon did not answer immediately, thinking about the best words to answer truthfully, as he always did.

“I am worried, Da,” he said, hesitantly, then after swallowing a couple of times he continued “I’m worried that I won’t be what you want me to be. You are brave, Da. I am… well… I am not brave. Not really. Not like you are, or even like Aeron is.” 

He looked across the fire at his sister - she was giggling and rolling her eyes at their mother, who was still failing to neaten Aeron’s hair to her satisfaction. Garon looked at the ground, ashamed by his words, but Ulwain put one finger under his son’s chin, gently lifting it so Garon was forced to look at him.

“There are many types of courage, Garon. All I will ever ask of you is that you be the man that you are able to be and when your fate finds you, you do not turn from it. I am already proud of you, remember that son.”

Reaching inside his thick linen robes, he said, “I have a gift for you.”

He opened his cupped hands slowly. Sitting on his palm was a bronze boar. It was the length of a forefinger, with a long snout that flared slightly at the end. Garon picked it up and rubbed his thumb along the sharp line of raised hackles that ran along the boar’s back. The hackles had tiny round indentations hammered into the metal which gave the boar a fearsome appearance. He had never seen anything so wonderful.

“Is this really for me?” he said, feeling strangely shy. Behind his heavy blonde beard, his father smiled and put his hand on top of Garon’s trapping the boar between them, before leaning down to give Garon a quick kiss on the top of his head.

“He is yours, son. He is a brave and fearsome warrior made small. He will let you borrow his courage when you need it.”

***

The Teacher led the five Chosen initiates away from where they had gathered at the fire-pit and started to walk slowly through the village. As they approached the first group of work huts, the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer blows ceased, the grinding of the mill stones slowed to silence and an unfamiliar quiet settled itself over Rhos-y-Groes. Even the fighting dogs called a temporary truce as everyone paused in their morning chores and came to stand and watch the Chosen begin the journey. 

Garon swiped nervously at his face with the back of his hand, hoping that no-one could see the drips where his mother had wetted his thick, dark hair. He was very uncomfortable under the gaze of so many people. His twin was immediately ahead of him and like Aeron herself, her hair refused to be subdued by what awaited them, her unruly curls, like the colour of the setting sun, bouncing wildly around her head. Garon put his hand in his tunic pocket and rubbed his thumb along the ridged back of the little bronze boar that his father had given him.  

The small procession continued to wind its way past the groups who had gathered to watch them leave. Most people were smiling, although here and there were some hostile faces. Not everyone who had submitted to the Choosing had been selected. As the Teacher, Athro Elen, led them past the final reaches of the village settlement where the huts of the wood-gatherers were, Garon finally saw Llew. Even though he had half-expected to see him, the eels in his stomach starting wriggling again at the sight of his friend. Llew hadn’t spoken to him since the night of the Choosing and Garon had seen Llew deliberately changing direction when it looked like their paths might cross. 

After the ceremony, when his parents thought Garon was asleep on the other side of the hut, he heard them talking about why Llew had not been Chosen. The fire had burned down to white embers and he could just make out what they were saying.

“Llew isn’t a bad child, Ulwain,” said his mother.

“You know as well as I do that no child of Bradwr would ever pass the Choosing Efa, no mat-ter how suitable he may otherwise be,” said his father.

“It just seems so unfair. Llew’s quick and clever and everyone knows how much he wanted to be Chosen. Garon and Aeron weren’t Chosen because you are their father, so it doesn’t seem right that Llew should be excluded just because Bradwr is his father.”

Ulwain didn’t answer for a while and Garon worried that they had realised he was awake. However, after poking the embers of the fire so they glowed red, his father eventually replied.

“Garon and Aeron were Chosen because we think that they will one day be fit to take their place among the Ollamh. But, they were also Chosen because I am of the Ollamh. You must remember Efa that when he and I were newly of the Ollamh Bradwr used the knowledge of godseeing to try and make a false passage to the Otherworld.”

“Of course I remember.” Garon could hear the irritation in his mother’s voice as she continued, “Bradwr wanted to get the wisdom of the gods for himself. He was banished from the Ollamh. I know all that, but it doesn’t mean that Llew would do the same thing does it? I say again, it seems unfair that Llew has not been Chosen when he is so suited and wants it so much.”

Again there was a pause before his father spoke, “The blood of Llew’s father runs inside his son. That alone means that Llew would never have been Chosen. There is no point discussing it, Efa, the Choosing has been made, our children are among them, Bradwr’s son is not.”

The skins and linens under which Garon lay suddenly felt unbearably heavy and he pushed them aside, no longer caring if his parents knew he was awake. He thought about all the times he and Llew had talked about the teaching that they would receive after they were Chosen. Llew was the cleverest of all his friends and had always been much more excited than Garon about the Choosing, godseeing and what they would learn as initiates. Now Garon knew that it had been pointless for Llew to even submit to the Choosing. Long after his mother and father had fallen asleep, Garon stared at the roof of their hut, watching as the last wisps of the fire drifted up and disappeared through the smoke hole. 

***

Now, as he and the others followed Athro Elen along the path that led out of Rhos-y-Groes, they had to walk directly past the hut where Llew lived with his father. It was smaller than the one Garon’s family lived in and the compacted mud and dung walls were in urgent need of attention. In places dark cracks ran all around the rough curves and joined together, making holes the size of a man’s fist. Llew stood at the entrance. Standing behind him was Bradwr, his hands resting on his son’s shoulders. Garon tried to catch Llew’s eye, but his friend’s gaze remained firmly on the ground, scuffing the mud with the tip of his leather boot. Passing the hut, Garon could feel Bradwr’s stare. It was hostile and the man’s face was twisted and ugly, like a snarling dog just before it pounced on a rabbit. The man turned his head to one side and without breaking his gaze, spat on the ground. For a moment Garon was sure he could actually feel Bradwr’s hatred and he stared straight ahead, pressing his thumb into the sharp hackles of the little boar and focusing on the thick twists of the heavy silver and bronze torc hanging around Athro Elen’s neck.  

As they left the settlement behind them, they could hear the rhythms of the morning start up again, the blacksmith’s hammer rang out, the giant blocks of the mill stones slowly began to grind together and in the far distance Garon could hear the clanking of the well-chain as the bucket was lowered to the water. Several dogs followed the little group until they reached the village boundary where they stopped abruptly, whining as they watched Athro Elen and the children carry on ahead. The broad and well swept path quickly gave way to a narrow track, only wide enough to walk in single file. The path headed south, the early morning sun had yet to climb above the hills to their left and it was cold and murky. The only time most of the villagers were permitted to walk on Llwybr Aur, the Golden Path, was on the four feasting days when they would be permitted to climb the hill and sit out-side the stones of Cerrig Ysbryd to make their offerings to the gods. 

On either side of the Llwybr Aur path there was a tangle of blackthorn and elder trees, their slender knotted trunks wrapped tightly around each other so it was impossible to see where one ended and another began. The berries on both trees were small and purple, but while the sloes on the blackthorns had not yet ripened, needing more sun and then the first frosts to come, Garon’s mother had already sent him to pick berries from the elder trees that grew along the banks of the Afon Bywyd river. It flowed deep and fast in places by the time it skirted around the westerly edge of the village, but here, running down the side of the narrow path, it was barely more than a trickle and the sheep who gathered to drink from it were strung out in a long line, trying to find enough water to quench their thirst. 

Bryn Darn was not as tall as some of the neighbouring hills, but it was steep and as the climb became more difficult, Athro Elen kept their pace steady and unhurried. Iron-black clouds stroked the hill tops and the winds danced. The children pulled their heavy woollen cloaks close, but Athro Elen seem unconcerned by the cold – she carried an oak staff in one hand and a bundle wrapped in furs slung across her back. She wore light white robes that whipped about her looking like a solitary summer cloud passing across the sky. By the time they crested the top of Bryn Darn, the path had all but disappeared and the trees and bushes had fallen away leaving the land open, cloaked only in grass closely cropped by the sheep. To their left was the spring where the waters of Afon Bywyd rose. Directly ahead of them stood Cerrig Ysbryd. 

There were eighteen stones in the circle, each one standing at least as tall as Garon himself. They were half as wide as they were high, great blocks of granite, rooted in the land like trunks of oak.  From a distance they all looked the same, but up close they were as different from each other as one person is from the next. Their edges were cracked and worn by exposure to the storms of count-less seasons and their many shades of grey were scored with thin lines the colour of fresh cream and irregular bursts of dark flinty shards. There was lichen clinging to the northerly faces of many of the stones, among the shades green were patches of dark browns, fiery reds, even small orange clumps grew on a few of them. 

As he looked at Cerrig Ysbryd, Garon thought how strange it was to be at the top of Bryn Darn without a crowd of villagers pushing forwards, weighed down with feast day offerings. Each previous occasion that he had been there, he had stopped some distance from the stones, watching with the rest of the villagers as the Ollamh entered the circle to entreat the gods, asking for good weather, good harvests and good fortune. Dafydd, who was walking behind Garon, had sworn on last Samhain that he had seen the gods who had crossed from the Otherworld. No-one actually believed Dafydd - everyone knew that only the Ollamh had the gift of godseeing - but it hadn’t stopped him from insisting it was true for weeks afterwards.  

Athro Elen stopped just outside the great stones of Cerrig Ysbryd, and without being asked the children lined themselves up in a straight-backed and solemn-faced row, hardly daring to breathe in case she changed her mind and led them in shame back to the village. It had happened when Dafydd’s older brother had been taken to the circle. Their teacher had decided that they were not ready and she took them down to spend six cycles of the moon doing chores with the younger children until they were once more invited to enter the stones. No-one wanted to feel the burning stares that would be turned upon them if they did not begin their learning on this day.

Leaving the children standing outside the circle, Athro Elen walked into the centre of it, knelt down and carefully placed the oak staff and the bundle wrapped in the brown bear fur on the ground. Then one by one, she withdrew objects from the fur, turning to place them around her. As she did so, she spoke the old words.