Silver Screen

In the Silver Screen of Dreams

Emy Naso

Chippewa Publishing • Wisconsin

Sale of this book in printed/hard copy on paper is unauthorized unless the copyright of Chippewa Publishing. This book is released in eBook format only by Chippewa Publishing. Sales of this eBook on a site other than the Chippewa Publishing bookstore is prohibited. If you have not paid for this book in eBook format, please visit our site at http://www.chippewapublishing.com to purchase a copy. Thank you. Content of this book is intended for mature audiences. Language, violence and sexual situations apply. All characters in this book are a work of fiction. The characters and names of characters nor their activities do not represent any human on this Earth. Author: Emy Naso Editor: Joletta Hill Cover Art: Beckie Pack Copyright 2004 Michael J. Davies All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Chippewa Publishing, Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin.

Once More In The Night

Emily stood naked, looking west across Rhinog

Fawr mountain, watching through the window as a mass of Atlantic cloud crashed against the ancient Cambrian rocks, gathering into an angry thunderstorm. Rising moisture, which had peppered the prevailing winds from distant shores, was now discharging its vengeance on the Celtic soil. It was the voices from other lands. She heard them many times, both in the Gulf Stream vibrations and in the calling of Hollywood hopefuls. The lightning jagged across the sky and illuminated her bedroom. A tumultuous roar from the ancient gods followed each flash, searing the words of the note she clutched deeper into her mind. Could Llewelyn mean them? How did such a woman as herself arouse this passion in a man who she had only met a month ago? A harsh rapping sound pushed its way into her consciousness. It wasn’t the tempest outside but her tormentor from within the walls of the house. Emily shook herself. She always felt guilty thinking about her mother this way. But the woman was in the room below, rapping her cane impatiently on the wall, demanding her daughter’s presence. The message of compliance reverberated around the house. If her mother had known Emily stripped her clothes off and

let the spirits of the mountain see her body in the eye of the thunderstorm, it would have been another reason to be horrified that her daughter had developed such weird ways. Putting on her underwear and dress, Emily shrugged and wondered how much older she would have to be before feeling free from the mother-bond. Thirty-one seemed old enough. Anyway, she sighed, it was not a bond - more like a chain. Emily felt intimidated by her mother. It wasn’t necessary to put her bra and panties on under her dress just to go downstairs. Some how her mother’s eyes could sense what she called lewdness. There’d be a scene - and her mother would accuse her of, prancing around with lascivious intent. Emily walked deliberately slowly down the stairs. It was as near she got to sullen defiance. That was not true. What about the affair with Llewelyn? She stopped. Affair? How could it be an adulterous affair? Neither of them was married. But it was a secret from her mother. She walked along the corridor, down the stairs and the rapping got louder. Turning right at the bottom landing, Emily stood for a moment in front of the huge ormolu mirror in the hall. Her golden hair must have been a legacy from her father: a man she barely remembered. Long dead for twenty five years. Her height embarrassed her. Almost six foot. Was that her father’s genes? Her mother refused to display a picture

of her dad in the house. The same question. Why? “Emily.” That voice, which was like a whip across her conscience. One more glance in the mirror to do up another button at the top of her blouse. Even though Emily though her breasts small, any show of cleavage brought tirades against women who flaunt themselves and are then surprised when men think they are available. Her mother’s words hardly deviated. Across the hall and knock on the door. “Come in, girl. What have you been doing?” Into the room. It used to be what was called in Edwardian times a drawing room. When Emily was a little girl it was a children’s playroom. Now it had become her mother’s bedroom. “Mother?” It was a greeting and question. “I’ve been calling for ages.” Emily knew it was untrue. And it wasn’t a call. The summons came with the rapping of that black cane. The witches staff with brass head, shaped as an eagle in flight. What evil spells and power did it possess? “There’s a storm,” Emily said for no reason except to divert her mother’s complaining manner. “TUT! Emily, I may be sick and old, but I am not senile. The storm is obvious - even to me, child.” Child, at thirty-one. And you are not old, mother. You are fifty-eight. As for being ill…Emily’s thoughts were cut away by another thunderous shaking of the

heavens. “Doctor Fitzgerald is due here soon. I don’t want you mooning around the house and not hearing him when he knocks.” “I’ll wait in the hall, mother.” “What have you been doing up in your room? “Watching the storm.” “Dreaming, more like it.” Emily saw her mother turn away and pick up the remote control for the TV. The interrogation was over. Seconds later the screen burst into action and her mother was absorbed in someone else’s life. As long as it isn’t mine, Emily thought, keeping her expression neutral to hide any emotion. Not that her mother was looking. The daughter crept out of the room. There had been a time when the chance of seeing Doctor Fitzgerald - Jamie - would have given Emily a shiver of delight. He was interested. Must have been. What about the time in the kitchen? Mother would have ordered the old wooden table scrubbed and disinfected if she’d had an inkling of that incident. She went out into the hall, with its cold stone flooring, a deep terracotta color and crazed from a hundred years of wear. When the tiling was laid by the original owners, a wealthy Anglo-Welsh family who’d made a fortune from the now defunct slate mines up at Blaenau Ffestiniog, it must have sparkled and glowed

and sounded to the many feet of visitors and servants. Now it was dusty and silent. Her one open concession to rebellion was to walk around the house in bare feet. Her toes felt the cold, damp stone. It was natural, raw and tactile. Emily went into the sitting room and immediately pulled back the curtains to let in the majesty of the lightning. Her mother had been in here earlier, before whirling herself to bed in that menacing electric wheelchair. To the daughter it had an appearance of Satan’s carriage - black, ominous and the sounds of an evil creature. She laughed and thought her ideas too dark and foreboding. Then, again, perhaps not. Taking the note from her skirt pocket she read the single sentence and dedication, again and again. It was from Llewelyn. Given to her surreptitiously at work. Emily closed her eyes and wished that it was true. Maybe Llewelyn meant it to be so. But, she was Emily. Thirty-one and the child of Cyric Gwynne-Jones, known in the village, and as far as the county town of Machynlleth, as the witch of Breydon House. The doorbell echoed plaintively from the chimes in the hall. Emily quickly and sheepishly folded the note, as if she had been caught reading it. What would mother think; she wasn’t in the hall waiting for the doctor? Composing herself, she hurried to the door. It was going to be Doctor Jamie Fitzgerald. No one came

unannounced to their home. “Doctor Fitzgerald,” she passively smiled. “Good evening, Emily.” He followed her into the hall. Not a word would be said beyond pleasantries. Once in the past they stopped walking through polite conversation and ran into the fire of desire. Now she was the daughter of a patient. A rich and demanding one. All that was left of a past brief encounter was Jamie’s eyes quickly glancing at the figure of the tall woman who bowed her head in modesty and ushered him into her mother’s bedroom. She closed the door and stood motionless in the hall listening to the muffled voices. Jamie’s, deep and strong with the lilting Welsh accent; her mother’s, demanding and edged with a whine of self pity. Emily was anxious to go back to her thoughts and the other life she led. She sat on a hard, high-back chair in the corner of the hall. The long case clock ticked out her bored time. The pendulum counted away the seconds, then the minutes and finally struck a bell to tell her an hour had slipped into an irrecoverable past. The door opened, She stood up and heard Doctor Fitzgerald wish her mother good evening. Dutifully she offered Jamie his top coat and opened the front door. Rain and wind swirled around the porch and invaded the hallowed, dark interior of Breydon House. “You take care of yourself, Emily,” Doctor Fitzgerald smiled and moved to take her hand in

affection. She shuffled back, letting him grasp it in respectful farewell and not a demonstrative touch. The daughter of Breydon House watched the handsome doctor with the dark eyes and tight curly brown hair get to his car, hesitate, turn and look at her, then continue and drive down the step road into the valley and the local village of Bryn-Eden. She knew where his house was. Perched up by the woods where the new lake for the reservoir was sited. Emily could remember the smell of the coal fire, the small cozy rooms and the short, steep flight of stairs to his bedroom. One more lingering memory of that time…then she shut the door. Emily debated whether she should look in on her mother, decided against it, and rushed up to her own bedroom. She closed the door, took a chair and wedged it against the handle. Who was she keeping out? Her mother could only walk with great difficulty and used the wheelchair. No one was in the house during the evening or at night. Betty came in during the day to help clean, cook and look after Mrs. Gwynne-Jones when Emily was at work. If her mother had her way, Emily would be home all the time. Mrs. Gwynne-Jones often ranted that there was no need to work. People like them shouldn’t be serving the public - in a Tourist Board office, she would scoff disdainfully. Emily walked to the window, opened it and let the damp, cool air enter her room. She stripped off her

clothes, went to a cupboard and took out the gold torc she had hidden. With reverence for the spirits she knew dwelt on the mountains, Emily held the shining Celtic motif in the air, closed her eyes and chanted to the voices she had heard. Voices came to her from so many dimensions. She heard the crisp American sounds from the stars of the black and white movies she loved to watch in the privacy of her own room. Then came the prince and princess of the lost kingdoms of the mountains who spoke to her of Cadwallon, of Pendragon and the giants from the seas. One more voice had recently come to her. A young woman who said she was from her father, Rhys Gwynne-Jones. When Emily said, "Is he on the other side," the lady had lied and said he was not dead. Why did the spirits deceive her?

Speaking With Others

After two hours the mountain tops release their

magnetic grip on the clouds and let them move on father east, having first drawn the sting of rain and power from their hidden accumulation of force. Emily absorbed the distance voices who once roamed in those slopes; fighting, loving and dying for this Celtic land. Carefully replacing the torc, she started to shiver once the spell of the connection had left her, so quickly snuggled under the duvet. Then, closing her eyes, she listened and waited for her movie muse to come and talk to her. The credits rolled - Emily knew them by heart and from the imagination within her mind Sandra Davenport stepped out of the silver screen, regale, immaculate, and gestured for a chair and drink to be brought to her. “You wouldn’t believe the heat on the set, my dear Emily.” “Where are you today, Miss Davenport?” “Arizona. Have you been there? No, of course you haven’t. The director wanted authenticity. As if my art is not enough for the little man. Polish, you know. And how have you been?” “I have a boyfriend, Miss Davenport.”

“A boyfriend? How quaint. Makes you sound like a sixteen year old going to a prom. What’s his name?” “Llewelyn.” “My dear girl, is he a foreigner. I once had a leading man called Karol Bogdanavitch. Can you imagine. They called him Cy Dana. Personally I thought that was even worse than his proper name.” “He is Welsh. It’s a very nice name.” “Yes, Welsh, I see. Where is that?” “It’s where I live, Miss Davenport.” “Such a little island. Probably put the lot in Arizona. Is he good in bed? That’s very important, little Emily. The so called Cy Dana was an absolute honey…but in bed he was about as exciting as reading about orthodontic practice. Take that back. With teeth there’s always the pain to savor - if you get my meaning.” Sandra Davenport gave a bored sigh. Life was so tedious. The movies much more real. Without a word of goodbye, she grandly walked away, back into the fading screen and waited in the dressing room of Emily’s mind. The daughter of Breydon House realized she was still holding the note from Llewelyn. She wavered about making some silly teenage gesture…then thought about the man, and clutched his letter to her breasts and let sleep find its way into her head, hoping that in the privacy of her dreams he would come to her and

she would relax and let him do the things she so wanted him to do. §§§ Somewhere in the east the rain had washed the dust from the morning clouds and allowed the sun to rise in brilliant clarity. Sleep had been deep since communicating with the spirits. The now dead B-movie star, Sandra Davenport spoke condescendingly to Emily and the spirits of the gods remained deaf to her pleas. Neither Pwyll or wife Pryderi had sent a message. Now, another voice touched Emily. This essence made contact and spoke without dialogue. She was young. Said the weirdest things; a woman of twenty one who had gone to the other-side and called herself Angharad. This new image in Emily's dreams talked of the loneliness and unfulfilled business in her late life. Once more in the early hours this spirit engaged Emily’s mind in that state where sleep and being awake are mixed in confusion. I am out here on the mountains, wandering along the flat ridged peak of the mighty Cader Idris. So many times I have called to you, Emily. You must take heed of my warning. This voice was soft yet anxious. Emily stirred and tried to focus on some reality. Why did the woman call to her? Warnings of what?

In your psyche I feel Rhys. Did she talk of the father who was dead? Emily, find him. How does she know me? Am I to find where he is buried? Mother said he was cremated and his ashes are in the hills. I wasn’t there. She sent me away to a school in England. Repartition of the same message. The woman intervening in Emily's silver screen of dreams, who called herself Angharad, was getting stronger each time her presence was felt. Sandra Davenport came from that world of cinema and was imbedded in Emily’s head from the constant viewing of these movies. It was a world the daughter loved. So calm, so glamorous. But Angharad had invaded her from nowhere. Uninvited, coming upon her, not like an evil spirit, but a seeking, drifting soul. With her voices from the silver screen, Emily knew them, had long been their fan, their admirer, so it wasn’t a surprise when they came calling into her reverie. Angharad kept demanding without explaining. This was Emily’s world of her secret mind. What did it have to do with her long dead father? The real existence was a scary place, so Emily retreated into her “movie” fantasy at will. Although Sandra Davenport was haughty, the star never asked, never requested. Her long night’s drift into the realm of the Celtic gods was of her own choosing. All she had to do was listen for

their ancient calling. This Angharad was making her uneasy. Ghosts of the mind should behave. Emily kicked at the duvet, struggling in the heat of her body. A gross passion took hold of her and she rolled onto her back seeking to find comfort in fingers secretly probing into the ache of her mound. Feverishly the intensity possessed her mind and she conjured the image of Llewelyn, willing the thought, basking in the idea of this man deep into her. He was there and her moans were for him. Emily wanted to be released from this house, from her inhibitions. A shifting duality of images became confused. It moved Llewelyn away. It became this other voice. This was to be a moment of erotic delight…but the face faded and was again it was Angharad, even though she had never seen or heard of the young woman. Somewhere in the valley between the mountains of Rhinog Fawr and Y Llethr the sun filtered through and touched the cottages on the side of a river. Emily sensed this morning warmth and wondered why the spirit of Angharad left her and headed for the valley. In the inner crystal of her mind, this was another hazy scene she didn’t understand.

On A Mountain Path

There was a ritual to breakfast at Breydon House.

This morning was no exception. Mrs. Gwynne-Jones wheeled into the long room at the back of the house, overlooking the gardens. This was now used as a breakfast room, and later, when the dishes had been cleared by the day-help Betty, a place for the invalid mother to sit and read, with the brooding mountains dominating the view from the windows. Betty arrived and helped Mrs. Gwynne-Jones to bathe and get ready for the day. This was a long preparation. The lady of the house was never one to be seen in less than perfect make-up and clothes. Being disabled didn’t lower her social attitudes. “Where is Emily?” Cyric Gwynne-Jones impatiently questioned Betty. The day maid wanted to answer belligerently, she was not the daughter’s keeper. Work in this remote area was scarce so Betty bit her tongue. She went on with the task of serving the breakfast, having prepared the plates and cutlery the previous evening before she went home. As always, Emily appeared, flustered, late and in a day-dream. She dressed in a smart skirt and jacket of somber gray and a clean, crisply ironed blouse. Another of Betty’s talents. “Late as always,” the mother let that be her good morning to the daughter. “Don’t know why you have

to leave me and go to work.” Standard bleat. “Is that all you are going to eat?” Mother’s scornful remark as Emily helped herself to a single bread roll and tea. “That wouldn’t feed old Hughes’ flock of mangy sheep up on the hills.” Always the same remark. Then the rest of the breakfast in silence. Mrs. Gwynne-Jones devouring eggs, bacon and toast. Emily nibbling at her morsel of food and pondering her mother’s robust appetite for an invalid. Betty hovered, looking busy and thinking, what a miserable life these rich people led. Then came the time for Emily to leave for work. The dutiful kiss on the mother’s proffered cheek and the taste of thick face powder and the aroma of lavender water, followed their usual custom. “Home at six?” Always the question. “Probably.” The predictable response. Emily got to the front door and closed it heavily behind her. The old Morris Minor car waited to take her away from this oppression and to see Llewelyn. Just before she turned the ignition, Emily fidgeted in the front seat and allowed herself the faintest of triumphal smiles. Last weekend a shopping trip to Shrewsbury just over the border into England she’d gone into a shop and after painful vacillation bought herself a treat. She was wearing it today. A silky, black lace bra and panty set. Her mother would have been scandalized. The daughter of Breydon house had another secret. A

small parcel she’d sneaked out of the house, and now sitting next to her on the passenger seat. The journey took her through the forest road at Ganllwd and over the Afon Gamlan, turning sharp right at the old bridge and then the view swept across to the Diffwys peak in the distance. Emily glanced momentarily up to the cottage, with its white washed walls and long barn, which had been converted to domestic use at least twenty years ago. She was sure Doctor Jamie Fitzgerald’s car was there. One more look, then eyes back on the twisting route and change gear down to third for the high climb to the town of Dolgellau. She kept stealing looks in her rear view mirror, watching the cottage appear then disappear as the road weaved its way to work. What did she and Jamie once share? It seemed like love. Or was it just sex? Passion in a lonely cottage. Or was it her who had been lonely and confused the emotions? Jamie told her it must end. No explanation. But now she didn’t care. Llewelyn had washed away those memories into a place of safety. It was October and the tourist season was at an end. Only the hardy and experienced climbers came to test themselves against mountains and weather. The easy walkers and scenery gawkers had gone. Back to the softness of the cities with their tales. Most of them didn’t see the region in the winter. If they did, it wouldn’t be so rosy in their minds and pretty in their

memories. It became a harsh and unforgiving landscape where winter came early and the greens soon got a covering of white. The work at the Tourist Board during this season involved getting ready for next year. Brochures to plan, advertisements to book and accommodation to check out and rate for stars. There were no five star hotels in the district. That would be much too posh. It was mainly farmhouses that took in summer trade and rented cottages and log cabins in the hills. The locals didn’t like it, unless they earned money from the tourists. The rest looked on the incomers as a nuisance. Second homes were resented as “foreign” invaders. After seven hundred years united with their big English neighbors, some Welsh still sort themselves as a dominated people. Emily’s heart started to race. Ahead was the old town hall, used as offices for the Tourist Board. She could see Llewelyn’s car in the parking lot. There were cars parked either side. Emily was annoyed. As she backed into another space she told herself to grow up. How could she be irritated because she couldn’t park next to his car? This was silly. Miss Gwynne-Jones sat in her car, took the note from her handbag and folded it open. She read it twice, then saw Gwendolyn Philips coming along, so quickly hid her secret. “Hi Em.” “Hello Gwendolyn.”

“Another day. I could have stayed in bed this morning,” the dark eyed Gwendolyn sighed and made a face which suggested Emily should know why. Emily could guess and got the awful feeling Gwendolyn was going to tell her. “That’s if it had been my bed,” the pixie figure smirked and dug Emily in the ribs. She waited five seconds to be questioned, then sensing a lack of an invitation to spill the beans, offered anyway. “Robbie said I couldn’t go home in THAT thunderstorm. So as he had a spare bed, I stayed the night.” Gwendolyn paused for an unseen audience to catch a collective breath, then delivered her punch line. “Didn’t tell me he was in the spare bed as well.” Shrieks of laughter from dark eyes. Emily managed a pathetic grin. “Isn’t Robbie married?” Emily remembered. “Yep, but him and Gloria are havening some difficulties. Trial separation, you know.” Emily didn’t know and wondered whether the difficulties were Gwendolyn, who was putting a big wedge in the separation. Dark eyes saw a group of the girls from the accountants department and darted off to regale them with her nocturnal gymnastics. Emily, now free from the tales, ran up the stairs to the Promotions Section…and Llewelyn. The tourist offices were housed in an old Jacobean building and everywhere was paneled oak and massive

doors with fanciful and elaborate carvings. Emily pushed the door and held her breath. The creaking hinges screamed loudly in her head and she was convinced everyone was turning to see where the noise was coming from. In reality there were only two figures in the room. Her stare darted past Mr. Griffith, the Tourist Board Manager, his angular frame, domed head and half reading glasses balanced mid-way along his aquiline nose. Beyond was her Llewelyn. He was standing by a long row of tables, pictures spread out and studying them in turn on a light box. He was only twenty -five. That made her wince once more. His mop of unruly brown hair came up and slowly he looked her way. Eyes that had seen her nakedness and looked into the passion of her body, now smiled, creasing at the corner where the laughter lines merged into a portrayal of his inner humor. She returned the glance and smile, then shyly looked away. Now back again, licking her lips in remembrance. Zooming to his face to acknowledge the infatuation, his body to show the desire, and away again in a turmoil of confusion. Eyelids flickering, the inner mind running through the few moments they had spent together; indecision mixed with wanting; raw human emotion fighting within her against so many years of oppression. “Miss Gwynne-Jones.” Emily bit her lips as the

manager spoke to her. Did he know? Was this going to be an admonishment for an office affair? “Miss Gwynne -Jones.” Again Mr. Griffith was calling. “Sorry, I…was…yes.” “The brochure. We are putting it together. Do you remember? If you and Mr. Glendower will come and join me.” Llewelyn, yes…the three of them. She sat by Mr. Griffith. This man was walking across the room. Her man…was he? The note implied that. Llewelyn picked up a chair. He sat next to Emily. She didn’t want to look. Mr. Griffith would know, could see. She must concentrate on the job. “Do you think we need a picture of hill walkers or mountaineers, Mr. Glendower?” “I’d go for the walkers. More friendly, Llewelyn answered. His voice penetrated into her. “And you, Miss Gwynne-Jones. Do you have an opinion this morning?” Should she agree with Llewelyn? Would that betray her obsession? That was silly. “Obviously not,” Mr. Griffith said with a slight shake of his large head. “I think Emily…” Llewelyn paused and saw Mr. Griffith look at him over the top of his perched spectacles…“I think Miss Gwynne-Jones was going to

suggest this picture.” He smiled and indicated a transparency by her resting hand. Mr. Griffith studied it, picked it up and held the picture so the daylight illuminated it. “Umm…quite a good choice,” he muttered and gave Emily a smile that would keep children happy. The morning progressed. Picture selection, text discussions and colors of the cover suggested. Mr. Griffith leading the group, Llewelyn in control and all the facts to hand. Emily felt inadequate, frightened to express too strong an opinion. It's not a skill you acquired with her mother. All the time she was aware of the nearness of Llewelyn. Never quite sure where to rest her hands. If she put them on the table she was sure Mr. Griffith could tell they were trembling. Down under the table on her lap? So near Llewelyn’s thighs. The old school type clock was ticking loudly. Every minute that went past she would find herself looking at it, wondering what to say, how to react. She wanted to show her man …not sure about that, was he?…affection - too strong, friendliness. Would it show Mr. Griffith her true feelings? “That seems to be lunch time,“ Mr. Griffith announced, inspecting the fob watch which had been nestling in his vest pocket. “I’m off home.” That was his practice. He never mentioned Mrs. Griffith accept in the context of cooking his meals. Llewelyn and Emily nodded to their boss and

watched him go. “I thought we might…” Emily began. “Yes?” Llewelyn’s eyes looked anxious. “Well…if you weren’t going to do anything special.” “Hadn’t planned to.” “Are you sure?” “You haven’t said what, Emily.” She colored and dropped her glance to the floor. He reached across and brought her face back up to look at him. Emily instinctively let her eyes go around to see if anyone was looking. “Lunch,” she found a single word. “Something special?” "No, no…just a picnic up by Dyffydan, where the path leads to Cader Idris.” “Sounds good. I’ll meet you by my car in five minutes.” “By your car?” “Unless you want to drive?” “No…it’s just someone might…” “See us.” “Yes…no.” “Does it matter, Emily?” “Suppose not…not now.” He touched her hand as it sat in her lap. It was like a great fire. So innocent, yet it glowed in her heart. He got up and walked away, turning once to smile back at

her. Not much taller than her lanky six foot, Llewelyn had the body she’d once admired in an art book. Michelangelo’s David. She blushed at the thought. The image of her mother wheeling into the room in her devil’s carriage, scowling, demanding to know how the lewd Renaissance nude figure reminded Emily of this man. The daughter closed her eyes and internally shouted for the mirage to go. §§§ There was Llewelyn. Emily couldn’t stop herself from checking to see who else was in the car lot. It looked empty. Not surprisingly as the day was cold. If she’d looked up, there was Gwendolyn Philips at the window making a knowing pouting face at Truda Downton, mouthing a comment about a certain dark horse having a secret lover. They drove in silence. It only took ten minutes to reach the small village of Dyffrydan, turning right at the pub and pulling into the small grass car lot. In the season it was used by the serious climbers who wanted to get to the top of Cader Idris the steep and hard way, not take the gentle long slope from the town of Dolgellau. Now everything was deserted. The engine of the

car slowly died and all was still, except the wind funneling down from the peak and colliding with the village. Sometimes it was a gentle, warm caress. In the mists it became a damp embrace. When the storms clashed and crashed against the Snowdonia mountains, it became a scowling, cruel and furious gale. “Is this okay, or did you want to get out and walk?” Llewelyn asked. “No, too cold. This is fine.” “I bought a bottle of lemonade from the canteen,” he grinned as if the soda pop was some illegal substance. "Haven’t got any food for this picnic,” he shrugged. She relaxed for the first time, opened the bag she had by her feet and produced a parcel. “Cucumber sandwiches,” Emily giggled. “I made them as mother was fussing over breakfast. She doesn’t know.” Llewelyn had never met the formidable Mrs. Gwynne-Jones but from her reputation and Emily’s description he guessed the implication of a dragon mother was true . Emily unwrapped the parcel, a layer of neat brown paper, inside cellophane around the sandwiches. Very neat and precisely cut into quarters. “Do you like them?” She offered to Llewelyn. “Looks good.” “Did you get my note, Emily?”

“Yes.” “And?” “It was very…nice.” “Nice!” “Well…you know.” “No, I don’t know, you tell me, my darling.” She took a bite of a sandwich. It gave her time to think. “It said you loved me.” “Yes, I know what it said, I wrote it. But what else.” Now he took the opportunity to taste the sandwich, wishing deeply Emily would answer.. “What about Rhian?” “She’s in London.” “Distance doesn’t matter, Llewelyn.” “I mean, well, I haven’t seen her for over a year. She hasn’t written for three months.” “Does that make," she nibbled nervously, this was difficult…” it okay. You and me.” “Rhian and me are not going anywhere. She’s grown cold. It didn’t work out.” “But you said…” again she paused, searching for the words. “I said I loved you and wanted us to get married. Yes, and I meant it Emily.” “We’ve only known each other for a month…well known…, you know.” The clouds broke on top of Cader Idris and rays of

sunlight beamed down from the mountain, sending glittering bands of iridescent radiance across the fields. Llewelyn stared at Emily with those dark brown eyes, waiting for an answer. Willing her to say she wanted him, not just for a while but for ever. Still she remained silent. A portion of cumber protruded from the sandwich she was delicately eating. Llewelyn leaned forward and bit into the slice. She gulped and swallowed the sandwich. He followed in and met her lips. The kiss was tender and long. When they parted from the caress, she tensely smiled. “Do you want another sandwich?” He laughed and took her face in his hand. “No, I want you, Emily.” “When?” “Now.” “Here?” “Not as comfortable as my sofa…but very sexy.” She blushed and remembered their love making in the sitting room of his home, with his mother, asleep upstairs. “We have to be back at work in thirty minutes.” “What would you prefer. Finish these delicately made cucumber sandwiches and get top marks for punctuality…or…” His lips sealed her mouth from answering. With the dexterity of a circus act he wriggled onto the passenger seat with her.

“There’s not enough room,” Emily suggested, hoping he would have an experienced solution. As his hands pushed her skirt up she hoped he approved of the special underwear set. “Very sexy,” he groaned into her ear, pausing to feel the silk material, then slipping them down. “Kick them off, Emily,” he instructed. She complied - very willingly, and rested back on him as his fingers found the chasm of her loins. She may have been less practiced than most women of thirty-one but she still knew where her urges and desires resided. Llewelyn sought to please and arouse her with an alternate gentle and vigorous massage around the soft flesh of her mound. Emily moved and wriggled to his action, whimpering her need for him to go deeper. Recognizing her signals, his finger slipped into Emily’s vagina. When she became moist and receptive, he unzipped himself and encouraged her onto his lap. Lovemaking had never taken Emily like this before. When they tried to creep back into the office thirty minutes late, Mr. Griffith was sitting, looking at his fob watch. Although he tutted and made a show of disapproval, the old guy remembered his younger days and thought fondly of a certain place on the mountains.

Dreams and Scenes “I can’t go on.” “Give me your hand and lean on me, girl. We must be nearly there." “You are so strong, Sandra. What would we do without you." “It’s nothing, Emily.” “So modest, Sandra…yet here we are trekking through the steamy jungle and you are still immaculately beautiful.” “You just have to be at your best. Always remember your fans.” “I try to be like you, Sandra.” “You let yourself down, Emily.” “Tell me how?” “Sex in the front sit of a car, just ain’t ladylike, girl. What would your mom think?” “But she won’t know, will she?” “I reckon, girl, that the great white witch knows everything." “Sandra, please protect me?” “Not sure, Emily. You’d better stay here in the swamp and wait for the witch.” “Don’t leave me Sandra, please don’t leave me…Sandra!” The screen faded. Emily rolled up in her duvet in the state of sleep - yet not sleep. She cried for Sandra

Davenport to come back. Instead a new face appeared. At first she didn’t recognize it. But when the young woman spoke, Emily knew it was the lady of the sad countenance. The girl with ebony skin. The one who had come to her recently, warning her, telling her that her father was not dead. This was a disturbing image. One she did not conjure up. It forced itself into her other life. The woman came uninvited, without a fantasy of the silver screen. This was another world intruding, insinuating and confronting. “Who are you?” “My name is Angharad.” “Yes, I know. What do you want?” “Justice…for your father.” “I told you, he is dead.” “He is not with me.” “Where are you, Angharad?” “I am with the spirits, seeking my resting place in the mountains I love.” “I can’t help you.” “Only you can, Emily. Without the past joined in peace, I am condemned to roam. You must help; only you, Emily. Only you.” “Leave me alone, please…please.” The daughter of Breydon House awoke. Sweat soaked her nightdress. She pulled it off over her head and tucked down under the duvet, as if the night would

find her naked and disapprove. The action reminded her of the night, two years ago now, with Jamie. It had started six month before. Doctor Fitzgerald closed the door of Mrs. Gwynne-Jones bedroom and met Emily in the hall. He still looked damp and cold from the bitter wet wind lashing in from the Atlantic. Even ten miles inland, the ocean storm had not lost its fury. “Can I get you a coffee?” “That would be kind.” He followed Emily into the kitchen. It was late, Betty had gone home and although he felt the call to see the mother had been unnecessary, he knew the command had come from Mrs. Gwynne-Jones, not Emily. The pot was still hot as it rested on the black range along one wall. She knew he was watching her. He had for sometime. It was not a look of the family doctor. It was an intense inspection. Emily sensed his eyes casting glances over her body. If she didn’t want him to look why had she made a special effort with her make-up and spent half an hour fussing with her hair, waiting for him to arrive? “You take milk, don’t you, doctor?” “Yes…and call me Jamie. It’s your mother who is my patient. We could be friends.” . Her eyes flicked up to judge the meaning. His resolute eyes made her blush and look back to the pot.

She poured, and felt this simple action was being studied for any nuance, any suggestion. Was she being dramatic, as her mother so often said? The cup was large, well proportioned - like Jamie. She picked it up. It was hot, was he? “Here you are.” “Thanks, Emily. And the milk?” “Sorry.” Emily walked back and picked up the jug. The milk was delivered from a local farm. As she returned to him, standing by the table, she couldn’t take her eyes away from his mouth. Sipping coffee wasn’t what went through her mind. “Oh Jamie…I’m so sorry.” The milk had missed his cup as he held it out. It went down his vest and over her dress. “Don’t worry, Emily. Here, let me.” He took a cloth and patted at her dress. She felt the pressure of his touch stroke her breasts. She looked at Jamie. He was looking at her. His arms were around her and, in a moment she had fantasized about for months, he kissed her lips. That mouth suffocated her with desire. For six months this passion had been expressed in their eyes. Now it was made real, made flesh. They went on embracing, his tongue seeking the flavors and taste of her mouth, his hand massaging gently at the swell of her breasts. The dance of desire

took them cavorting around, until Emily was pressed hard against the scrubbed, wooden table. She felt his body push her back and she knew, even in her inexperienced ways, that his loins were on fire for her. Kissing at her neck, she sensed he was heading to her breasts. Unbuttoning her dress she felt that warm mouth at the edge of her bra. His attempts at undoing her bra were filled with passion and anxiousness. She wanted him to embrace her nakedness so her fingers unclipped the clasp. Instantly Emily felt his lips suck at her nipples and her soft shriek of delight made him hesitate for a moment, lest her mother heard. His lust made him oblivious to the outside world. Strong hands were caressing her thighs, seeking higher and making her soft downy loins wet with the weeping of her petal. “Emily, Emily,” he was moaning in a chant of ecstasy. As his fingers touched her clitoris she took a breath of joy. His massage was fast and urgent and she pumped her thighs to heighten the sensations. In her groans, Emily sensed him undoing his belt. “Jamie…Jamie, not now. No farther…not now, not here in this house.” “Come to my cottage.” “When?” “Now.” “But mother?” “She will sleep. You can be back by the early

hours.” §§§ Emily didn’t know why she had stopped to pack her nightdress. The journey to Jamie’s cottage was in silence. She felt like a thief in the night. A betrayer of something, although she wasn’t sure what. “Sorry it’s not a palace,” Jamie said as they walked into the living room, which led straight off from the front door. “It’s a cottage with the old barn converted for extra space,” he explained as he tried to tidy up a pile of magazines. “Can I offer you coffee this time, Emily?” She shook her head. They both smiled nervously, fidgeting and avoiding why they were here. “If mother wakes up and calls me…I” “She won’t, Emily, don’t worry.” “But she shouldn’t be left alone.” “She’ll cope.” “But Jamie, you know how helpless she is.” He shrugged and held out his hands to her. “We could spend all the time standing here…but why don’t we just go to bed and forget everything else?” Her lips moistened. It was the thought of being in bed with this man, a breathtaking image…but for

Emily, a journey into a world she hardly knew. She allowed him to draw her close and with her head resting on his shoulder she looked deep into the dying embers of the coal fire. How many women had Jamie had? How many in this house? What was her record? That was a funny way to think about it, as if there was a score sheet kept on sexual experiences. Now, there was Richard at college. She was nineteen. They’d got very near before. She’d always made an excuse. This time perhaps it was the drink. Once at his tiny student room. Very quick. No feelings. Then down the river on a rowing boat. That was it. Waited five years and met a guy who had a holiday cottage over at Harlech, near the castle. He taught her how to enjoy. It was going great - until his wife found out. Emily, didn’t even know he was married! Then Sean. Met him at a tea house in Shrewsbury. Wonderful book shops in the town. He was older. Old enough to be the father she had forgotten. That lasted a year. Much more affection than the demon sexual intercourse. She loved him. Well, thought she did. He died. Cried for months and couldn’t tell anyone why. Her mother said it was her hormones. Hormones! How old was she then. Twentynine. Hell, her hormones must have been the most underused in female history. “Emily?” “Sorry, I was many miles away.”

He walked purposely towards the stairs in the corner of the room, still holding her hand. They climbed, clip clop, up the wooden treads. Echoes in her mind. The sound of coming sex. In the center of the room upstairs there was a big, metal framed double bed. Emily couldn’t take her eyes off it. So this is where I will be seduced, she thought. Does it have to be a bed?. Is that the convention for human love? It always seemed to be in those women’s magazine stories she devoured secretly in her room, hiding them from her mother. “I’ll just have a shave.” Jamie’s voice was reassuring. “You get ready. Won’t be long.” He went into a bathroom and closed the door. What did he mean, get ready. Made it sound like some ritual. Perhaps it was. Her lack of experience didn’t see it as just a remark. Emily did what she thought was right. She undressed, slipped her nightdress on and waited for her lover - wanting, longing, but apprehensive. He came to her. She tried not to watch as he undressed but she had to. His chest, broad but not muscular, legs covered in hair, face now smooth from the shave. His eyes looking up and seeing her studying him. He grinned and slipped down and out of his boxer shorts. His manhood stout and firm without yet being erect.. She hadn’t had too many lovers but the growing

stiffness, the hard wand coming from a soft docile cock, still fascinated her. His body pressed against her and hands took hold of her thighs, pushing up the nightdress as he explored towards her heat. Emily wanted to touch him, feel him respond. The passion overcame her inhibitions and her hand stroked down Jamie’s stomach over, his tight curly pubic hair, then felt the rising stiffness of his shaft. Her fingers toyed with its thick, rounded head, teasing the foreskin back and forth. His breathing grew quick and fingers pushed into the valley of her loins. Before he gained entry into her world, she wanted to know his strength and feel it begging for her. Her hand wrapped itself around the hot length and with rapid strokes, Emily brought Jamie to a complete erection. It was alive, a thing to contemplate and savor. Soon it would be in her, but for this moment it had answered her demand. For a brief moment she sat up and slipped her nightdress over her head so that she was receptively naked for their lovemaking. It was that act that retained significance in their passion. It was that submission which she now remembered. That was two years ago. Their meetings went on for almost a year. Then, one day, she went into Shrewsbury and as she sat in a tea shop, she saw him.

Doctor Jamie Fitzgerald, walking along, hand in hand with this pretty young woman. For weeks she lightly turned his advances away, not saying why. Then he had asked her. Emily told him. He didn’t deny the relationship but said it was ending. The daughter of Breydon House was a shy lady. But very proud. Their lovemaking ended. He would have continued but she stayed politely cool. The memories came to an abrupt end. The rapping of the black cane made reality return in thought to the present. Emily looked at the clock besides her bed. It was 7.30 am on a Saturday morning. Her mother had summoned her. Ten minutes later, Emily, bleary eyed, went into her mother’s bedroom, not yet dressed, a bathrobe draped around her tall frame. The expression on Mrs. Gwynne-Jones’ face told her the devils were loose in their world. “And what is this?” Her mother’s attack was immediate. “It’s a piece of paper, mother.” “Sarcasm ill becomes you, Emily. It is a note. Or should I say an obscene letter.“ Emily felt a sickness rising in her stomach. “It’s from that man of yours…Llewelyn.” “MOTHER, you have no rights…that is mine.” “Rights, child…you use the word rights, do you. “You have been committing a great sin and you

dare to talk about rights.” “Loving someone is not a sin, mother.” “Sexual lasciviousness is.” “I am thirty-one. Making love is my right.” “Lying with your kin and submitting your body to your brother is a great sin, Emily.” The house stopped breathing. Lights flashed in Emily’s head. She sat down and inside her mind came a shriek. Mrs. Gwynne-Jones tore up the note and swung her wheelchair around to face away from Emily. “This Llewelyn Glendower is your half brother. Your union will be cursed in heaven.”

Run to The Gods

The rain couldn’t wash away the hurt and

disbelief. Emily stood at the end of the garden of Breydon House and looked up to the mountains. How could life treat her like this? She had begun to think it could be good. Now the world was shattered and she wanted to cast the pieces into the teeth of the wind. Eventually the anger and doubt subsided. The cold, dark abyss of nothingness took over. She walked back along the path of Juniper trees, all bending away from the prevailing westerly gales that lashed at them so often. Emily went through the kitchen, into the hall. The black, evil carriage was blocking her way. In it sat the haughty, upright and self-righteous figure of Cyric Gwynne-Jones. “You’re soaked, Emily. Do you want to catch your death in a cold?” When your life broke in pieces and you’d just been told the love you cherished was incestuous, it didn’t much matter that you might get pneumonia. “How can Llewelyn be my half-brother? You are so…” “Moral. Is that the word you are looking for?” Emily slumped into the chair by the old long case clock. The ominous. eerie electric motor of the wheelchair clicked into action as her mother came

nearer. “Do you think I would commit adultery? That man, Morgan Glendower, took me by force. Yes, listen Emily. As I came home across the valley, Morgan drove up in his flashy car and offered me a lift. Then he abused the friendship we had shown them. Suggested lewd and wicked things. When I refused his advances he drove up into the mountains at Rhinog Fawr and there violated my body. Don’t turn away, Emily. Your lover’s father raped me.” Emily sunk her head in her cupped hands and tried to blot out the words. Through her tears she murmured. “Why didn’t you tell the police?” “What, and bring even greater shame on the family. No my child, I hid my shame and you were born in innocence. Mrs. Gwynne-Jones produced a stack of papers from under the red blanket she had over her knee. “Look, letters from that brute pleading with me not to say anything.” The look in the mother’s eye was almost triumphal, then in a final flourish she waved another batch at the sobbing daughter. “Then when I became pregnant with you as a result of his vile act he wrote and told me to abort the baby. You came from sin and were never wanted by the father of the man who has now seduced you.” The damn of despair flooded over. Emily ran

across the hall and up the stairs, her footsteps sounding through the bleak and soulless house. She hunched up on her bed for over two hours until her heart wanted to burst open and weep. In blind panic at the dice of fate rolled in her path, Emily put on her heavy coat and hood, rushed out of the house and drove to the highest part of the road leading to the mountain pass. As the clouds flowed over the peak like sailing ships on a furious sea, she fell to her knees and talked to the spirits. Imploring Pwyll and his beautiful wife Rhiannon to take her life and bring her happiness in their world, Emily’s mood was as somber and dark as the skies above. With a rattling of the heavens, a gray cloud rode out of the gloom and from its interior Emily could see a thundering horse. Her gaze fell upon the rider who she assumed was the Horse Goddess, Epona. The spirit dismounted and approached the daughter of Breydon House with hands held in supplication. “Rise and do not waste your life, Emily. I am Angharad, come to direct you to the truth.” Across the sky to the west a sheet of lighting ran from the far horizon of the mighty Atlantic to the ancient Cambrian Mountains of Cwmru. This was not the Welas of the foreigner as the Anglo-Saxons had called the land, but the host of the fellowship, fighting for the Isles and finding sanctuary in the far hills. “My dream is dead,” Emily cried to the spirit of

Angharad. “The aspiration to be who you are is never over. Only when these rocks succumb to rain, wind and fire will the quest be over. Go and find the truth, Emily.” For a long time, Emily knelt down and let the elements enter her body. When the misery had seeped from her mind, she walked back to her car and headed south on the road to see Llewelyn at his home in Dolgellau. She arrived as the first rays of the sun skirted down into the valley town. She parked at the end of the lane leading to his house. There was a single light on in an upper room of the tall Edwardian terrace house. For almost an hour she watched the town slowly come to life, with the first signs of people going to work and the farmers on the distant hills driving the cows into the milking sheds. Eventually she found enough courage to go up and knock the door of the home. Nothing stirred. She knocked again and heard a movement. Feet were shuffling down the stairs. It couldn’t be Llewelyn. The door opened. Mrs. Glendower peered nervously around it. Beth Glendower was in her late fifties. She looked remarkably younger, an almost childlike expression. Llewelyn lived with his mother, now the father was dead, killed on a mountain rescue expedition. Beth had started to deteriorate mentally over the last ten years.

She looked far away, her brown hair, streaked with gray, flying in all direction. The countenance was friendly but wary, eyes surveying, studying and darting from Emily to the deserted road as if she was searching for something. She was - the life she vaguely remembered. “Is Llewelyn here, Mrs. Glendower?” “Is that you, Emily. Llewelyn tells me I must remember to ask people in. Come, Emily. I’ll make tea.” The house was immaculate. If Beth Glendower was suffering from early senile dementia she remained spotlessly house-proud. The lady walked along the narrow corridor and turned into the kitchen. “Now sit down while I get us a good cup of tea, Emily. Don’t be backward, get the cups from the shelf? You have been here before, haven’t you? Or was that someone else?” Thank you Mrs. Glendower, tea would be fine…but is Llewelyn here?” “Gone my dear. Some far off place. He got a letter this morning. Proper upset him.” “What did it say?” “Here, Emily, you read it. He threw it on the table and packed a bag and was gone.” Mrs. Glendower picked up an envelope and handed it to Emily with her shaking hands. “You read it and I’ll make the tea.”

Emily, hands were shaking as well, but for different reasons. Her heart sank. She recognized her mother’s copperplate handwriting. The letter said many things. Awful things. Incest by the son, rape by the father. She had left out growing mental instability in the mother. Emily folded the letter and methodically put it back in the envelope. “Where has he gone?” She tried again with Mrs. Glendower. “Uncle Bryan’s house.” “Where is he?” “Long way away. Left the valley in…when was it. The year the Queen…or is it a King…got married. No, it was a coronation.” “Where is Uncle Bryan, Mrs. Glendower?” “Place I’ve never been to. What’s the name. That’s it, where the Queen lives.” “London!” “No, not me, Emily.”_I mean Uncle Bryan. He lives in London?” “Certainly does. Told you that before.” She hadn’t but Emily let that go. “Have you an address?” “Of course he does.” “Yes, but do you know where?” “Llewelyn writes everything down for me. On that big board at the back of the kitchen door. Birthdays, when I have to be at the hospital, dear Morgan’s burial

plot - for the flowers. And addresses.” Emily smiled kindly and looked at the list. Half way down she found, Bryan Hughes with an address in London. “Tea, Emily. Mrs. Glendower poured from a blue and white teapot. Emily picked the cup up, tasted and pulled a face. Llewelyn's mother hadn’t put the boiling water in the pot. It was cold and tea leaves were floating insipidly around. §§§ The train whistled out of the tunnel, pushing the air in a long flute of hissing. The siren voice of her mother sounded just as shrill. When Emily walked across the hall with a suitcase, Mrs. Gwynne-Jones adopted a belligerent attitude. It was amazing how much confrontational pose she could muster while sitting in a wheelchair. “Where are you going?” “To find Llewelyn.” “You must be mad. The relationship is at an end.” “Let me be the judge of that, mother.” “What are you, insane?” No good can come of it. Forget this passion. It will pass.” “Please don’t make a scene?” “A scene! Is that what you call it. My daughter is chasing after her half-brother so that she can indulge in

unnatural sex, and she calls it A SCENE.” As the countryside clattered passed and the metal carriage sped along the rails, all the conversation came back to Emily. She played and heard every word, every nuance. There was only one stop, at Shrewsbury. A family of mother, father and two young children got into her carriage. As the domestic and mundane tidbits were exchanged, she tried to cut their conversation out of her mind. She could see their reflection in the window and their figures and faces merged with the trees and fields along the track. “Trying to make a run for it, are you baby?” Emily blinked. In the glass she saw Sandra Davenport, dressed in a 1930s gangster’s moll outfit, complete with hat and ostrich feather, pencil slim skirt and an ample bosom in a frilly blouse. “What are you doing here, Miss Davenport?” “Heard you were in trouble, Emily. Trying to outrun the cops.” “I’m going to London.” “Big smoke won’t hide you, not the rap your man’s facing.” “I don’t understand.” “Don’t think I don’t admire you, Emily. Standing by your man. But he ain’t no good.” “Llewelyn is okay, Miss Davenport.” “If you say so, baby. Are you gonna go on the run

with him?” “He hasn’t done anything.” “Raping your mother is a serious offence.” “He didn’t rape her…that was his father…no, I didn’t mean that. I don’t know.” The family looked over at Emily. The mother whispered to the father. They got up and led their two children to another section of the train. Emily looked again at the reflection and Sandra Davenport was gone. She was alone. She’d never been farther than Shrewsbury before. London was a long way away…and very big.

Lonely Is The Life

She had an address. It meant nothing. Emily

stood in the middle of the concourse at Padding Station in London and didn’t know where to start. Shrewsbury had a population of barely fifty thousand people and she thought that huge. Dolgellau numbered under five thousand. Here in the once center of a mighty empire eight million souls roamed, pushed and ignored her. Eventually she saw a blue uniform of a policeman. “Excuse me,” she said timidly. “Can I help you Miss?” “I’m looking for this address.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “Spencer Road, Wandsworth,” he mused, and looked at her knowingly. He recognized a country girl. “I’ll write the directions down.” He gave her the piece of paper. She stared at it in complete incomprehensibility. “Go down the underground over there…” The rest of it was a jumbled list of names. She disappeared down the escalator, wandered through tunnels, got on this roaring train which sped through dark warrens, came out in the daylight, found a bus stop and after an hour and a half thanked the conductor for telling her she had arrived. Emily was reminded of Dante’s Inferno and couldn’t believe millions of people traveled

daily in such hell. Straight in front of her was a massive stone and brick building. She read a board at the end of the drive. Her Majesty’s Prison Service, Wandsworth. To her left a main road where traffic shot by and to her right another street, less busy. Emily’s face showed relief. The sign on it read Spencer Road. The house was a red brick, late Victorian residence which still had the below stairs basement, once used for the servants quarters and kitchen, and at the very top, windows into the attic, where the maid and cook would have slept. Those days were long gone. Emily stood and looked up at the dark brown door. Number twenty-nine. The home of Bryan Hughes. She feared and hoped this was the temporary residence of Llewelyn Glendower. Five steps up and her hand reached out for the bell push. A moments delay while she thought - then the ringing sound and no escape. A man in his early sixties opened the door. A kindly face, white hair and beard, small steel rim spectacles. He smiled a hello. “I’m looking for Mr. Glendower, Llewelyn Glendower.” “Then look no more,” he grinned. It was reassuring in a tense situation. “Come in.” She followed him and went into a living room with

a tall ceiling, central marble fireplace and wooden flooring. The sound of her shoes echoed in a clip-clop noise. “I’ll bet you are Emily.” “How did…” “Llewelyn has done nothing but talk about you. The description is you to the letter. By the way, I’m Uncle Bryan…not your Uncle of course.” He had a laugh you could spread thickly and chew on contentedly. “Is he here?” Emily asked “Right behind you.” The voice was rich and so familiar. She spun around. Llewelyn was there. Curly brown hair, disheveled as usual. The grin was apologetic, unsure of her reaction. “Hello Llewelyn.” Such a simple greeting. She wasn’t sure either. “I’ll leave you two alone.” Uncle Bryan, backing away with his broad infectious smile nodded to them. “No, don’t. We’ll go out. I think fresh air would be good,” Llewelyn said. Ten minutes later they were on a bus. A big red double-decker, sitting at the front, watching the driver, not knowing how to begin the conversation. “Is this your first time in London, Emily?” The questions still prosaic and guarded. “Yes. Where are we going?” “Thought you might like to see central London.”

She nodded. The suburban landscape changed to offices and distinctive buildings. There were crowds everywhere. Llewelyn stood up. “We get off here.” “Where are we, Llewelyn?” “Over there is St’ Paul’s Cathedral.” He put his hand out to instinctively take hers. Then as she remained passive, he withdrew the gesture. They walked side by side passed the statue of Queen Victoria, up the stone stairs and into the great nave of the Wren masterpiece. The world outside was noisy. Inside the hush of the huge space, built after the great fire devastated London in the seventeenth century. “How have you been?” His whispered question fenced around their issues. She stopped and sat in a pew and her eyes said, sit with me. “Is it true?” She fearfully asked. “No…how can it be.” His answer was more protest than assured reply. She watched his fingers fiddling with a leaflet on the cathedral he’s pick up as they came in. Emily wanted to touch, to feel his skin, have her body rest in his…but they both sat inches apart in space and a great chasm in understanding. “What about the letters she showed me?” “What did they say?” Emily thought. Had she actually read them? She couldn’t remember. Her mind was confused. She stood

up. “Can we walk?” They left the glory of Wren and crossed the square outside and went down a hill to the banks of the River Thames. Even on a chilly October day the pleasure boats chugged up and down with their eager tourists. Standing on the riverside they could hear the megaphone voices of the guides describing the sights and the tourists heads would turn this way, now that. “What are we going to do, Emily?” “I don’t know. There are so many thoughts in my head.” For no reason she added, “Do you know a young woman called Angharad?” He gave her a wary look as if she was questioning about another woman he was involved with. “No," was his terse answer. “Why?” “I hear her in my head.” “That’s ridiculous. It’s just your…” “My what?” Her response was tinged with irritability. “I’m not like your mother. I am quite sane.” A frozen block of human intransigency appeared. Neither of them able to retreat. He hadn’t meant to question her mental state. She hadn’t meant to attack his dear mother. The pause made the misunderstanding grow. Emily shivered and took fright. All of a sudden her nerve left her. She turned and ran. Llewelyn tried to follow her. As she darted across the road, the brief lull

in the traffic abated and he was trapped on the other side of the road helplessly watching his Emily run like a scared gazelle. By the time he’s got across, she was gone. Emily had no idea where she was going. She wandered for over an hour through the old city of London. It was late and the office workers had gone home, leaving the financial and commercial heart of the capital empty and silent. Looming, modern glass and steel buildings were cheek by jowl with old churches. Much of the city had been devastated by the bombing during the war, so the architecture had an unplanned, higgledy-piggledy feel. In bewilderment she wandered down one of the many alleys, still with the overhanging upper story and Elizabethan windows. “Spare something to keep me warm.” The voice was gruff, menacing and came from the shadows. She stooped in fear. A unkempt hobo walked out of the gloom. He was probably only in his early twenties but the roughness of his clothes and stumble on his face made him look much older. “What do you want?” Her body chilled as she assessed the situation. “Money for some hot drink, lady. Unless you want to bring warmth to my life.” His leer was suggestive and intimidating. Emily took out her purse, found a note and threw it down. As he scrambled to pick it up

she fled, running and listening. Was he following her? There didn’t seem to be anyone around. The daughter of Breydon House caught site of a sign for a guesthouse. She ran inside for shelter. “Can I help you, love?” The woman standing behind a small counter in the hall was plump, brassy, almost yellow hair, which obviously owed more to dye than genetics. Emily could hear her heart pounding. “Have you got a room for the night?” She heard herself ask but didn’t know why. “Just you?” “Yes.” “I don’t hire rooms to be…used for other purposes.” “What do you mean?” The peroxide blonde looked strangely at Emily. “No offence my dear but these days you can’t tell by appearances. Had a very ladylike dame in here the other night. Booked a room, and from midnight till four in the morning had a procession of men calling. Don’t know how she felt in the morning, but all I could hear was those springs on the bed squeaking.” Emily frowned, then all of a sudden saw what was implied. “It’s just for me,” she said, annoyed. “Okay, okay. Just checking. Room number four. The bathroom is shared and at the end of the

corridor.” The room was small, a bed wedged along two walls, just about enough space to open the door inwards and a tiny window, with lace nets that hadn’t been cleaned for a long time. Emily shut the door tight, struggling to throw the bolt. What was she doing here? Why didn’t she go home? The choice between facing her mother and this dingy room was a close call. With tears gently moistening her eyelids, she knelt on the bed and pushed back the curtains. The view showed the back of the guesthouse. Trash cans and an old car, which looked as if someone was in the process of stripping it down. There were more broken and rusted parts lying on the ground than car left standing. In fact standing was the right word. The wreck was propped up on all four corners with bricks. The tires were another missing component. She looked around the room for a TV or radio. Nothing. There was a bedside cabinet. Emily slid the draw open. A bible and the local telephone directory were obvious. Less conspicuous was an envelope. She took it out. It had been torn open. Who was to know? She read the enclosed letter. It was sad, ranting and full of life’s despair. It was from a woman who was telling the man - Paul - that he had acted badly, but she still loved him. Emily got engrossed in someone else’s hatful of woes. Perhaps everyone had them. Maybe it was a human condition.

She read the pathetic, yet touching, letter many times until sleep came upon her. “This is one hell hole to hide in.” Emily rubbed her eyes. The room was in darkness except for the light of an exterior neon sign flickering on and off, illuminating the end of her bed. Sitting there in tramps clothing was Sandra Davenport. The make-up and elaborate dark eye shadow were still immaculate. “What are you doing here, Miss Davenport?” “Trying to track you down, Emily. Your momma is going crazy wondering where you are. They had to call out doc Fitzgerald to give her a sedative.” “Sorry to cause so much worry.” “No sweat, Emily. I’ve always wanted to come to London. Thought I’d go up to see a show. Perhaps supper with one of the stars. Noel Coward, or perhaps even Laurence Olivier - that’s if that Vivien Leigh dame isn’t hanging around.” That was a long time…” Emily stopped. For Miss Sandra Davenport, these were the people of her time. “Found this Lou fellow of you’re?” “Llewelyn. Yes, I did.” “And what did he say about the rape charge?” “It was his father, not him” “So what’s the problem, Emily?” “Mother says we are half brother and sister.” “What does Angharad say?”

“You know her?” “Sure. Everyone knows everyone over here.” “Do you know what she wants me to do?” “Can’t discuss other spirit’s motives, darling. Anyway I’m signed up for a different director. Maybe this Angharad lady is with another outfit. Can’t try and buck the studio system.” “Can’t you tell me anything, Miss Davenport.” “I do know this Angharad kid is working on some weird movie. Doesn’t seem to be a script. They call it reality production. But I can tell you there’s a big surprise in the final reel. You’re never going to guess…” Sandra Davenport’s image flickered and faded. Emily rubbed her eyes and drifted into the land of sleep and awake; neither here or there; dead or undead. The night in London passed without further fantasy.

Lady of the Lake

Emily sat in the train feeling dirty and miserable.

Getting up and wearing the same underclothes without a proper wash made her feel everyone was looking at her. In truth, humanity wasn’t interested. Arrival at the great railway junction at Crewe told Emily it was time to leave the fast InterCity Express and change to the slow, all stopping, connection to Shrewsbury. From there it would be a long coach ride. What had she achieved? Nothing. The daughter of Breydon House was disconsolate and dreaded facing her mother. The slow train was a constant hubbub of shoppers, kids and families returning from a day out. All this evaded Emily’s consciousness. The coach ride was even more noisy and Emily had to push into a seat next to a woman and a large black Labrador dog sitting at her feet and constantly trying to persuade Emily to pay him attention. Finally she saw the high flat ridge of Cader Idris mountain and knew that within half an hour she would be home. The coach turned the long arc of the road and came to a halt to let two school children get off. Emily turned and saw the crystal clear lake at Tal -y llyn. On an impulse she rushed forward and called to the driver to open the door again. The lake was bounded on three sides by sheer

granite of the mountains. This was no geological accidental phenomena. It was another man made lake to collect rain from the wetter districts of Wales and pipe it a hundred miles east to the huge conurbation of Birmingham, in the Midlands region of England. On some days the wind would suddenly gush down the mountains and raise almost a tidal wave across the lake. Today it was flat and clear, reflecting the high hills. Dominated by the mountains, the lake got little sunlight and although it looked pure, it was sterile of fish and aquatic life. Perfect for drinking water; barren in the natural landscape. It was here, twenty five years ago that her father had drowned. He had gone boating early one morning. No one knew what happened. She had been so young and her mother shipped her off to a boarding school to avoid the trauma. Mother told her that the body had been cremated and the ashes scattered in the foothills of the mountains. Twenty five years later, Mrs. Gwynne-Jones still wouldn’t discuss her late husband and Emily’s father. She walked along the road, passed the wooden jetty, built for the tourists to stop and get their obligatory picture of what they saw as beautiful and remote scenery, and onto the grass verge that led, after two miles, to the carefully camouflaged pumping station. Its eerie feel permeated her soul. Her father had died here. Why did nobody ever talk about him?

Emily Gwynne-Jones squatted down and scooped up water with a cupped hand. As she let it drip through her fingers, she saw a figure walking across the lake. It was floating just above the surface. A lady in a yellow dress. A young woman with dark curly hair, black skin and hypnotic eyes. Ten yards from the bank the woman held her hands out in a friendly greeting. “Do not be afraid, Emily. I am Angharad. You will not find your father’s spirit here. It is my shade that must haunt this place.” “Who are you?” “You know my name. Why will you not help to find your father?” “He is dead. HE IS DEAD.” Her cry sped across the water, ricocheted off the solid rock and echoed back to the lonely shores, all the time dying slowly, until only the wind picked it up and consigned the shout to the death valley of history. In her torment, Emily became dizzy, grabbed for the tufted grass, lost her balance and fell like a diving ghost into Tal -y llyn. The clearness of the late afternoon became a hazy, distorted world, where each breath took Emily deeper into nothingness. Fighting and struggling ceased and she floated, content to surrender to this watery element. Hands reached down and held her. She let herself

be taken back into the realm of oxygen. Gasping and spluttering she tried to focus. An enormous dome head loomed at her. She sunk into oblivion, thinking in this dream that her rescuer was Mr. Griffith. Such a silly dying thought. §§§ Images drifted through Emily’s head. Fish with heads like her boss at the Tourist Board offices. Angharad singing a lament out on the lake. Llewelyn running toward her down a long alley but never being able to reach. All through the illusions, she could smell cinnamon. In her clothes, which she wanted to change. Is that why all the people in the train kept staring at her? “Cinnamon,” two children muttered, and pointed at Emily, giggling and holding their noses. “Emily.” Who was calling? Surely it couldn’t be that fish? Had she died and gone to an underwater world? “Emily.” The same voice. What did it want her for? Hazy outline of two faces. Both smiling. A man and a woman. The man recedes. “Leave the poor girl to me, Laurence. Emily, this is Mrs. Griffith. Miriam Griffith. Can you hear me?”

The mind roamed back, reminiscing to a time when a little girl of five stood on one foot by her mother, and wanted to dip her finger in the mixing bowl on the table. Her mother promised she could scrap out the mixture when all the cakes were made. Emily looked up and wondered how long soon would be. The cinnamon aroma filled the kitchen, permeating her mother’s apron. The sound of the front door opening; excitement - little Emily forgot everything. She ran out of the kitchen, across the hall and launched herself at the tall, tree like figure of her father. He swung her around as she giggled and put her up on his shoulders. He marched into the kitchen. The smell of cinnamon was the happy past. “Emily.” The daughter of Breydon House was again a grown woman. She focused on the gray hair and kind hazel eyes of Mrs. Griffith. “Just rest my dear,” Mrs. Griffith patted Emily’s head. “What happened?” “You fell in the lake. If it hadn’t been for Laurence coming along…well, let’s not worry about that.” “I went to remember my father.” “Did he go there, Emily?” “That’s where he drowned. Mrs. Griffith frowned and turned slightly to her husband who was standing a few yards away. Then she

looked back sympathetically at Emily. “We’ve lived here for forty years…and can’t remember any death. I think your father just left, dear Emily.”

There Is No Sense

The Griffiths were a kindly couple and Laurence

showed a side to him Emily hadn’t seen at work. He was obviously devoted to Miriam and she was certainly in charge of the household. He may have been kingpin in the Tourist Board but here the rule was matriarchal. They seemed embarrassed that Emily thought her father died at the lake and reassured her numerously that no such accident had occurred. For her part Emily was grateful to Mr. Griffith for saving her and spun out the inevitable departure, preferring the Griffith’s homely ways to what she foresaw as another confrontation with her own mother. Mr. Griffith offered to drive her home but Emily had left her car in Dolgellau, so reluctantly gave them her thanks once more and started the dreaded journey. She walked slowly along the High Street. It was now early evening and as she got to the Golden Eagle pub a familiar figure walked hand in hand with a man. It took Emily a few moments to realize it was Betty, their daily maid. She was normally unobtrusive around Breydon House in a clean white overall, Mrs. Gwynne-Jones insisted on respectability. Now Betty was all dolled up. Her straight brown hair curled up on top of her head and she showed more leg than Mrs. Gwynne-Jones would have allowed on the piano, let alone the servant.

Although it was a cold evening, Betty’s top was as brief as her skirt - naked from the low slung hipster cut to just under well supported and displayed breasts. The earrings were large silver hoops. and the rest of her paraded body was adorned with piercings in her bellybutton, lip and eyebrow. What was her name, Emily for some reason pondered. Of course, it was Dallinghoe. She was the Minister's daughter. The very reverend man was a preacher in the Free Church. His daughter looked very free, and probably easy, as well. The couple stopped and the man took Betty in his arms. The kiss was more of a meal than an embrace and at the same time his hand fondled her rounded ass with the type of finger work you don’t give out on a first date. They came out of the clinch and Betty saw Emily, open mouthed, standing, staring from the other side of the street. “Hi, Miss Emily,” she hailed and straightened her skirt from the mauling, then crossed over, dragging the man with her. She tottered on very high stilettos, her curves and shapes moving, if not in unison, then in a sexual pattern likely to excite the rural males. Even with the heels, Betty Dallinghoe was still inches below Emily’s tall, six foot presence. The view down from her height was overwhelmingly uplifted bra and shiny cleavage. “This is Gary.” She flicked her eyes in the

direction of the young man, who by now had come up behind her like a dog on heat and was making pelvic movements against Betty’s rear. “You don’t look too good, Miss. Anything wrong?” Emily was not naturally outspoken, so it took courage to ask the question in her mind. “Where did you find that note in my bedroom you gave to my mother, Betty?” The Minister’s daughter screwed her pert little nose up as if sniffing the air and inclined her head to one side like a bird deciding if it was safe to peck at a morsel. “What note, Miss Emily?” “The one from…” hesitation…”the one my mother had.” "Sorry, I’m not with you.” “So you didn’t find anything in my bedroom then?” “Wouldn’t do that, Miss. What’s yours is private.” The randy young man nibbled Betty’s ear and his hands, which had been around her waist from his rear position, got close to the fullness of her breasts. He looked as if he hoped what she had wasn’t going to be private later that evening. “Oh, sorry Betty…I just assumed.” Emily smiled and went into a her own world of puzzlement, trying to figure out where she could have left the note from Llewelyn that her mother found. Must have been

downstairs. Her mother could walk a few steps but not tackle stairs. “You going to the pub tonight, Miss Emily?” Betty broke into the thoughts. “The pub?” “Yes, over there. It’s rock night. A band from Swansea have a gig. It will be a laugh,” Betty encouraged. “Plenty of spare fellows looking for…” “GARY!” Betty stopped her man in full foot-inmouth mode. “No, think I’ll go on home,” Emily said and gave them a polite and reserved nod. She watched them walk towards the pub, Gary hands exploring, Betty all wriggles and giggles. Emily was envious of their freedom to be what they wanted, their autonomy to indulge sexual desires and needs. Her drive towards Breydon House took her along the road where she could see Jamie Fitzgerald’s cottage. To her surprise, it was ablaze with lights. Not just house lights but arc beams. She could faintly hear voices, shouting and with an air of panic about them. Pulling into the side of the road, she turned off the engine and tried to make out what was going on. “Thinking of re-kindling that particular flame?” A face pushed forward from a woman sitting in the backseat of Emily’s car. The glamorous hair and flawless make-up of Sandra Davenport was

unmistakable. “What do you mean?” Emily asked the movie star. “Now this Llewelyn guy has gone off the rails, thought you were thinking of getting back into the doctor’s bed.” “No, I just stopped to see what was going on.” “Why did this Jamie character give you the elbow in the first place?” “There was this woman I saw him with in Shrewsbury…but it wasn’t just that. There was something else. Don’t know what.” “He wanted you back, Emily.” “I know…but it’s too late…I have…” “Who do you have?” Emily dropped her head and didn’t answer. “Why not have them both?” “I couldn’t, Miss Davenport.” “Why not. I once had the director, leading man and a hunky technician on a movie. Or perhaps my dear it would be more correct to say they had me.” “It’s sounds…” “Sounds what, Emily. Sexy? Cheating? I thought it was fun. Used to make notes on their performance and give them marks out of a hundred.” “Anyway, I can’t have either of them, Miss Davenport. Jamie is just something in the past, and Llewelyn…well, it’s forbidden.” “Forbidden, my dear. Now that sounds tempting.

From the Apple in Eden to the chastity belt, make it forbidden and it adds excitement to sexual adventure. Say, thou shall not and the human race goes right on in there, head down and ass up.” Emily had experienced Sandra Davenport for at least five years, and just occasionally she found her colorful expressions too rich. Turning slightly to show a facial disapproval, she saw the star was gone. What Emily did see was the lights of a car approaching up the road. It also had a flashing blue light on the top. The police car pulled up. Two uniform policemen got out and walked towards Emily’s vehicle. One of them tapped the side window and made a movement with his hand to signal she should wind the window down. “Well, good evening Miss Gwynne-Jones. Strange to find you up here. Well, not strange you understand, just didn’t expect…” he ran out of explanations and shrugged. The office was young Owen Oulton. He must have been only twenty four or so. Emily remembered him being in the first year at High School when she was leaving to go to University. “On my way home, Owen,” she sheepishly smiled. Owen Oulton looked at his fellow officers. A glance which said volumes but spoke nothing. “What’s happening up at Jamie…Doctor Fitzgerald’s cottage?”

“Did you know him?” Emily was about to answer a casual yes, when the use of 'did' not 'do' struck her. Her alarmed expression didn’t go unnoticed. “I think you’d better prepare yourself for a shock, Miss Gwynne-Jones. Doctor Fitzgerald has been found dead.” The word dead had very little meaning any more when everyone sat around each evening and watched TV to see some foreign land and foreign people dying. But when it was someone you knew, then it could still hit you hard. Emily sat motionless. No, he can’t mean dead. Not Jamie. Not here. “You okay, Miss?” “How?” she managed. “Well, that’s for the coroner to decide,” Owen became official. “But it looks like poison.” “Poison!” Emily almost screamed the words. “He killed himself?” “Now don’t you be assuming anything, Miss. I haven’t given you that impression, I hope.” Could have been suicide…could have been an accident…could be we have a murder to investigate.”

Confrontations

By the time Emily got home, it was late.

Mercifully, her mother had gone to bed. The conflict was to come. She’d spent most of her life in skirmishes, never a grand battle. Emily had no faith in the adequacy of her fire-power. But now the morning had arrived. The stairs were a long walk to the theater of war. In the hall she regrouped the troops in her mind, paused, listened to the voices in the breakfast room, stiffened her resolve and with tensed fingers turned the door handle. Betty glanced at Emily, then quickly got on with what she was doing. Maids had no place taking sides. Mrs. Gwynne-Jones sat in her metal chariot, taping the cane rhythmically on the floor. It was a beat of authority, the drum mistress keeping the rowing slaves in orderly time. The hand that guided it ruled this domain. “So you have returned, Emily. Betty, make more tea.” “Yes, Madam.” Feet scurried gratefully out of artillery range. The kitchen could be considered neutral territory. “Where have you been? No, don’t answer. It’s written in your face. Chasing that man and flaunting yourself. Don’t you read your bible, child, and the

warning of showing your naked body to your brother.” Emily’s head bowed, but the wounds were being counted. Child, am I. At thirty-one. “So, are you going to speak?” “Yes, mother. I went to see Llewelyn.” “If sex is so important to you, why don’t you go and sell your body in the streets of Swansea.” Emily’s response was interrupted. Betty came back, carrying a tea tray. Her expression was blank, her ears alive to the battle of the Gwynne-Jones’. At the mention of Swansea she suppressed a giggle. To liken it to Sodom and Gomorrah amused the maid. She’d been there four times. It had a football stadium, an old fashioned railway running around the beautiful coast but sin and debauchery was in short supply. Heaven knows, she’d looked all day. “He is in London, mother.” “Save us. In London is he. I cannot begin to think what goes on in that city.” “We talked.” “All night?” “I stayed at a hotel.” “Under whatever roof sin is committed doesn’t make it right.” “Alone.” “You slept in a cheap hotel, alone.” Emily couldn’t tell whether the remark was a question or admonition. Betty went about her duties slowly. She didn’t want to

miss a word, a nuance, nothing that wouldn’t fill her afternoon in the town with gossip. She had enough so far to entertain all the tradesmen and their customers from Williams’ the Butchers to Crawford’s Ironmongery. Hopefully there was more to come. The drinkers in the pub wanted something juicier than a one-sided verbal bout. “How did you get that note Llewelyn sent me?” Emily’s first attack seemed innocuous although it made Betty squirm. Eavesdropping was one thing. Getting enlisted on either side didn’t appeal. “Is that important? Mrs. Gwynne-Jones sniffed imperiously. “Betty didn’t give it to you.” The maid’s feet shuffled and she moved stealthily toward the door, using a pile of dishes as camouflage. “Betty.” The voice of Mrs. Gwynne-Jones froze all movement. “You gave me that letter, didn’t you?” The gulp in Betty’s throat was audible. “I don’t think so…well, I’m not sure. Will that be all, Madam?” “Make sure you leave my salad lunch prepared before you go shopping. If it was left to my daughter I’d starve by the end of the week. She cavorts off to London without a thought for me.” “That’s not true. Anyway, you haven’t answered the question. Where did you get MY letter.” “Emily, you always were a willful child. Here you are fornicating with your half-brother, secretly reading

his letters detailing the lustfulness in your loins and you are concerned how I found out.” “I’m going to work, mother.” “Whenever you had been naughty, you always ran away to hide from your misdemeanors.” "For god sake, mother. Don’t be dramatic. I’m just going to work.” Emily’s heart pounded. It was the nearest she’d ever got to insolence. Door banging didn’t follow. That would have been a ricochet too far. As she sat in her car a thought came to her. Her mother didn’t mention the appalling death of Doctor Jamie Fitzgerald. Surely the news was all over the district. Even if it wasn’t on the local radio, Betty was the next best thing to a rumor spreading factory. §§§ The last people Emily wanted to see were Gwendolyn Philips and Truda Downton. They stood chatting in the car lot, ostentatiously stopping and watching Emily drive in. Two steps from her car, and the terrible two pounced. “You okay, Em?” Gwendolyn smiled so sweetly you could see the honey bees. “Falling in a lake can be dangerous,” Truda stirred the pot, then batted her eyes and added, “How’s Llewelyn?”

Gwendolyn face became a picture of mock concern and she said in a loud stage whisper, “Truda! Don’t upset Em. Hadn’t you heard they’ve broken up.” “Still, plenty more fish in the sea, eh Em? “Hell, me and my big mouth. Water and you don’t go together.” Gwendolyn managed to keep a straight face, Truda stifled a giggle. Emily let the humiliation drift past. She’d had years of practice with her mother. A greater ordeal loomed ahead. She came into the office. Mr. Griffith went over and gently touched her arm. “Should you be here today, Emily? You could have taken a few days to recover." Her attention went elsewhere. She was vaguely aware Mr. Griffith had used her first name and not formally, Miss Gwynne-Jones. Across the room Llewelyn’s magnetic eyes drew her on. She strolled with dignity and went to her desk right next to his. With over emphasized fastidious she tidied the papers, picking up a file and dusting imaginary specks from the cover. All her actions were to divert her overflowing emotions which were centered on the gorgeous man sitting five yards away. The phone rang on Llewelyn’s desk. Surreptitiously she studied his hands pick up the receiver. Fingers that touched her so recently fiddled with the cord. Memories of passion flooded her thoughts. He spoke and the deep resonant sound made

her flutter in the pit of her stomach. The call finished. “Emily?” “Yes, Llewelyn?” “Do you have the booking forms for the holiday cottages in the winter brochure?” Such an innocuous question. It could have been a declaration of love. It had the same effect on her. She got up and walked over to him with the forms. He looked up and took them. Their hands made contact. It was only momentarily and in the act of office business. Yet the charge of obsession ran through their skin. They were fixed, staring at each other. Love that dare not speak its name. Passion to burn souls in hell. Desire to light the darkness. A torture of lost dreams. “Thank you, Emily.” She heard the words but she saw the brief nights of naked love, The yearning for him became unbearable. I’ll love you forever, darling Llewelyn. “That’s okay,” she managed. A reason to stay by him had vanished. Reluctantly Emily went to her desk. Another ten minutes passed as the two people worked, yet their minds reached out to shout the love within them. “Hi Llew.” Truda came bouncing in the office. Emily hated her instantly. He was NOT Llew and he was not yours. Truda sat on the edge of Llewelyn’s desk. Her legs

swung seductively and she knowingly displayed too much thigh for male temperature to remain steady. Even standing up her mini-skirt turned heads and hearts. Sitting down it gave glorious views of her choice in panties. The green goddess of jealousy consumed Emily’s mind. “It’s my birthday tomorrow,” Truda chewed the words with a mouthful of gum and seduction in her tone. “How old are you?” Llewelyn asked politely. “Nineteen.” Leave him alone, Emily’s inside fumed. “I’m inviting a few friends over to the pub at lunchtime. Why don’t you come, Llew?” “Sounds fine,” he said. “Might be late, I’ve got to go into town to pick up shopping.” “I’d wait for you anytime,” the minx pouted. “What pub, Truda?” “The Golden Eagle. Get’s crowded but perhaps I can sit on your knee, Llew.” Her suggestive giggle made lap-dancing sound respectable. Emily felt a murderous surge twitching her fingers. Truda slipped off the desk, patted her short skirt so it now looked sexy instead of lewd. She wiggled out of the office, with a final pause and over-the-shoulder look as she passed the filing cabinet. Emily wanted to bury her under “T” for tart. The morning went so slowly. Two people trapped in circumstances set in motion many years ago. They

looked, they smiled and they ached. Lunchtime came as a relief - except for the thought of Truda and her celebration. Emily hurried out of the office and decided to take her mind off the worries. She walked into town and found refuse in the second-hand book store along Key Street. “Hello, Miss Emily.” The owner, Mr. Joshua, had the same musty, ancient and reassuring odor about him as the shelves of books. “Looking for anything in particular?” “Something on genetics,” she said. The thought came from somewhere. She didn’t know where. “Not your usual movie history then?” Emily grinned passively and followed him through the labyrinthine shop. “There you are. Genetics for the beginner.” She realized it was Mr. Joshua’s gently joke. He flicked at the dust on a shelf and disappeared back through the maze. “Guess you’ll want the section on screwing relatives.” Emily spun around. Sandra Davenport’s image shimmered in the silver screen of the mind’s eye. “If we didn’t have children perhaps…” “Perhaps you’d go on punishing yourself,” Sandra finished the words. “I’m not,” Emily protested.

“Come on kid, you could make mental flagellation out of thumb sucking. You’re a mass of guilt and angst. It’s that mother of yours. Let me give you a bit of advice, kid. Next time she lays the blame on you tell her to examine her own conscience - that’s if she’s got a big enough shrink’s couch." “I think that’s cruel, Miss Davenport.” "Cruel! Look, Emily. Lying on a psychiatrists couch is not the only spreading out your mother goes in for.” “What do you mean?” “Are you okay, Miss Emily?” Mr. Joshua’s concern broke in. Emily turned and smiled sheepishly at the old gentleman. “Just talking to…” There wasn’t an answer. He nodded his head in a sympathetic way. She tried to hide her embarrassment by looking back at the books. Sandra had gone back to ghost-town Hollywood. Hurriedly, Emily selected a book, paid for it and left the shop. Walking quickly through town, she turned right at Hiker’s Way and ran slap-bang into a hunky man. “Llewelyn!” I didn’t expect…I thought you were going to Truda’s party?” “Not my scene.” “She’s very pretty.” “Yes, I know. The trouble is I’m in love.” She examined his expression but didn’t answer.

“I have this image of this tall, elegant woman in my head. She has golden hair and a body to kiss until the end of time.” He took her in his arms. She didn’t struggle, she didn’t want to. The first kiss said hello, the second, stay with me, the third and many more, love will not die. “What are we going to do, Llewelyn?” “Make love.” “Be serious.” “My lovemaking is very serious.” They caressed again. People walked by, the world moved on. They stayed locked and secure in their private thoughts. “Meet me tonight up by the old bridge on the edge of town,” he pleaded. “What time?” “Eight, okay?” One final exchange of lip passion and they went back to work.

The Past Comes Back

Dinner at Breydon House started in silence. Cyric

Gwynne-Jones sat stiffly at the head of a long mahogany table. She’d been helped from her wheelchair by Betty and sat running her index finger around the wine glass, raising a high pitch noise. Emily refused to sit at the opposite end of the table. She preferred the middle. That way, she didn’t have to face her mother like two mediaeval jousters waiting to charge with grudge lances. Betty came in with the soup. She put the two bowls before mother and daughter. The gentle clinking of spoons on china and lips sipping soup sounded thunderous in the quiet of the room. “Did you see that man at work today, Emily?” “His name is Llewelyn, mother.” “What is the answer?” “Of course I did. Damn it, mother, he’s in the same office.” “Ignoring your language, Emily, I did not mean “see”, and well you know it.” Emily pushed her soup bowl away. There was a scrapping sound across the wooden table. She stood up and let her napkin fall to the floor. “Oh, you mean sex, mother. Well we made love over the deck. Mr. Griffith didn’t mind.” “Emily, please do not talk in that common

manner!” Betty stood motionless, fork and carving knife posed in hands, waiting to see if young Gwynne-Jones would tolerate this put-down. Disappointingly, Emily walked slowly away toward the door, looked at Betty and said, “No main course for me.” §§§ Emily got to the old bridge over an hour earlier than the designated eight o’clock meeting. It was dark and the mist slid down from Cader Idris, blanketing another day in its long history as Sentinel of the area. Ever since the Celtic tribes conquered the land, the mountain had been held in awe. Home to the gods and a place of pilgrimage for those that believed. Emily loved the mountains and even the wet climate suited her melancholic nature. She got out of the car and went to the middle of the bridge to hear the stream gush below and let the damp air inculcate her being. From the dancing fog a figure walked toward her. A woman who Emily thought she knew. “Hello, Emily.” “You’re…Angharad. But aren’t you…” “Dead. Yes. Are you afraid?” “Slightly.” “Don’t be. I have come to show you a way into the future by exploring the past.”

Emily noticed that the density of the mist clung thickest around the slight figure of the young woman. The face was exquisite. It had grace yet strength. “Do you know Llewelyn?” Angharad’s question surprised Emily. “I am waiting for him.” Angharad smiled. “The man you wait for is a descendent of the Llewelyn I speak about. Long ago this land was ruled by a great prince, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd. He was sought by the foreign soldiers and lived in the mountain caves with his wife and son. One day he took his wife hunting with him and left his faithful dog to guard the child. When they returned there was blood everywhere. Eventually he found the dog, sleeping in a corner, bedraggled and covered in gore. He picked up his sword and in a rage slew the dog for his crime of killing the child. Then they heard a whimper. There was the child. Near to him was a dead wolf. The old dog had defended the child and sustained serious wounds in the fight. So great was Prince Llewelyn’s remorse that he vowed to stay on the mountains forever and help his people.” “I do not understand, Angharad.” “You will. His spirit is here. It is with us all and he knows your plight. Follow the path up to the high meadow and seek the one who was lost.” The specter faded. Emily felt fear and expectation. The path led her up the mountainous lower slopes, past

sheep in a field, which she heard but could not see, and finally to the high meadow, used by the shepherd from Hill Farm in the summer months. “What you doing here?” The voice came out of the gloom, gruff and threatening. Emily didn’t have time to move before a hand rested on her shoulder. The face pushed itself into hers. It was gnarled, bearded and intimidating. The man’s other hand rested on a tree next to them. It was trapping Emily from flight. “I’m searching…” she hesitated. She didn’t know what she was looking for. “We don’t like noisy people.” He pushed her forward. As she stumbled across the meadow she saw the bulky outlines of trailers and four-wheel drive vehicles. These were traveling people who had moved onto the meadow. Her interrogator impelled her towards a trailer. Emily’s whole body tensed. What fate awaited her? The man grabbed her roughly and swinging the door open, compelled her to enter. The door shut with a sickening finality. She turned but the man was gone. “It has been a long time, dear Emily.” The voice belonged to a man in his late fifties. His blond hair was streaked with gray, his face lined and full of emotion. He stood up and his head touched the metal roof. He must have been six feet six inches tall. Something in his eyes made Emily catch her breath.

“You have grown.” “Who are you?” she asked, fearful yet intrigued. He held out his arms. “You do not remember.” Pictures flooded through her thoughts. Somewhere she remembered but it was a dim image. “Feeding the ducks too much bread stops them flying,” he smiled. She fought the unbelievable. The words kicked her hard. “You can’t be…you are dead.” “Dead in my heart without you,” he said with growing tears in his eyes. Emily recalled the memory. Standing by the pond in Shrewsbury on a day out. Her mother at home, a little girl holding her father’s hand. Throwing the bread to the ducks and then those silly, amusing words. Only Emily and her father would know them. This must be her father.

Recalling The Dead

They sat hand in hand. After a quarter of a lost

century, their conversation recalled the inconsequential memories in life. Then the time came to confront the mystery of a disappearance. Rhys Gwynne-Jones drew closer to his daughter. “How is life with you, Emily?” She looked at him and saw many of the features she saw every morning in the mirror. “Why did you go, dad? Mother said you drowned in Tal -y llyn.” He smiled at some private joke. “That’s ironic,” he replied. “Talk to me, tell me why,” she pleaded. “Your mother is not the easiest person in the world to live with. We’d been married for eight years and you were six. We were very close, Emily.” “That’ what makes your disappearance and silence even more strange.” “Yes I know,” he gulped, trying to find the words. “I began to suspect your mother had a lover.” “MOTHER!” Emily said startled and in disbelief. “It wasn’t a suspicion. I found the letters and they were seen together.” “Who was it?” “The doctor.”

“Jamie…” Emily stopped, realizing that Jamie would have been twelve years old. “It was a doctor called Gareth Howlett. He was the family doctor.” “What happened?” Rhys looked away momentarily, took a sharp intake of breath, and continued. “I met someone. It wasn’t an affair. She was a young woman of twenty-one. So kind and understanding.” Light dawned in Emily’s mind. “Angharad?” “How did you know?” “Never mind, I’ll tell you later. Go on.” “We became soul mates. Our ideas, our love of many things, our sadness, brought us closer and closer. I was mourning a lost marriage and she, her own father’s death. Her name was Angharad Bishe, beautiful woman with ebony skin and such deep eyes. Her father was Jamaican and her mother Welsh. Then your mother found out.” “But she was having an affair!” “Logic was never her strong point. “And?” Another deep sigh and reluctant look from her father. “Angharad died. Well, she was found floating in the lake. That’s why I did a double take about the story of me drowning in there.

“How did it happen?”_"At first the police said it was an accident. Then suicide and finally murder got mentioned. Everything pointed to me. They found letters between us and I became number one suspect. The older married man who killed his young lover.” “So you ran?” “Not then. Your mother and I had an argument. The night Angharad went missing I was at home. Cyric said she’d deny it. She can be a formidable actress. Should have been on the stage. With damning evidence and a wife against you, it was then I ran.” “What have you been doing?” “Traveling the country with these folk. Working on fairgrounds. A week ago the leader of the Romany gang said we were coming here to rest up. At first I thought about going elsewhere. Well, here I am. How did you find me, Emily?” “That’s something else I’ll tell you later. Right now I’ve got other questions and problems.” They couldn’t be voiced. The man who’d accosted Emily, when she’d wandered up to the meadow, came in at the trailer door. “Reckon its reunion night. This guy is looking for you. Seems like you folk keep losing each other.” Llewelyn walked in. “Hi Emily.” His simple greeting melted her heart. She ran and buried herself in the warmth of his body. They kissed, oblivious to her father and the Romany

leader watching. Emily then led Llewelyn to sit with her father and during the next ten minutes the three of them re-told and listened to all that they knew. At the conclusion, Llewelyn puckered his lips and hesitatingly said to Rhys Gwynne-Jones. “Has Emily told you I am suppose to be her halfbrother?” “No,” the father said astonished. Llewelyn took another gulp of air and found courage to continue. “It has been said my father, Morgan, raped your wife. Emily was the consequence. The gentle, passive face of Rhys became animatedly angry. “Who says these wicked things?” Another pause. This time Emily replied. “Your wife.” “And Morgan?” “My father died many years ago.”_ "I didn’t know. I’m sorry. But I cannot believe it. Morgan and Beth were such good friends of mine.” “And mother?” Emily asked. Rhys Gwynne-Jones blew out his cheeks in a gesture of resignation. “Your mother wanted to move in higher social circles. I think we were all beneath her.” “So it’s not true,” Llewelyn asked anxiously, clutching at Emily’s hand and seeing the reason for

their separation vanish. “I believe it not to be so,” Rhys said, “but why don’t you go and talk to your mother about it. Beth would tell you the truth?” “My mother is very ill.” “What’s wrong? The father asked, concerned for a one time deep friendship. “Senile dementia,” Llewelyn replied. “Can I go and see her?” the father suggested tentatively. § §§ They reached Beth Glenower’s home at ten. One light shone from an upstairs window. “Let me go in first,” Llewelyn said. Emily and her newly found father waited for five minutes. Rhys nervously looked around. Perhaps even after twenty-five years he harbored apprehension about being caught and accused of a death he did not cause. “Come in,” Llewelyn appeared at the front door and called softly to them. They trod quietly up the stairs and slowly went into a bedroom. Beth Glendower smiled a distant greeting as she sat propped up in bed, a yellow knitted shawl around her shoulders. The son perched herself on the edge of the bed. He took her hand. “You know Emily, don’t you, mother?”

“Of course I do, my boy.” Emily leaned forward and kissed Mrs. Glendower on the cheek. Her sallow complexion still had face power from the day. The eyes were serene and far away in a hazy stare. “Do you know this man, mother?” Beth fumbled for her spectacles, put them on and looked at the man. Somewhere in her wandering mind there came a picture she once knew but couldn’t now place in a time or location. “Is it the doctor?” “No, mother. It’s Rhys. Rhys Gwynne-Jones.” Beth smiled peacefully. The man had a devilishly handsome face. She knew it, she was sure. But that name? Then her face lit up. “Isn’t that your name, Emily. Gwynne-Jones. Are you her Uncle?” she asked the stranger. “No, dear Beth. I am her father.” Beth nodded. She heard and understood but connections with life were floating away from her mind. Then she again smiled with a bright radiance. “Llewelyn, go and get the green picture album from my cupboard over there. This gentleman would remember some of the people if he is Emily’s uncle.” Llewelyn didn’t correct her. He got the album and gave it to his mother. She opened it and she was back in a safe land of the past. “Look, that’s your father,” she said and tugged at Llewelyn’s sleeve.

“He worked for this big oil company. They were always sending him abroad. Well, I think they were! I didn’t like it.” They all peered politely at the album. “And this one as well,” she smiled. “He was away in that hot country - now where was it? - for over six months. I really missed him then. I am sure I did.” Llewelyn screwed his eyes up and frowned. “He never came back at all during that time?” “No. The company wouldn’t pay the fare,” Beth found a memory. Llewelyn looked gravely at Emily and let his finger trace the date someone had written in the album against the set of pictures. Ten minutes later, Beth had started to ramble. Her capacity for remembering exhausted and confused. Llewelyn tucked her down and they left the bedroom. In the lounge, Llewelyn looked at Emily. “That proves it.” She nodded agreement. “What are you two talking about? Rhys asked. Emily grinned. “Morgam Glendower was in a country far away for six months at a crucial time. And it means unless my mother is elephantine in her gestations, Morgan cannot be my father." §§§ They drove Emily’s father to the Romany trailer camp. The tears flowed and he promised to see her

again before making any decision about traveling on. “My car is down by the bridge, Emily. If you take me there, I can go back to mother and you should be home by now,” Llewelyn said, holding her close and not wanting to let her go. She kissed him with a new passion and whispered, “Let me decide what we do tonight. I think at thirtyone it’s about time I stopped being a dutiful daughter.” He smiled and sat obediently in the passenger seat as she drove off, but not toward her home at BrynEden. She sped through the night, turning on to the coast road at Barmouth, north through Tal-y-bont, Llanbedr and finally reaching the great castle at Harlech. Parking the car along the dunes, with the massive walls of the fortress looming over them in the moonlit sky, she took Llewelyn’s hand and urged him to run toward the sea. The mighty ocean lay dark and brooding, although they could hear its latent power massing up against the pliant sand. Emily stopped running, breathlessly kissed her man and shouted into the night, “You are not my brother.” They fell to the sand, giggling, laughing and rolling over, oblivious to the chill air. She felt a freedom never experienced before. Her sexuality demanded to be expressed. “Hey, over here,” he playfully said. Leading Emily,

he crawled to an upturned rowing boat, left by the inshore fishermen, wriggled under and Emily followed. With Llewelyn on his back, Emily lay over him, wriggling her thighs so the sensation of his hardening ard or pressed into her. He took her encouragement and felt for her breasts, undoing her jacket and blouse, fumbling for the clasp on her bra, then with a sigh, feasting on her nipples. She felt his fingers exploring over her rear, rubbing her in a circular motion. When his cold hands touched inside the cotton panties, her skin tingled. Her head went down, biting at his neck. The feline act advanced his desire as his fingers slid over her rounded cheeks and slipped between her legs. When he touched her perfumed garden entrance, Emily lost control. With raging passion she tugged his pants and shorts down, and pushed up her dress so the naked fury of his rising cock bit into her. Now Llewelyn joined her ecstasy. He wriggled her panties down and she let his manhood find its way to the gates of her moisture. “Don’t hold back,” she pleaded breathlessly. Holding her thighs, and pushing thumbs over the folds of her clitoris, his bulbous headed rod penetrated deep. Such was the passionate release of pent-up sexual energy, Emily’s head came up and hit the boat. Their laughter mixed with the joy of the lovemaking as they dedicated their bodies to each

other. It was not long and sustained. They were too overwhelmed with the time apart. But it said how much their love meant.

Gathering Storm

It was one o’clock. Emily had driven Llewelyn

back to his car in Dolgellau, then taken the road home to Breydon House. Quietly, she opened the front door, took off her shoes and tip-toed across the stone floor in the hall. She heard the clock chime. It made her heart jump. After thirty-one years in the house she knew every corner, every piece of furniture, so she didn’t put on a light. Two more steps and she’d be at the stairs. “Like the whore coming home from a night’s debauchery. Does he pay his sister to possess her naked body?” The moonlight filtered from the leaded glass above the front door. It silhouetted the she-devil in her wheeled carriage. “It’s too late for this discussion, mother.” “Too late! My daughter sneaks home like a prostitute with her ill gotten gains, and talks about it being too late.” “I am not going to listen to this, I’m tired and want to sleep.” Emily oscillated between anger and the old guilt she’d carried for so long. As she stepped purposely on to the first tread of the stairs, a hideous gurgling sound echoed like a death rattle in the hall. Turning, she saw

her mother slump forward in the wheelchair. Frozen panic, then horror filled Emily’s body. She found strength to move and rushed to her mother. “Mother, mother, what is it?” The jangle of her mother’s fit continued. Emily lifted her head and rested it back against her arm. Mrs. Gwynne-Jones’ lips quivered and she tried to speak. “I can’t hear you, mother. What is it?” The voice trembled. Emily got nearer to the quavering words. “My pills, Emily. Get my pills.” Emily had no idea what she meant. Medication had never been discussed. Her mother’s hand rose, still clutching the black cane. “Push me into my bedroom, child. Quickly, I must get to my pills.” Emily took hold of the wheelchair and in a dread pushed it across the hall, barging the half open door. “Leave me here, Emily. Go quickly and get my pills. Over there in the bureau.” Emily ran, opened the sliding top and started to rummage wildly through the bureau without any idea what she was looking for. “Tell me, mother, where are they?” she called. There was a loud click, and as Emily turned, a metallic clunk. Her mother was gone. She rushed to the door, shaking it furiously. It was locked. “Mother. MOTHER.”

Silence. Then the voice of Mrs. Cyric GwynneJones. “If you will not stop your wantonness, then I’ll have to lock you away.” “MOTHER!” Emily shouted. The cry was returned with the noise of the rubber wheels squeaking and fading across the hall. The witch of Breydon House steered her malevolence into the kitchen. §§§ How many hours past? Emily tried shouting, banging on the door, pleading and threats. Silence reigned from the other side. “Seems you’ve got yourself in a fix.” Emily knew the voice and saw the black and white figure of Sandra Davenport gliding somewhere in her perception of what had become her prison. “I can’t reason with her, Miss Davenport.” The star of the movies sat on a chair. Her immaculate blonde wavy hair crowned with a Robin Hood style hat, replete with feather. “Don’t think you want to try reason, honey. A mouthful of knuckles might be better.” “Hit my mother! I couldn’t do that.” “Why? She’s been hitting on you all your life. The old dame ain’t used her hands but sure has thrown guilt, duty and every other trick at you to keep you down.”

“She’s ill.” “Come on, Emily. The lady is sick in the head. And a hypocrite.” “That’s not fair.” “Okay, kid. Take a look in that bureau. Go on.” “I can’t spy on her, Miss Davenport.” “Hell, Emily. The old bat has lied about Llewelyn’s parentage, treated you like a child and now she locks you in. And you still show loyalty. There comes a time when getting walked all over is not a punishment but a masochist act. Go on, have a look.” Emily wandered reluctantly to the bureau, which was still open from her search for the medication. The flickering screen image of Sandra Davenport hovered, ghost like behind the daughter of Breydon House. “Look in the large envelope,” Sandra Davenport tempted. Emily picked up the Manila envelope, took it to a table and tipped out the contents. She fingered through the bundle of old letters. As she read, her face contorted and shock took over. “This is…is.” “Explosive?” Is that the word. Or perhaps titillating.” “These are the letters between mother and Doctor Gareth Howlett” “Sure thing.” “My father told me…but I still found it hard to

believe.” “It gets better.” Emily eyed Sandra, and went back to the old correspondence. “Drugs!” Emily gasped. “Not cocaine or the recreational stuff,” Sandra Davenport answered. Emily scrutinized the letter hoping to reveal more details. “They seem to be arguing over the use of some drug on someone else. What does it mean?” “Hey, Emily, even this side of the silver screen we have codes of conducts. I can’t tell you everything. The boss lets us be guardian angels but gets annoyed if we cross the line and start interfering with the present. You‘ve got to work it out. But that‘s not your immediate problem. Getting out of this room comes first.” “The door’s locked, Miss Davenport. And the window has bars. My mother had them fitted as she was using the room as her bedroom and didn’t like being left alone in this lonely house.” “Emily, you’d make a rotten script writer. No imagination. This reminds me of a movie I made with that Brit director and some actor called Randy Preston. What a farce. Randy, I ask you. The studio publicity machine did everything possible to portray him as macho. Didn’t mean mucho. He was more interested in the guy behind the lighting on set than the young

starlets. Still, I digress. We had a scene, just like this. Locked in a room - but we got out.” “How?” “How many times have you driven up to this house, Emily? What is on the wall? And don’t say Ivy.” "Sorry, Miss Davenport.” “No wonder you Brits never had a film industry,” Sandra Davenport said with a weary shake of the head. “Burglar alarms, kid. And what would happen if you smashed the window?” “I still couldn’t get out with the bars on the window.” “Save me from dumb tall broads. Geez, Emily, you’re so dim. Break the glass and the burglar alarm wails. Now, then what happens?” “It automatically calls the police and…oh, I see.” “At last. Either they arrive and your mother will have to explain locking up her daughter…or the old bird admits defeat and lets you out.” Emily looked around the room, decided a precious Chinese vase would not only be handy to hurl at the window but smashing one of her mother’s prized possessions appealed to her anger. She drew back the drapes, picked the vase up, thought of all the love her mother had lavished on this cold ornament and how often she had shown indifference to her own flesh and blood…and let go with pent up resentment. The shattering glass was followed by wailing of the

alarm. Within thirty seconds, the lock on the door clicked open and Mrs. Cyric Gwynne-Jones wheeled in, all fury and feigned hurt feelings. Emily winked to the fading image of Sandra Davenport, stopped momentarily to look at her mother, then decided words were a long dead, wasted commodity. As the mother swung between threats and whining supplications, Emily rushed to her room, grabbed a bag, packed the necessities for a few days and swept passed her mother in the hall. Emily accelerated out of the drive and almost took the first corner too quickly in her resentment. She drove to where her heart belonged.

Poison In The Veins

The rush to find Llewelyn overwhelmed Emily.

So the disappointment was deep when Mrs. Glendower came to the door and told her he’d gone out. After patiently questioning the mother, Emily got enough information to realize Llewelyn had gone back to see her father at the Romany encampment. She reassured Beth that nothing was wrong, quickly reversed the car and sped along to the old bridge, parked and hurried up to the high meadow. As she approached the camp, dogs howled and a gaggle of small children watched Emily with openness of expressions, while their elders were more suspicious. Finding the trailer they’d visited before, Emily rapped on the metal door and gasped a sigh of relief as Llewelyn appeared. “Are you okay, Emily?” “There is lots to tell you. But what are you doing here?” Llewelyn took her hand and beckoned Emily to come into the trailer. “Emily!” Her father’s face radiated joy at seeing his daughter. He came to her and they embraced. “Is my father the reason?” she asked. “No, Tony O’Reilly is.” Llewelyn indicated the Romany leader, sitting to one side.

“Tell this lady what you have told me when you came to my house this morning," Llewelyn urged O’Reilly. The Romany leader shifted uneasily. He looked uncomfortable and belligerent. “I only got involved because he wanted me to,“ O’Reilly grunted and nodded towards Rhys GwynneJones. “Telling you,” - this time he pointed to Llewelyn ”Is okay, but now the police are poking their noises into our business.” Emily looked startled at these mystifying developments - she longed to learn more. O’Reilly finally obliged. “It was a long time ago. We’d just come back to the high meadows site after six months on the fairgrounds of the coastal resorts. I was grazing the horses out in the field when I cut my hand on the wire. Couldn’t stop it bleeding, so eventually I drove over to Doctor Howlett’s place. Knew it would be expensive. You people think us Romany folk have gold hidden away.” “Please tell your story,” Llewelyn said, trying to reassure the Romany leader. “Got to the doctor’s house. It was late with a mist rising from the valley floor.” “What did you see?” Llewelyn prompted him. “We have good eyesight you know.” “I’m sure that’s true, O’Reilly,” Llewelyn again

placated the leader’s anxiety. “That Mrs. Gwynne-Jones was creeping out of the doctor’s house. Looked proper furtive. I’d have known her anywhere. If we ever went near her home the lady would threaten us with the police. Called us scum and thieves.” O’Reilly grumbled on, then sat down. Emily wrinkled her nose in puzzlement at the significance of this tale. Her father saw the expression. “You see, Emily, that was the night Doctor Howlett was found dead. And when the police investigated, they spoke to your mother because she was a patient and close friend of the doctor. She denied ever leaving Breydon House.” “But she had an affair with him?” “Makes it very strange,” her father shrugged. Emily pursed her lips and said, “I found a letter at our house. It confirmed the affair…and spoke about drugs.” “Drugs!” O’Reilly repeated. “Look, we folk don’t want to get mixed up in this.” His protest came to an abrupt end as the trailer door opened and two policemen walked in. Police constable Owen Oulton was proceeded by an older man, suited and carrying an air of importance. “This is chief inspector Barton,” the young uniform policeman announced with deference. His senior officer struck a dramatic pose as if auditioning for a movie. He’s ginger curly hair didn’t match the

dark bushy eyebrows, and piercing hazel eyes. A ruddy facial color clashed with both. “This is Mr. Glendower,” Oulton said to his boss. “He telephoned me earlier this morning, Sir.” Barton nodded and fixed a stare on the assembled people. As he said nothing, Llewelyn decided to pick up the story. “I contact you because of what O’Reilly told me about the night Doctor Howlett died.” The ginger headed detective turned and gave his junior constable an exasperated look that conveyed frustration at these people. Then he tapped the side of his nose and leaned forward on the small fixed table, like a minister taking strength from a lectern prior to the sermon. “Whether or not Mrs. Gwynne-Jones was prowling around the late Doctor Howlett’s house wouldn’t normally be of interest to me,” he began in a self important way. Emily wondered where the chief inspector came from. His accent wasn’t local. She guessed Wolverhampton, or at least somewhere in the West Midlands. As if he sensed her wandering mind from his words, Barton gave her a serious visual rebuke. “But what does interest me,” Barton continued, “is coincidences. And the post- mortem on Doctor Fitzgerald shows the poison in his stomach was the same that killed his predecessor, Doctor Howlett.”

Emily gasped and felt Llewelyn’s comforting hand on her shoulder. Rhys Gwynne-Jones buried his head in cupped hands, knowing the suspicions he’d harbored for years were not just bitterness. O’Reilly fidgeting nervously, darting glances at the two policemen. The law made him jumpy. “That’s not the only reason I am here,” Barton said solemnly. He turned and faced Emily’s father. "This is a small community, and people have long memories. Faces might age, but they don't change that much. Rumors reach the law fast...and one is that a certain man who left this district a long time ago has returned." He waited, almost expecting applause for his cleverness. "And the police have an interest in that man. Many questions remain to be answered." The detective turned and looked at Emily's father. “Rhys Gwynne-Jones, I am arresting you in connection with the death of Angharad Bishe. You do not have to say anything but anything you do might be used in evidence against you.” Rhys Gwynne-Jones barely looked at the policeman through the gaps in his fingers, as he continued to hang his head in his hands. “That was years ago,” Emily sobbed. “Justice does not forget either, Miss,” Barton said lugubriously. As young police constable Owen Oulton put a hand on Mr. Gwynne-Jones arm and led him from the trailer, Emily fell into Llewelyn’s chest,

seeking consolation. “This is your father’s trailer. Paid for with his labor over the years, so you’re welcome to stay, but the rest of us are getting back on the road. Once the police get you in their clutches, all sorts of worms crawl out of opened cans,” O’Reilly gruffly announced, nodded a farewell and closed the trailer door firmly as he left. Within minutes, Llewelyn and Emily heard shouts, cars revving and the trailers started to leave the camp. The daughter of Breydon House turned from staring out of the window and saw Llewelyn sitting opposite. She walked to him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “You look deep in thought.” “Worried about everything,” he shrugged, then asked, “What happened when you got home?” “My mother locked me in.” “She did what!” “It’s a long story. So is what I found and how I escaped. “ He sensed she didn’t want to talk about it right now. Hoping Emily wanted his love at this moment, Llewelyn let one hand wander around to her rear as she stood before him and the other one casually started undoing the buttons on her blouse. When his fingers found the warm skin of her stomach, she closed her eyes and kissed the top of his head. She felt her bra slip open and his mouth burying

itself in the swell of her breasts. Llewelyn sucking and licking at her nipples made her forget the worries of this past few weeks. Slowly she could feel his hands exploring up her thighs, pushing up the skirt and petticoat. Still she kept her eyes tightly shut, letting imagination work its magic. He slipped her panties down and with a hand circling her naked ass, his tongue went south from her breasts, over the curve of her belly, tasting the curls of her pubic hair and probing at her mound. Why she had the thought, Emily did not know. She eased away, knelt before him and put her hands on his thighs. “Llewelyn my darling?” “Yes.” “I’ve never done this before…can I…would you like me to…give you oral sex?” “I have one condition.” He sounded surprisingly stern. “What is it?” Emily asked, taken aback. “It is a mutual act of love,” he said, looking down at her. Emily grinned and nodded. He stood up, and brought her to her feet. Within minutes they were naked. She held on to him for a few moments, feeling his erection hardening against her stomach. Llewelyn kissed her passionately and moved to the single long convertible sofa at the side of the trailer. He

stretched out and she followed his silent directions, climbing on top with her head over his manhood and kneeling slightly so her weeping pudenda was before his gaze. His fingers stroked around the folds of her clitoris and her body quivered when the rasping point of his tongue lapped at her moistened exposed bud. The thrusting rampage of his searching mouth made Emily pant in excitement, inflaming her passion for new fruits. Leaning on her elbows, she took hold of his wand and manipulated it so the vibrations in its desire quickened. When she heard him moan softly, Emily lowered her head, letting his cock tickle inside her mouth. Her sensual attentiveness to his rigid pole brought more desires to her lover. Fingers worked with mouth and tongue to enter and possess her. Emily tightened her thigh muscles, flexed her vagina, and sitting up, pushed herself hard into Llewelyn’s face. She rode ecstatically until juices pumped and she shivered with satiated desire. Llewleyn breathed intensely with the fire in his loins still to be quelled. Emily leaned forward, taking his cock in both hands and massaged wildly. His body shook from head to groin. She sensed his moment was near. With fascination, she gazed upon his massive erection and sighed at the thought of it in her sex. His cry came moments before the relief. Emily

took his cock into her mouth and felt the power and taste of his eruption. They lay together for over an hour, Emily curled up in Llewelyn’s arms. When the kisses stopped, she leaned over and, wetting the end of her finger with her saliva, ran it down his neck, over his chest, stomach and finally circled around his loins. He smiled and whispered. “Yes, my darling, I’m ready to use the wand again.” She giggled and in this new release of inhibitions, asks, “where will you put it this time, lover?”

Inferno From The Spirits

The day had to end and the lovers face their final

tribulation. Emily sat watching the last of the Romany trailers leave the camp. Beyond them over the mountain of Cader Idris she saw the storm clouds gathering. Llewelyn sat on the sofa studying his lovers face, trying to discern the depth of anguish she felt. A father returned, and now in police custody, and a mother, revealed to be deeply involved with murder. She sensed him looking at her, turned and smiled. “What do we do, Llewelyn?” “I think we have to confront your mother.” “Is that necessary.” It was not a question from Emily. She knew the answer must be yes. There was the mysterious deaths of the two doctors, the disappearance and subsequence demise of Angharad and of course her father. As the clock on the town hall in the town of Dolgellau below the high meadow struck faintly for eight o‘clock, Emily, weary of mind, crossed over to Llewelyn, kissed him and put on her coat. “I’m going with you,” he insisted. She was glad he had offered. They walked hand-in-hand to the car and drove north toward the village of Bryn-Eden and the house that stood on its edge and dominated the valley. Breydon House had secrets and perhaps tonight they

would be revealed. The storm ripped open the skies and at each lightning strike, the peak of Rhinog-Fawr stood out like a colossal mound constructed by devil termites. Massed formations of rain clouds crowded toward the top of the mountain, waiting to strike and then deluge the countryside and its insignificant peoples. The peels of thunder tore at the auditory senses, simultaneous with tremendous illuminations of heaven’s electrical fury. The slow drive through the sheeting rain went on in silence. Llewelyn concentrated on keeping the car on the winding road and Emily looked morosely out of the side window, contemplating her life of sorrow and the man next to her, who she knew was her salvation and great love. As a forked, brilliant charge of energy burst over the valley, the silhouette of Breydon House stood out against the bare fields and sparse landscape of trees. Thirty-one years I have lived in that house. From a baby, and after my father went, an unloved childhood, to an adult life filled with rules and meaningless regulations. The car swung into the drive and the engine died. “What now?” Llewelyn asked as he touched her hand to show support and understanding. “Can you wait here. I think I’ve got to face this on my own. I need to cleanse away a whole lot of bad history and unless I do it on myself it will haunt me for ever.”

Emily got out, slammed the door and ran for the porch as the rain turned into a torrent. She felt for her key. For some reason she saw herself as a stranger to this house. Perhaps it had always be so. The door needed a lot of pushing to open as the wind swirled around, buffeting and eddying against every surface and object. The door closed in one swift bang - then silence in the darkness of the hall. Outside the hell of the storm had been unleashed on the valley and the mountainside. Within Breydon House not even the dust raised a care for the fury of the night. “Mother. MOTHER.” Emily’s call echoed and vibrated the memories of the past. Still the quiet of another world would not let go its grip. “Mother.” Her heart jumped. Then Emily relaxed. The sound was the clock moving between one quarter and the next. It had marked time for hundreds of years, counting the minutes and the hours, yet it was a dead motion of space. People, laughter and life were the intruders. The clock had no feelings and seemed to be waiting for all eternity to run down and bring to an end this useless pendulum of existence. She walked over to the door of her mother’s bedroom, tapped politely, out of habit, and waited. No reply. She turned the handle and entered. Nobody there.

A creak from behind her made Emily look up. At the top of the stairs stood her mother. The two women stared across the dim space between them. Emily’s mind replayed all the years in the house. She started to walk, stopped and two thoughts flooded from her subconscious to the reality of the here and now. Her mother’s elegance had gone. Mrs. Cyric Gwynne-Jones’ hair was wild and uncombed. Her carefully and painstaking applied make-up had been replaced by natural pallid and aging skin, eyes sunken and clothes all tattered. The avidly concealed years and evil were now manifest. But it was the second thought that struck Emily speechless. There was her mother at the top of the stairs. It must have been fifteen years or more since she had climbed them and even on the ground floor used her wheelchair most of the time. Mrs. Gwynne-Jones moved down the stairs. Her steps were faltering but she walked. Emily couldn’t find her voice. “Come back, have you, child?” The mother moved menacingly to the bottom of the stairs, circled Emily with a halting, slow tread, then stood in the middle of the hall. “The police rang me, Emily. Seems that no good father of your has come back.” “You said he was dead, mother.” The daughter

eventually found words from a dry throat. Cyric Gwynne-Jones laughed insanely, her eyes fixed on something beyond view. “Of course he is dead. Rhys has always been dead. Just like you, Emily, he was a dreamer. “Is that why you took a lover?” The mother’s stare came back to focus on her daughter. It was pity mixed with enmity. “What would you know of it, child? I was the greatest beauty in the district. Men admired and worshipped me. I married Rhys because he had plans and ambitions. What does he do? Settle for this rural life…and he LOVED you more than me.” Hatred appeared in the mother’s face. She spat resentment at her daughter. “What happened to Doctor Howlett?” Emily found courage to go on confronting the mother. Mrs. Gwynne-Jones moved darkly towards the old clock. She turned and spoke to Emily. "Gareth gave me devotion and excitement…but he was weak.” “What drugs was he giving you?” The mother’s eyes flared with fire and she raised her black cane in the air. “He grew fearful and said it must stop. He had to be destroyed.” The cane lashed through the silence and struck the clock. The glass shattered and the chimes played a noise of discord and broken dreams. “You killed him!” “Of course, child. Just like I killed Doctor

Fitzgerald. I told him to leave you alone. I wanted him. But he wouldn’t listen. He was going to start the affair with you again. He had to die.” Emily shrank back as her mother ranted. Some how she must know everything. Emily found the guts to go on asking. “What drugs, mother?” Mrs. Gwynne-Jones stopped and listened to something. “Did you hear that, child. The storm is trying to get me. Just like those policemen on their way here, the elements want to take me away.” She shuffled toward her bedroom, opened the door and went partially in, stopping in the middle of the room. Emily remained in the hall. “Tell me about the drugs, mother?” “Do you see that picture in the hall? That’s your grandmother. She was a dreamer. Left a will giving you all her money. Me, child, I was her daughter…and I got NOTHING.” “What money?” “It was going to be yours when you where thirtyfive. Couldn’t have that. Just like your father, you would have squandered it on a dream. Gareth gave me drugs to put in your food. It would cause hallucinations, he said. We could say you were going mad and then the money would be mine. But he got scared, so…” As she cackled hysterically, the thunder

shook the house and the hall became ablaze with lightning. Emily choked back the rising gore in her throat. "And after you had killed Doctor Howlett...where did you get the drugs from?" Her mother sneered. Emily gasped and put her hand to her stomach as the sick feeling continued. Then she screamed, "Not, Jamie!" Cyric Gwynne-Jones contempuously laughed. "Yes, dear daughter. The doctor who seduced you was also under my control. Do not look so alarmed, girl. He said the effects would be short term. He told me that on the night he died." Her eyes were ablaze with wildness. Emily felt the tears running down her cheeks. 'My mother is a murderess? “And there was that girl,” Cryric Gwynne-Jones said in a dark confessional manner. “Your father and that young, pretty black girl. It was disgusting. I found some of their secret letters. Sharing all the nonesence about art and literature. How pathetic!” “God no, not Angharad as well?” Emily screeched in horror and realization. She stared incredulously at her mother who was a Lucretia Borgia incarnate. “Met the tart one evening to talk things over. She said her relationship with Rhys was pure. I smiled…but didn’t believe it. Put the poison in her drink and when she died, took her body down to the lake.”

At last Emily moved. But as she went toward her mother, Mrs. Gwynne-Jones slammed her bedroom door and the locked clicked into place. Just then a thunderous explosion rattled Breydon House, frightening Emily. Multiple strikes of lightning lit up the interior like bizarre Christmas decorations. Emily turned and ran from the house. Llewelyn got out of the car and came to her. As the pouring rain swept in waves of stinging rods, the heavens mocked earth’s fragility with tumultuous growls of colliding clouds. In stunned silence they watched as a shaft of lightning descended swiftly from the summit of the mountain and hit Breydon House, smashing through the roof and instantaneously setting it alight. Emily shrieked and tried to run back to the front door. With the house already aflame, Llewelyn stopped her. “Where is your mother?” he shouted over the storm. Emily ran to the side of the house where her mother’s bedroom was located. With Llewelyn following, they trampled wildly through the garden shrubs. There at the window was Cyric Gwynne-Jones. The house burned and crashed down. The mother clawed madly at the bars on the window, her cries drowned in the thunder. Emily buried her face in Llewleyn’s chest and wept. Within minutes Breydon House was an inferno.

The police arrived and with the lovers watched helplessly. Up in the mountain, Angharad’s spirit melted into peace and the Celtic gods rested and stilled the storm now that vengeance and justice had been restored.

Life Goes On

The mountaineers threaded along the ridge like

little matchstick men. Emily shaded her eyes against the sun and watched them near the summit. It was a cold day and an early frost glistened across the valley. Far in the opposite direction was the spire of the Chapel. Two days ago her mother had been buried there. The hard frost made digging the grave a long job, so Emily had donated additional money to the Minister for the gravediggers. As she stood quietly in a cottage she was renting near to the village, Llewelyn came up behind her and put arms around his love. “Is it ended?” she sighed. “We hope so. Your father has decided to stay in the district now the police have withdrawn all charges against him. But what about you?” “I still feel still weak. The hospital said it would take a while for the drugs to get out of my system, after being secretly fed them for years.” “Have you experienced anything?” Llewelyn was gently referring to the hallucinations Emily told him about.” “No - but there’s something strange there. If my silver screen images were just the result of the drugs, why did Sandra Davenport help me?” “Perhaps…” Llewelyn started then realized he didn’t have an answer. He kissed Emily’s head and

taking her hand, walked back into the cottage. §§§ Rhys junior blew at the birthday cake with the five candles on it. His sister, Angharad being only three didn’t understand she wasn’t suppose to help. Even so it needed their grandfather, Rhys Gwynne-Jones, surreptitiously helping to extinguish the flames. They all sang happy birthday to the little boy and he eyed the stack of brightly wrapped presents in the corner of the room, eagerly waiting for his tiny fingers to explore. Emily Glendower and her husband, Llewelyn, smiled proudly at their children. Time had healed but the memories lingered on. Up in the mountain of Rhinog-Fawr, the ancients rested, knowing that eventually all the peoples of the earth would become one spirit. Even malevolent Cyric would be consumed into the universe of love and her soul sent out once more to redeem itself.

THE END