Into The Mystic

Into The Mystic

Part One: The Circle

Aelwen 2015

Aibhilín wakes with a sob. She is only eight years old and already remembers Elouan - despite the witch’s promises.

I can’t stand it.

I leave her with Cateline and swim away, discarding my skin as our home recedes into the distance. But I can’t shed her pain. I love her too much. Nothing soothes her, and nothing distracts me. Until, that is … a voice like honey and woodsmoke draws me in, closer to land.

Standing thigh-deep in the river, the singer swings a scythe through reeds. His arm is unsteady, and his strokes keep snagging, but the ballad drifting towards me is smooth and full of longing.

Ar lan y môr mae rhosys cochion,

Ar lan y môr mae lilis gwynion,

Ar lan y môr mae 'nghariad inne

Yn cysgu'r nos a chodi'r bore.

One of the local languages. The others have told me this dialect is close to my own and that I could understand it if I would only listen. Why, I say, should water care for the heavy words of land? But this one is different; he carries the sound of the ocean inside him, like a conch shell. I hear it in the tide of his song and in the way his tired joints grind with the percussion of seabed pebbles. He is shivering in rags that whip in the wind, and his mood seems to match the storm-bruised sky above. So why does he sing?

I ask him.

He freezes, staring at me in wide-eyed fear. When I move closer, resting my hand on the gunwale of his boat, he drops his scythe and backs away, eyes flicking between me and the spot where his tool sank into the muddied water. I retrieve it, but he draws symbols across his chest and wades backwards along the side of the boat until he loses his footing and slips beneath the surface.

I can’t help laughing as he comes up shouting and swinging his arms about as though warding off an attack. When his flailing limbs fail to find a target, he switches to clearing river sludge from his eyes with bruised, swollen-looking knuckles. Then he squints at me through a mask of mud and anger.

A wave of shame washes over me. Hardship has worn this man down to a craggy, shivering wreck, but his eyes are young. He is a lost boy, and I have made things worse. Balancing his scythe across my arms, I offer a penitent bow.

His scowl flickers like a candle until a small, begrudging laugh escapes him. When I join in, he pulls a silly face and holds out his arms to let the water dribble from his ragged smock.

‘Aelwen,’ I tell him, tapping my chest.

He keeps his eyes fixed on mine until I turn and climb into his boat. I set the scythe down beside golden bundles of reeds. He seems to be asking me a question as he wades closer. I hear what might be ‘you’ and ‘pelt,’ but the rest is meaningless to me. I shake my head and hum a fragment of his song as I rearrange the reed bundles.

He comes closer still, with his head cocked and a curious smile on his full lips.

‘Aelwen,’ I say again. This time, his eyes follow the finger that I rest against my breast.

The mud begins to dry on his face, cracking and flaking away into the wind.

I match his silence with my stillness until, with a faint nod, he pulls the raggy smock over his head and carefully approaches to lay it across my arm. Then he smiles, apparently happy that I have accepted his only source of warmth.

The smock is heavy and greasy, and the smell is appalling. Sweat, smoke, blood and worse. I neither like nor need this gift, but his shy kindness is like sunlight on ice, so I suppress a shiver of disgust and put it on. My first attempt at a smile wipes the confidence from his face. I try again, showing fewer teeth.

His laugh is as beautiful as his singing. And now that he is relaxed, his features are less haggard. I sway to rock the boat as I hum his tune again.

‘Ar Lan y Môr,’ he says, climbing in to retrieve a roughly made flute. ‘By the Sea.’

‘Ah.’ I lean across to tap his chest, feeling how little coverage his bones have. He is starving.

‘Owain,’ he says softly. ‘Owain a Aelwen.’

‘Aelwen and Owain,’ I say.

As he plays, I put my hand in the water and use the currents to take us home. The witch will say that this is theft, and I will say that it is necessary. I will learn the local languages to mollify her. Owain can teach me. If she continues to complain, I will remind her that I don’t like being trapped inside ageing flesh. She will let me be then.

She isn’t home when I lead Owain stumbling through the door, though I know that she can’t be far since the air is rich with the sweet smell of a suet pudding boiling over the fire.

Owen’s knuckles turn white as he grips the flute to his chest like a protective talisman and walks on the balls of his feet, sniffing the air and avoiding our belongings. He takes a closer look at the bubbling pot, appearing reassured by its contents, then gives a yelp of fright when his eyes find my ethereal little sister.

Aibhilín, as fine and pale as a shaft of winter sunlight, has paused her listless game to follow our visitor with her cloudy blue eyes.

‘He is filthy. And smells bad,’ she says, curling her lip as I encourage Owain to sit in a chair by the fire.

‘Good thing he doesn’t speak our language,’ I laugh.

She picks up her dolls and switches through languages as she walks towards him.

Finally, she hits upon his native tongue, and I see the unease begin to leach from his shoulders. He smiles and answers her seriously, as though speaking to an adult, even as she climbs onto his knee and leans against his shoulder.

My wan-cheeked and shadow-eyed Aibhilín gazes up at him with delight before turning to tell me, ‘It startled him that I look so like his sister, Lowri. It’s a beautiful name, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ I say sadly.

I think the tears he is struggling to hold back are for his sister. I know something about that kind of pain. Aibhilín wipes his eyes with her little blanket and reverently accepts the flute that he gives her. He arranges her stubby fingers and whistles the note she should play. She matches it perfectly and smiles for the first time in weeks.

≈≈≈

The glow in my heart is extinguished by the return of reality.

I push the duvet away; even without it, the bedroom is unbearably warm. The stale air feels like soggy cotton wool in my lungs.

Harry stirs in his sleep and reaches out to put an arm across me. I slip out the side of the bed before he has time to snuggle closer.

I can’t stand to be near him after these dreams. I can barely stand to be in my own skin. The names and faces are already fading as I pull on my clothes and pen a quick note. From experience, I know that a swim is the only thing that will take away the awful feeling of claustrophobia that will grip me by the throat as soon as the dream has evaporated. It’s not quite light outside. I should be able to fit in an hour at Hampstead Heath Ponds and still make it in to work for nine-thirty.

By the time I walk onto the station platform, I have forgotten every part of the dream except the song, which plays on repeat without losing any of its pull.

≈≈≈

‘Hello. Earth to Aelwen.’ Beatrice is smiling, but her face is tight with irritation.

‘Sorry, it’s just so loud in here,’ I say as I reach over to pat her wrist with my fingertips.

She scans the buzzing Regent Street café with a frown.

Café Concerto is no busier than usual, and the tables are broken up by large-leaved plants and, near the centre, a potted blossom tree.

I can’t fault her for being annoyed; this is the second time that she’s had to call me back into the conversation. Ar Lan y Môr is still repeating in my mind. It carries flavours of love and longing, and I’m all too willing to let it drown out everything else. I blame my mum for this. She raised me on a diet of folk songs and Celtic myths, an unhelpful soundtrack for metropolitan life.

‘Come on. Show me the rings,’ I say, inwardly wincing at my own forced enthusiasm. In my defence, we’ve done this at least nine times. Beatrice has visited every high-end jeweller in London and photographed so many engagement rings that she has had to buy extra cloud storage. Also, I don’t especially like jewellery. The rock that Harry put on my finger last month was chosen by him. It catches on my clothing and makes my hand feel heavy.

Beatrice holds out her phone and flicks between diamond rings.

‘The third one,’ I say.

‘The third? This? This?’ she says, swiping faster.

‘Stop. That one.’

‘Oh, that’s not my favourite.’ She pouts as though I’ve said something deliberately hurtful.

‘Why are you asking me if you already have a favourite?’

‘It has to be right.’

‘Yes, but right for you, not me.’

She stares at the screen for a moment longer and gives a tiny nod. ‘This one.’

‘Good choice. Ask him to get one just like it for me.’ We laugh at my silly joke.

Such fun.

I feel desperate.

It’s been creeping over me for a long time. I can’t put my finger on what it is that’s wrong. I have a good career in Product Development. A successful and seriously hot fiancé. Great friends. Wonderful parents. I live in one of the best cities on earth. There is nothing missing. And yet, I feel like I exist in a world of smoke and shadow.

‘Now I’ll be able to focus on the venue search,’ Beatrice says with satisfaction.

My spirits sink even lower. I should feel excited for her, and I think I would if my Harry and her fiancé, Oscar, hadn’t decided to propose within a month of each other. I think they probably inspired one another, rather than it being a deliberate scheme. Now, every time Beatrice talks about her wedding plans, I get anxious about my own approaching date.

As we saunter back to work, the sun makes Beatrice glow. She’s a real golden girl. Hair so fine and pale that it looks like silk, worn in a smooth chignon. Tall, slim body adorned rather than wrapped in a pastel summer suit. I hold my own, but it’s not natural for me. As well as going to the gym, I swim four times a week and keep a daily tally of my calorie intake. When bumps appear, as they often do, I swim harder, eat less and work standing up at my desk.

It begins to rain as the office block comes into sight. I find it refreshing, even though it’s so light that it hardly disturbs the dust on the pavement. Beatrice speeds up, treating the sky to an angry glare. She hates the existence of hair flattening moisture. This is one thing I don’t have to worry about. My thick, coal-coloured hair is element-defying.

The office is quiet when we return, but Manager Marcus is haunting the space around my desk with a file in his hand.

‘Is there something you need, Marcus?’ I hang up my jacket and pull out my chair, ready to take a seat.

Marcus sits on the corner of my desk. I hate it when he does that. He wears beautifully cut suits, but they are always a size too small. His belt strains from the pressure of his gut, and the cloth around his thighs looks ready to burst. He prides himself on hiring only attractive and well-presented people. I suppose he believes that this is acceptable because we work close to beauty. He flirts with all of us except Beatrice, presumably because she’s too intimidating even for him, but he’s harmless.

‘Ruth is the latest to succumb.’

‘Succumb?’ For a queasy moment, I think he is telling me that he’s managed to seduce Ruth.

He arches an eyebrow as he nods. I feel sure that he has practised the expression beforehand. ‘We’re attempting to acquire a product from a difficult client. Tina didn’t make it past a telephone interview. Ruth managed to get an initial face-to-face but was then sent packing with a bag of samples.

‘Oh dear,’ I laugh. ‘Is Ruth upset?’

‘Yes, she took the rest of the week off to lick her wounds.’

‘No. Seriously?’

‘There is a massive fuss over this product. It’s groundbreaking. The company’s number one target. Unfortunately, Ms Myrtle Meeks is working her way through the team and insists that she will only discuss the sale of her miracle face cream with a woman. So, it can’t be me. The woman must also have an interest in environmentalism.’

‘I see.’ I’m struggling to take him seriously. The miracle cream of Myrtle Meeks is just too precious. ‘But surely, Ruth fits that bill better than I do.’

Marcus nods. ‘I thought the same. You and Beatrice are the only remaining options.’

‘Beatrice! The only way Beatrice leaves London is on a plane, headed directly to the season’s hippest destination.’

‘Exactly. So, it has to be you.’

‘Why haven’t I heard about any of this?’ There is not a balconette bra in hell’s chance that Beatrice would have missed such a cream. She’d know about it, already be using it and have gifted a jar to me. And it’s not like her to miss out on major new product discussions.

‘It’s hush, hush and astonishingly expensive. Purchased directly from Ms Meeks. Buyers sign a contract dictating how it is to be used. Promotion is discouraged. And it’s patented.’

He places a slim, buff coloured file on my desk and opens it to flip through page after page of celebrity photographs. ‘They all claim to use it to miraculous effect.’

‘You’re joking.’ I am delighted by the notion of major stars being hustled by an environmentalist named Myrtle. ‘And Mrs Meeks has drawn up this contract all by herself?’

‘Apparently, and it’s Ms, not Mrs, she’s very clear on that.’

‘Okay.’

He closes the file. ‘This product is critical. Either we secure it from within the team or an outside agency will be used, which would have a massive impact on team finances. A job losses level of impact.’

‘Wow.’ We never use outside agencies, and the way Marcus’ eye is twitching makes me think that I’m about to be ordered to get this done on pain of career death.

‘There is a meeting set up for tomorrow. She only agreed to it when I gave her a name. Your name.’

‘So, I don’t have a choice?’ I try not to scowl. Beatrice recently hinted that I might be getting forehead wrinkles and offered to give me the number of the woman who does her Botoxing.

‘Give Margot a list of any appointments that need to be cancelled. I want you focused exclusively on this project.’

‘For how long?’ I look past him to Margot on the other side of the open-plan office. The woman is a tiger. Only Beatrice dares to give her work that isn’t strictly in her remit as Team Administrator. She seems to adore Beatrice and hate me. But she is looking over, so I assume that Marcus has prepared the ground with her.

‘The rest of the week. And the next, just in case. Margot will give you more reading material to take with you. You will have to leave today and stay overnight.’

‘Where is Meeks based?’

Marcus pauses for dramatic effect. I hold my breath. Although I’m annoyed about being pushed around at short notice, this is the most interesting conversation that I’ve had in weeks.

‘The Forest of Dean.’ He raises and spreads his hands as though putting the name in lights. ‘Myrtle Meeks of the Forest of Dean presents her miracle cream.’

I cover my mouth as I laugh. I haven’t had my teeth whitened for ages and I am beginning to feel self-conscious about them. ‘This is a joke?’ After four years of working together, I finally find myself liking Marcus.

‘Honestly, if forecasts are even remotely accurate, this might turn out to be one of the most significant moments in your career.’

‘Where is the Forest of Dean?’

‘West, close to the border with Wales. It’s a beautiful place.’

‘You’ve visited?’

‘Never. The car hire and cabin booking have been changed to your name already.’

‘Okay. Wait, did you say cabin?’

‘Yes.’ He gets off the desk and shuffles uncomfortably. ‘All of the hotels and flats were booked up already. We had to take a log cabin in a holiday park.’

‘A what?’ I follow him as he walks away from me. ‘Is it like Butlins or Centre Parks? Is it in the woods? Am I going to be in a cabin in the woods all by myself?’ The last thought is absolutely thrilling.

‘No, no, it’s a holiday park. You won’t feel alone.’

That’s crushing.

He walks into his corner office and grips the door as he turns to face me. ‘Speak to Margot, she has all the details. Read the file. And start thinking about how you are going to sell yourself as an environmentalist.’ The door shuts.

‘What a dick,’ I mutter. It has not escaped my notice that this career-enhancing project was given to two team members before me, and that he probably would have gone to Beatrice next if there was any possibility of her toning down her city queen persona. But, in any case, I’m smiling as I switch off my computer and start thinking about what I will need to pack.