9

The sheep had gone and the gate into the meadow was -padlocked. But next to it the stile was still accessible and the footpath fingerpost remained in place. Cadi climbed over and stood just inside the hedge, half expecting to hear a shout of objection, but the field was empty. She began to walk across it, listening to the birds, as always keeping a hopeful eye open for Gemma. The brook was running deep after all the rain, the water gurgling greedily over the stones. The sun was only just up, rising out of a bank of mist, promising heat later in the day. She followed the footpath over the brook and began to climb through the wood on the far side. Towards the top the trees began to thin out and the hill flattened. This was the site of the ancient pre-Roman fort and presumably of Branwen's oppidum. An atmosphere of mystery still clung to the overgrown banks and ditches that circled the summit. She was panting as she reached the top and paused as she always did to admire the view. To the north and west there were banks of distant mountains, the Bannau Brycheiniog, to the south a stunning glimpse of the Severn Estuary, a strip of silver, bronzed by the early sunlight. She glanced up as a buzzard drifted overhead, letting out a lonely yelping cry, then she turned and looked back the way she had come, down towards Camp Meadow and she tensed. There were horses in the field. Several of them, clustered together. She could just glimpse someone holding the reins as though they were waiting for their riders. A cloud covered the sun and a dark shadow ran over the grass. When it passed the horses had gone.

Cadi's Uncle Meryn arrived later that morning. Leaving his car in the village, he called at the mill bakery to buy pastries before strolling down the road towards Sarnelen Cottage. He hesitated for several seconds outside the gate before reaching over to unlatch it and walking up the short path to the front door.

He was an elderly man, slim and wiry, with white hair, his face tanned from the Californian sun. For the last two years he had been a visiting professor at UCLA but now, as he told Cadi while they waited for the kettle to boil, he was planning to settle down for a peaceful retirement.

‘Retirement?' Cadi repeated incredulously as she reached for plates and mugs. ‘You?'

He was, she knew, quite a bit older than her father, but had always looked ten years younger.

He laughed. He had pulled a chair out to sit down at the kitchen table. ‘Point taken. I'm writing a book. But no more lecturing. I need to recharge my batteries and take my garden in hand. I've been away too long.'

He lived in a remote cottage in the Black Mountains, high on the hillside above Hay-on-Wye with a view over four counties.

He emptied the paper bag onto the plates and edged the pastries into position, wadding the bag into a ball and hurling it unerringly towards her recycling bin. ‘Right. The story. From the beginning please.'

She told him everything that had happened, including the disappearance of Gemma, then, almost as an afterthought, described her walk that morning and the fleeting glimpse of the horses in the distance in the meadow below. As she retraced her steps earlier, she had searched the place for hoofmarks or horse dung, signs of trampled turf, but all she could find was clear evidence of the sheep that had presumably been taken elsewhere the night before. There was absolutely no sign that any horse had ever set foot in the meadow.

Sipping his coffee, Meryn pulled off a piece of pastry and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as she finished her story. ‘And nothing else significant has happened? You are sure?'

She shook her head. ‘Mrs Powell in the village said she thought an excavation was carried out somewhere round here just before the war, then filled in. She thought they found bones and maybe a mosaic floor, but there seems to be no record anywhere. I checked with David and he asked his cousin Donald, the family historian, but neither had ever heard anything about it. Donald said there was no official record of any excavations.'

Meryn nodded thoughtfully. ‘The war got in the way of so much. I expect it was completely forgotten and they weren't great on keeping archaeological records in those days anyway.' He thought for a minute. ‘So, what are you working on?' He nodded towards the piles of books on her desk.

‘I've been writing stories.' She hesitated, then ploughed on. ‘Strange, almost stream-of-consciousness stories about the history, as if I'm watching it happen. It's weird. Compulsive. And I'm writing some poetry based around the stories in the Mabinogion.'

‘Ah yes, I heard about that.'

‘Who from? Not Pa?' She was astonished.

He shook his head. ‘A colleague in LA. Something of a -poetry buff with a passion for Celtic legend.'

Cadi digested that information for a second then went on, ‘I thought I might—' She broke off. ‘That is, one of the stories, "The Dream of Macsen Wledig", seems to fit the Roman vibe. I wasn't even going to use the story originally. I love the tales of Celtic gods and goddesses, and Macsen and Roman history didn't seem to work for what Rachel and I are doing, but now...' she paused, groping for the right words. ‘The story I'm writing, it's as though it wants to write itself. I can't seem to stop. It's compulsive, fascinating.' She took a deep breath. ‘It's not frightening, although in a way it should be. Elen is not -dictating the story to me. It's as if I'm ducking in and out of her life. I'm not her, but I feel as though I know her. It's as though I met her once... It must have been in a dream, I suppose. Her dream or my dream.' She shook her head. ‘I can't quite remember. For some weird reason I associate the memory with the sound of breaking glass. I don't know why. I'm not anyone in the story, but I'm seeing what's happening in real time. I'm seeing a parallel universe. Except that I know what's going to happen because in my world hers is in the past and it's already happened.'

‘Macsen is the link,' he interrupted.

She smiled. ‘Is he? That's your department. I'm not sure. Maybe it's just that I've heard soldiers. And this house is called Sarnelen Cottage. The woman in the story, the princess who became his wife, Elen, is the heroine of the story, the heroine of Macsen's Dream and so of course the heroine of my poem as well.' She stopped, thinking over what she had just said. ‘But that's all too much of a coincidence, isn't it.'

‘Why? What coincidence?' He returned her smile, his eyes twinkling. ‘No such thing as a coincidence. The link was there, ready for someone to see it. All it needed was something to set the telegraph wires trembling.'

She felt his gaze on her face and glanced up, anxious now. ‘Is that how it works? It's as easy as that?' That was what he did. Psychic stuff. Ghosts and energies. Magic and paranormal activity. And of course the technical stuff, the quantum physics behind it all that he taught at university.

He nodded slowly as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He thought for a moment then reached for his mug. ‘But, as you guessed, there had to be something there to forge the connection in the first place and that could well be the new threat to the status quo. Let me finish this, then I think you had better show me this famous meadow.'

Every time she went to the meadow now Cadi felt more and more desperate. Everyone was doing their best to find a way of saving it, but that did not stop her feeling tearful on each occasion she came and saw afresh just how much they were in danger of losing. ‘That was where Charles Ford was dowsing.' Sheglanced back at Meryn. They were standing just inside the gate. The padlock was still in place and they had had to climb over the stile. ‘He saw something that shook him so much he needed a stiff drink to get over the shock.' She watched her uncle as he strode ahead of her a few paces and stopped. He had his hands in his pockets. In his well-worn serviceable Barbour jacket he looked anything but a wizard. It was beginning to rain, a soft mist across the grass.

‘What sort of something?' he asked at last as he stopped and looked back.

‘He didn't seem very sure. He talked about reflections in a puddle.'

Meryn nodded. ‘And you mentioned flashing lights and horses. Wait here. I'm going to walk across the field.'

She stood where she was and watched as he moved slowly and steadily along the footpath towards the stream. Every now and then he stopped and looked around him. The path was barely visible now the grass had been mown, but enough -people had walked it in the past, she supposed, for it to remain as a clear track. She sighed. She was missing the cheerful bouncing little dog with her flying ears and wondered, as she always did when she came out here, what had become of her. Sally was inconsolable. There had been no more unscheduled days off as far as she knew, but her friend was obviously burying herself in her work as the summer term wore on; they walked together far less often these days, perhaps unable to bear being reminded of the terrible gap in their lives.

Meryn had almost reached the brook and was standing, gazing around. After what must have been several seconds, he set off back towards her, walking only a few metres before he stopped and moved sharply off the track. He had taken his hands out of his pockets and she saw him stretch them out in front of him as if he were patting the air. She felt a sharp tingle of excitement, tempted to move towards him. Somehow she made herself stand still. It was several long minutes before he returned to the path and headed back to where she waited for him near the gate.

‘Well?' she breathed.

He turned back to face the field, leaning with his elbow on the top bar. ‘Interesting.'

‘Do you think there is a villa here?'

He gave a slow smile. ‘I've no idea. I'm not an archaeologist.'

‘But—'

‘But,' he repeated the word quietly, ‘there are thin places in this field. Places where time is, shall we say, inconsistent.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Of course you do. You are my niece. You must have inherited some of our ancestors' gifts and talents even if your father blatantly hasn't. Think of how you feel when you go into an ancient church. There is no one else there; you can smell dust but you sense the generations who have worshipped there. Their prayers. Their hopes and fears are all anchored in the stone. When that happens in an outdoor environment, the stones, thebuildings have gone; perhaps they were never there, but the link remains, and that is largely because, in the old days, -pla-ces of worship, sacred places, were always positioned at special sites. Thin sites. Not now, of course. Most people have lost the art of the sacred. Planning committees are renowned for their lack of acuity. Even if someone raises an objection, their opinion will not be counted, probably not even noted. The -intangible doesn't exist in our current cartesian culture.' He grinned.

She came to lean against the gate beside him. ‘So, what does a thin place look like?'

‘You tell me. You've seen it.'

‘A shimmer. A trick of the light. A reflection in a puddle?'

‘Exactly that.'

‘And always in the same place?'

‘Usually. More or less.'

‘Like in Doctor Who ?'

He smiled at the thought. ‘I think it's fair to say CGI sometimes lacks subtlety, but yes, in a way, fantasy and sci-fi can often get it fairly right.'

‘It's a gate into the past. Somewhere ghosts hang around?'

‘Yes, to the first. Not necessarily, to the second. Ghosts have many different forms, origins, explanations, definitions.'

‘I saw horses. Down here. From the hilltop. And I've heard horses, in the meadow. Here. Felt the ground shake beneath their hooves. Surely, they're not ghosts?'

‘Why not?'

She gave him a sideways glance. ‘You're being serious?'

‘Isn't that why you asked me to come over? You didn't want a rational explanation?'

Their eyes met and they both smiled.

‘None of this helps, Cadi, for your hopes of an archaeo-logical breakthrough. Sadly, the mention of my name would not aid your cause and I doubt whether even the intervention of a battery of TV cameras would delay builders for more than a few weeks or perhaps at most months once they have planning permission.'

Cadi bit her lip. ‘No, you're right. But can you try again? See if you can tell what it is you're sensing.'

Pushing himself away from the gate, he nodded. ‘Follow me.'

It was exactly the same place where he had hesitated before. He held out his hands. ‘You try. Do this: imagine you're feeling for the heat from a stove. Gently, cautiously, put your whole attention into the palms of your hands. Don't try to prejudge the situation; empty your mind of thoughts and let the energy of the grasses brush your skin without going near enough for it to touch you.'

‘Oh!' Cadi jumped backwards. ‘Oh my God! I felt something!'

‘Well done. Now try again. Don't be afraid. Calm acceptance is what we're looking for.'

She gave it a try but almost immediately dropped her hands and shook her head. ‘No. I'm scared.'

‘Scared?' He sounded appalled.

‘I'm sorry. I'm obviously not a chip off the old block after all.'

He smiled. ‘Oh, I think you are. Try again.'

But it was no good. She couldn't feel it. They spent twenty minutes slowly circling the spot but, whatever it was, to her secret relief, it had gone.

Walking up the lane later to have lunch at the mill, Meryn shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don't worry about it. You've done it once, it won't be so hard next time. Sometimes we want these things so much our own heads act as a barrier to our sensitivity. And besides, I could no longer feel it either. It may be that the energies of the earth or the universe had moved on for the time being. These things can depend on so many parameters. Maybe we're just hungry!'

As they sat waiting for their food, sipping elderflower pressé, Chris stopped by their table. ‘Did you find anything?' he asked with a grin.

Cadi put down her glass. ‘Find anything?'

‘You were spotted. Dowsing, was it? Any luck?'

‘'Fraid not.' She glanced at Meryn.

‘You were in here this morning, buying pastries,' Chris went on. ‘Cadi's famous uncle, right?'

Meryn remained impassive as Cadi reached for her glass again. ‘Who told you that?'

‘Arwel was in earlier. He said he'd seen you.'

‘Do I know Arwel?' Meryn put in at last. He leaned back in his chair. ‘Why do I sense he is not a fan.'

Chris laughed. ‘You could be right.'

‘What did he say?' Cadi interrupted.

‘He was his usual snide self, but I thought I'd warn you, not everyone is against this development and for some reason he seems to be one of its backers. He told me he can prove there's nothing of interest in the meadow.'

‘How? No one seems to have seen the results of the archaeo-logical survey.'

‘I doubt if there was one.' Chris pulled out a spare chair, spun it round and, sitting astride it, leaned forward, his elbows on the hooped back. He lowered his voice. ‘I got a mate at the council to have a glance at the planning application. It's been marked for fast-track approval. And they've applied to have the footpath rerouted round the outside of the meadow. As soon as that's done, the "no trespassing" signs will go up, mark my words.'

Cadi's heart sank. ‘The sheep were gone and the gate is already padlocked,' she put in. ‘Can they really do that?'

‘I dunno.' Chris stood up and pushed his chair back into place. ‘Don't let it spoil your lunch, but just be aware that there are eyes everywhere in this village.'

He grinned as his wife Mel appeared with two plates of food. ‘ Mwynha dy fwyd, or as we also say in Wales, bon appétit, my friends,' she said with a smile.

‘So, there are lines being drawn in the sand,' Meryn commented as Mel followed her husband back through the swing doors into the kitchen.

Cadi sighed. ‘I'm not sure why. The only people to benefit, surely, are the developers.'

‘New lifeblood in the village; much-needed housing; more children in the school; nimby versus all kinds of progress, however spurious some of it is. Will there be affordable housing?'

Cadi gave a bitter smile. ‘I doubt it. I've heard so many -stories in other places of fulsome promises made, only to be forgotten later.'

‘I think you will find the council will insist,' he said reproachfully. ‘And to make themselves look good the developers will pop in a few less well designed and more tightly grouped houses and, lo and behold, the planning will be confirmed.' He tore a corner off his bread roll. ‘The trouble is, this really is your backyard. You will be affected more than anyone else.' He chewed for a moment. ‘This food is excellent. We'll go back after lunch and walk the meadow again. Our host may well be right: if the footpath is diverted, we won't be able to work there so easily.'

‘So easily?'

‘Not in daylight, anyway.' He gave her a boyish grin. ‘I'm not against development on principle. On the contrary. But I am against it being imposed on places which are special, and this meadow of yours is special. So let's go and find out exactly why.'

When they returned an hour later they found the gate wide open and a group of people standing in the centre of the -meadow.

Cadi stopped abruptly, her hand on the gatepost. ‘I don't recognise them.'

‘The enemy reconnoitring, you reckon?'

She nodded ruefully. ‘One of them has a clipboard.'

‘Let's go and see. Find out what we're dealing with. This is still a public footpath, presumably. Until it says otherwise.'

There were four men and a woman, talking earnestly together. As Cadi and Meryn approached they fell silent and looked round. ‘Can we help you?' The youngest of the men was wearing a suit. It seemed to show a measure of authority within the group. His gaze shifted from Meryn's face to Cadi and back to Meryn.

‘We're looking for a lost dog,' Cadi announced firmly.

‘We'll keep our eyes open.' Was it her imagination or did the man look relieved at the banality of her reply to his question. His attention on her at last, he gave her what he probably assumed was a reassuring smile.

‘Thank you.' She forced herself to smile back. ‘Are you the new owner of the meadow?'

‘In a manner of speaking.'

‘And what exactly does that mean?' Cadi found herself clenching her fists in her pockets.

‘It means we are doing a site inspection for the owners.' The woman stepped forward. Wearing green wellies and a fleece despite the heat of the day, she looked every bit as much in uniform as the man in the suit. She was workmanlike and calmly in control of the situation. ‘We'll look out for your dog. Please excuse us, we're busy people.'

‘And that's us dismissed,' said Cadi under her breath as the group moved purposefully off to the far side of the field.

‘And we'll go quietly,' Meryn put in gently. ‘We don't want to draw any undue attention to ourselves. Let's follow the path on down to the stream. Presumably they can't buy the woods and the fort. We'll have to check, but they will almost -certainly belong to Cadw.' Cadw was the Welsh government's organisa-tion for the protection of the historic environment. He led the way into the shadow of the woods without stopping to look back.

‘We are busy people!' Cadi mimicked the woman's voice as she followed him. ‘Who the hell does she think she is!'

‘A busy person, obviously.' Meryn stopped and turned to put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Take a deep breath. Don't waste any energy on them. There will be a lot of surveyors and people walking around here over the next few weeks and months. You'll have to get used to it. Their people and council people and archaeologists and objectors and sightseers. And ghosts.'

‘Ghosts?'

‘Of course. I told you. This is a thin place. A place where time zones collide.' He gave a happy chuckle. ‘Wonderful.'

They walked slowly on up the track to the far edge of the woodland, then paused to look down at the meadow. The five figures in the distance were walking towards the gate and out into the lane. From up here they could see the large four-by-four parked in the lay-by further up the narrow road. They watched as the group climbed in.

‘Right.' Meryn turned back down the path. ‘Let's take the chance while the field is empty. My guess is they will have left some uneasy echoes behind them, but you never know, they could be totally benign beings who have left nothing but peace and goodwill.'

‘Here!' Meryn stopped abruptly. ‘Can you feel it?'

The meadow was very still, a shimmering heat haze lying over the grass. The intense silence was emphasised by the shrill sound of grasshoppers and crickets, and somewhere high in the glare a skylark had begun to sing.

Cadi held out her hands, palm down. ‘What am I feeling for?' she whispered.

‘Empty your mind. Have no expectations. Feel the quality of the air against your skin but don't prejudge it. Be passive and at the same time receptive.' He watched her for a few moments, nodded, then turned away and walked on. ‘This path has been here for many centuries. Can you sense it?'

She shook her head. ‘I can't feel anything.'

‘You will. You already have. Relax. It's not important.' He glanced up at the sky and then looked at his watch. ‘I'm sorry, Cadi, but I can't stay much longer. There is somewhere I have to be this evening, but don't worry'– he added, observing her look of disappointment– ‘I'll come again. And I want you to keep me posted. This place intrigues me beyond measure and I intend to continue to work on this from home.' With a grin he tapped the side of his nose. ‘If there is a villa here, we are going to find it. There is a leaky space-time continuum in this meadow, and it will lead us to the right place.'

It was as he climbed back into his car half an hour later that he looked up at her again. ‘From what you've told me, your poem is already telling the story. And your story is dictating the poem. You and your Elen have some kind of a link. Follow the flow of your pen, Cadi. Trust the inspiration. The channel is open and you are the conduit. All you have to do is listen. I caught the echo of a quarrel in that meadow. It's part of the story. Or maybe it's where the story starts. All you have to do is read your own narrative.'