"It says in Guto's book that it used to be suggested Owain Glyndwr had been trained in Druidic magic. Like, he was some kind of sorcerer who could alter the weather and—"
" — Call spirits from the Vasty Deep," said Bethan. "Yes. Obviously. Guto is deeply dismissive of all this. He wants Glyndwr to have been some sort of pragmatic early socialist with a deep commitment to democracy and the classless society."
"What do you think?"
"I think Glyndwr was probably fumbling in the dark like the rest of us." Bethan said, taking his arm. "You need a thicker coat, Berry, you must be freezing."
In the library they paused to glance through the morning papers. Over Ray Wheeler's story in the Mirror was the headline:
W — KERS!
GUTO BLASTS THE BOMBERS.
Bethan shook her head wryly. "The things an election campaign can do to a person. Not three weeks ago he was saying that while he deplored the methods, he could fully understand the motives of anti-English terrorism."
They went up some stairs, and Berry said to the guy in the reference section. "We're interested in aspects of Welsh folklore. The, ah—"
"Gorsedd Ddu" Bethan said.
"I don't think I've heard of that," the guy said, and Bethan assured him this was not so surprising.
They spent more than an hour bent over a table, exploring maybe twenty books. At one stage Berry went down and moved the Sprite to avoid collecting a parking ticket. When he returned, Bethan announced that she was satisfied there was nothing to be learned here.
"This mean there's nothing actually documented on the, ah… "
"Gorsedd Ddu. Probably not."
Before they left the hotel Bethan had given him a very brief history of the Welsh bardic tradition. Of the Dark Age poets, of whom the best known was Taliesyn. And how, in the nineteenth century Edward Williams, who called himself Iolo Morgannwg — Iolo of Glamorgan — had identified himself as the Last Druid in Wales and set about singlehandedly restoring the tradition. It was Iolo, an inventive antiquarian scholar not averse to forging ancient verse to prove his point, who established what was to become the National Eisteddfod of Wales — the annual gathering of poets and singers and cultural leaders honoured as "bards".
The inner circle of which was the Gorsedd—whose members appeared in white ceremonial costumes such as the Druids were believed to have worn.
"You mean it's all crap?" Berry had said, astonished. "The great Welsh bardic tradition was dreamed up by this guy, bridging a cultural gap between the nineteenth century and the Dark Ages? It's all bullshit?"
"Well, let us say, ninety per cent bullshit. But it did fulfil a need in the Welsh people to… exalt their heritage, I suppose. It gave them this annual showcase for the language and the poetry. The Welsh love to show off."
"And they conveniently forgot about the antisocial side of the Druids — like human sacrifices in the oak groves under the full moon, all that heavy ritual stuff?"
"Ah, now, some Celtic scholars say the Druids did not sacrifice people or even animals — that was just stories put about by the Romans. We only have people like Julius Caesar to rely on for concrete information about Druidism. But, yes, the organisers of the eisteddfodau have even forgotten that the Druids were pagan. It has always been a very God-fearing festival."
They collected all the books together and took them back to the man in charge of the department.
"Nothing"?" he said. "Are you sure you've got it right about this Gorsedd, er—"
"Ddu," Bethan said. "It means black. The Black Gorsedd. Yes, but don't worry, there is nothing wrong with your books."
"Oh, we do know that." he said.
They sat a while in the car with the engine running, for heat. "Where's that leave us?" Berry said.
No more snow had fallen and last night's was already being trampled into slush.
Bethan said. "They talk about the Gorsedd Ddu in some places like you talk of bogeymen, to frighten the children. Eat your greens or the black bards will get you. Or the Gwrach y rhibyn"
"What's that?"
"The Gwrach? A sort of Welsh death-hag. A monstrous woman with black teeth and leathery wings who's supposed to scare people to death and then steal away their immortal souls. She's a vengeful demon who preys on those who have sinned."
"Jeez, what a country. What do the black bards do?"
"Well, the inference is that while the white bards—"
" — as invented by this Iolo guy—"
"I wish I hadn't told you that. now. Yes, the white bards, while they are amiable pacifists, the Gorsedd Ddu are supposed to have very real magical powers. They are stern and cold and… perhaps vindictive."
"Question is." Berry said, "do they exist? This is the bottom line. And if they do, do they have any more of a solid foundation than the old guys at the eisteddfod or are we just looking at a bunch of fruitcakes?"
"And if they have—" Bethan leaned back in the ruptured bucket seat, the side windows and the screen all misted, blurred ghosts of people walking past. "If they have foundation… powers… what can we do about it anyway?"
"Magic's not illegal any more. Not even black magic."
"Killing people is."
"How can we say that? Natural causes, accidents, suicide and, OK, a murder now. But it's solved."
"Yes, it sounds silly. Utterly."
"We're saying there's a — an atmosphere, whatever, generated here. Which causes outsiders — say, people not protected by the village or by this aura of Welshness, whatever that means — either to lose the will to live, to fail in what they most want to do—"
"Like Giles failing to learn Welsh — to be a part of something he so much admired—"
"Right. Or have their negative emotions take over. Lose their normal resistance to unacceptable or downright brutal behaviour. Like ole George Hardy. Suburban solicitor beats wife to death. In short, go nuts."
"Or," Bethan said, "if we try to explain the deaths from natural causes, to get into such a state that even their bodies stop fighting."
"OK, Like the immune system breaks down or something of that order. My knowledge of these things is no more than the average hypochondriac. So they're exposed to diseases, tumours form that never would've, heart diseases worsen and, well, yeah—"
"I've always found it bitterly ironic." Bethan said, bleakly, "that Robin, who was so opposed to nuclear power, should die of a condition so often said to be induced by radiation escaping from nuclear installations." She shook her head sadly. "Radiation."
"Was he happy in Y Groes? Was it like he'd imagined?"
"He — Oh, what does it matter now…" Bethan was twisting her scarf. "The truth is we never really had much of marriage in Y Groes. Almost as soon as we moved in, he began to be tired and irritable. The stress of the move and the travelling and having to search for nuclear dump-sites — that was what he put it down to. We used to go for walks together, along the river bank, up to the woods, and he would go so far and he just became… bone-tired, you know?' She turned away, stared hard at the people-shapes passing the misted car window. "l'm going to cry."
"Let's get outta here." Berry flung the Sprite into gear, rubbing the windscreen clear, moving into a line of traffic in the one-way system out of town.