Hiraeth by Liz Riley Jones

Author:Liz Riley Jones [Jones, Liz Riley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781784627768
Publisher: Matador
Published: 2014-12-08T05:00:00+00:00

17

Ingrid

The crew sat in a broad ring around the fire, their thoughts on Emlyn. Cai felt Dafydd’s pain – they were as close as brothers could be. His own memories were sharp and clear: a skinny kid hanging on the coat-tails and words of his young uncles. Emlyn and Dafydd were cruel in the tradition of older boys, but he had still worshipped them as gods.

That autumn fifteen years ago was marked indelibly on the minds of the community. Cai could remember vividly the endless screaming and sobbing from the dungeon. Sneaking down to see if he could help, he’d found Dafydd staring helplessly through the bars at a broken Emlyn, curled in on himself in his grief. Cai had watched Emlyn piece himself back together, only to be shattered again at seventeen. Cai had been just eleven when Ingrid died, but he knew Emlyn would never be the same again.

And later, warm memories of their days at Swnt. He and Emlyn, lying in the hot summer sun, while Sioned and Arwel attacked their slumber with buckets of water until the chase was on and the babies were tickled mercilessly to the ground. Screaming with hysterical joy, they were chased again and again into the sea, with Mam and Dad laughing in the background. And all around them, the sounds of happy music from the portable radio.

Cai remembered Arwel lying asleep in Emlyn’s arms by the firelight at the end of the day, his uncle gently kissing the bright white hair. It had been Cai’s last good summer. After his parents’ death, nothing had ever been the same, and Emlyn changed again. When they moved back to the Conway, it had been together. Emlyn became more than a big brother; he became more than an uncle. Emlyn had taught Cai never to give his heart away, and he had been a model pupil.

*

The Druid community at Douglas on the Isle of Man, had let them carry out their passing rites for Emlyn. He had been burnt and the people of the island had sung for him, but the song wasn’t in their souls.

For the men and women of Ynys Môn, their lives had been marked and measured by song. It was as constant as food or drink. Not everyone in their community had a good voice, but many did, and even those who didn’t could hold a tune. It was inevitable that their voices lifted in song to their fallen leader, as they drank the pain away with donated rum.

Each warrior knew instinctively when to join in and when to leave the singing to a solo performer. The folk songs of the sea and the fields turned to songs of love and longing. Cai coughed, expressing his desire to sing.

He knew now what he had to sing for his uncle, the mixed language of the verse as apt as the sentiment. His voice was not pure and powerful like Alun’s, but it had a husky quality, which enhanced the solemn intimacy of the fireside vigil.

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