NO FURTHER THAN THE DANCING STONES

NO FURTHER THAN THE DANCING STONES

"YA-HOO!" hollered Tom, pounding across the orchard, "I'm back!"

Excitement boiled and bubbled along his veins. His ears glowed. His
toes wriggled. Before him stretched the fields, the mountains, the
castle - and a whole month of freedom on his grandparents' farm.

He leapt onto the stile, rocking it so violently that the step cracked,
splinters flew, the barbed wire sang. The ragged sheep chin-wagging
beneath the hedge scattered in panic, churning up clouds of brick-red
dust.

"Steady on there," grumbled his grand-dad, keeping one hand on Fly's
collar as the dog danced on his hindlegs yipping with impatience.
"Carry on like that and you'll have the you-know-who coming to see what
the matter is."

"Who's the you-know-who, Grand-dad?"

"Why the Tylwyth Teg, of course. The Fair Family."

"Oh, fairies," said Tom contemptuously, thinking of daft little bits of
things with wings and wands, and flowers stuck on their heads.

"Shhhh! Never say that name." The old man hastily crossed his fingers
and changed the subject. "What's that you've got there?"

Tom teetered on the topmost step, twirling the feather between his
fingers and watching it change colour in the sunlight: bottle green,
navy, purple, then sooty black again.

"Jackdaw's feather," said Grand-dad, "Stick it in the ground and make a
wish."

Tom hesitated. This was no ordinary feather. But there was something he
wanted very badly indeed. If any feather could work magic, this one
would. He jumped down and poked its chalky white point into the earth.
Screwing up his eyes, he made the wish.

"Now don't be too long up there," said the old man, "Do you hear?
There's a rare old storm brewing. Just look at that sky."

He jabbed his finger towards the castle ruins. Above the humps and
bumps of grassed-over walls the sky glowered a sullen dirty-yellow.
Pitch black thunder clouds were already billowing in from the
west.

"I won't," cried Tom, "I'm not going to the castle. Only as far as the
Dancing stones. Come on, Fly!"

The sheepdog lunged forward, scrabbling its way frantically through the
stile and shot off up the hillside.

"Dancing Stones, is it? Well, Fly will go so far, but no further," said
Grand-dad, "Better turn back when he does."

Tom was still trying to work out what this meant as he scrambled up the
narrow sheep track.

Away from the trees it was unbearably hot.

Nothing moved, except for a single buzzard circling lazy threats far
above.

There'd been no rain for weeks. Great cracks had opened in the baked
earth, making some of the fields look like giant jig-saws.

From halfway up the steep slope the farm looked like a black-and-white
doll's house.

Tom knew that the Porth Farmhouse was very old indeed. The innermost
kernel was said to have been the castle gate-house in the days of the
Marcher Barons. Nan had told him that 'Porth' meant 'a gateway'.

When they reached the final banl Fly refused to come any further. He
stood whimpering and whining, with his head down and his tail tucked
under.

"What's the matter? Come on, boy! Come on." Tom slapped his leg and
tried to whistle, but his lips were too dry.

Fly ran a little way down the path, then doubled back, barking
suggestively.

"Some on!" roared Tom, hot and cross with everything, "I'm not going
back yet. Right. Go home then. See if I care."

Tom felt unbearably lonely as As Fly turned tail and slunk guiltily
away. He'd have a quick look round, he decided. Then he'd go back and
help Gran pick beans. Or something. Angling himself carefully, he
rolled down the bank into the shallow hollow where the Dancing Stones
stood.

Seven column remained, unevenly spaced as if there had once been many
more. They leaned this way and that like crooked teeth and were all
splotched with gritty orange lichen. Tom flopped down in the shadow of
the biggest one. Straightaway he could see that someone else had been
here. Another large feather, this one pure white, was stuck firmly into
the ground.

It was hotter than ever now...

Gradually the air grew thicker and heavier. Breathing became hard work.
It would be easy to fall asleep, Tom thought, listening to the drowsy
crooning of the wood pigeons. A fat bee bumbled past, hardly clearing
the ground. Grasshoppers zithered in the dry grass.

His eyes slowly closed.

Then, without warning, the atmosphere changed.

Somewhere a blackbird clacked out a frantic alarm. Its call was
abruptly cut short. Into the eerie silence wandered a thin, chill
breeze, sneaking out of nowhere to ripple the grass like a pale
sea.

By now Tom was shivering. Slowly he got to his feet.

The shimmering heat haze had become a dense white mist boiling and
bubbling up the hillside. Already it had swallowed the outside world.
Soon it was fingering the edge of the stone circle.

It was definitely time to go. And yet... And yet, everything seemed to
be holding its breath. Something was going to happen.

"It worked! It worked!" cried a shrill voice behind him.

Tom whirled and saw a fair-headed, skinny boy grinning at him. Only
another boy. Tom breathed a long sigh of relief. For a moment he had
been scared stiff, not knowing who or what would be standing
there.

"I wished for company, and you came," said the stranger. His grin was
catching. Tom grinned back.

"Did you wish on that feather?"

The boy nodded.

"Just like me. I'm Tom. Who are you?"

"Gwynn ap Gwynn ap Nudd," said the boy very grandly, "Call me Gwynn.
You're not from round here. I'd remember your hair."

Oh, well. Tom braced himself and waited for the rest of it. He was used
to the names and the jokes. Carrots. Ginger. Rusty. Red. Fatty. Tubby.
He eyes the other boy carefully. If it came to name-calling, Gwynn was
so boney and pale that the odds might be about even today. His clothes
were a bit strange, too. Looked as if he was wearing his sister's
leggings.

To his relief, Gwynn didn't bother. He threw himself onto the grass.
Tom dropped beside him.

"Well, where are you from?" Gwynn persisted.

"Bristol."

"Briztol? Where's that?" Gwynn sounded genuinely puzzled.

Tom was suddenly terribly embarrassed for him. Fancy not having heard
of Bristol. Was that why Mum said the Welsh Marches were backward? He
made a vague gesture towards the east.

"But I'm staying here for a whole month," he added quickly, pointing in
the direction of the farm, "Down there."

"But there's nothing down there. You mean in the village?"

"Not exactly," Tom said, confused now, "But near."

It was soon obvious that something else was bothering Gwynn.

"I want to ask you something," he said, "Promise not to laugh?"

"Promise."

After a few false starts, Gwynn mumbled: "What d'you think about, um,
fairies? I mean, do you believe in them?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't. Not really. But my Grand-dad does. He calls
them the Fair Family."

"And I do. Long ago everyone knew they existed, because they came and
went and we could pass into their world too. Tom, we need their magic.
There's no other way to save our world. I'm going on a quest to find
them before it's too late. Will you help me?"

"OK. A Green Quest. Why not? It sounded like a good game."

"Right." Gwynn looked relieved. "Any suggestions? I started here
because they used to dance round these stones centuries ago. There's
nothing here now. Where next?"

"No idea."

"Then let's try the Gate Tump. They're supposed to have been seen
there."

Gwynn sprang to his feet and skipped out of the circle. Tom plodded
after him.

The mist had disappeared, leaving the countryside greener and brighter
than he remembered. And there seemed to be many more trees.

As soon as he was outside the circle Tom began to feel very strange
indeed. He couldn't think. He could hardly move. The air resisted evry
step, pushing him back towards the stones as though he didn't belong
outside them.

Everything s-l-o-w-e-d right down...

"Hurry up!" yelled Gwynn, leaping up the hillside.

"I'm trying." Tom floundered on, wading through invisible treacle.
Below him a group of small houses encircled the hill. He rubbed his
eyes. They shouldn't be there.

"We must be on the other side of the castle," he muttered. He looked up
at the sun. No, that couldn't be right. The sun was still only just
dipping towards the west. And where was the castle, anyway?

"Where are we?" Tom asked, confused. His voice seemed to come from very
far away.

"Shhhhh! Down here," hissed Gwynn, slipping between two crumbling
buildings, "I'm supposed to be doing something else."

"Gwynn, is that you?" called a woman's voice. A slim figure emerged
from a doorway, shielding her eyes against the sun.

"Is that your mother?" asked Tom, briefly aware of the same moonshadow
hair.

"One of them."

"You can't have..."

"Different in Briztol, is it? Well then, you've no idea what it's like
being the Last Child. Never any peace. Never a minute to yourself. Come
on. Quick. Through here."

Gwynn caught hold of Tom's arm and for a few minutes he was able to
move freely. They raced past clusters of small houses. Most were empty
and falling into ruins. There was a deserted, ghostly feeling about the
whole place. The woman's voice followed them as they galloped down
shallow steps, squeezed along a narrow passage and emerged on the lower
slopes of the hillside.

A white dog ran forward, then stopped dead. Its hackles rose. Baring
its teeth, it began snapping and snarling at the air.

"What's the matter with him?" wondered Gwynn.

"Perhaps it's me. I feel really peculiar." Great waves boomed inside
Tom's ears. A massive clenched fist battered against his
rib-cage.

"You look all right to me," said Gwynn, peering at Tom's chalk-white
face, "Still, I'd better take you home. Down there, you said?"

Tom nodded weakly.

Gwynn guided him down the hillside. In front of them stretched a long
plain of velvety grass crossed by a stream. Beyond that lay thick dark
forest marching away over the horizon. Just before the tress, a single
green mound stuck up like a pimple.

"No!" Tom stopped, hopelessly confused. If only he could think.

"What's the matter now?"

"Not down there. Something's wrong. It doesn't look right."

As Tom struggled to remember, he plunged his hands deep into pockets.
He felt something cool and smooth and round. Slowly he pulled out a
rosy Worcester apple from the tree by the stile.

That was it... there should be an orchard. Where was it? And where was
the Porth Farmhouse?

His stomach gave a nasty sick lurch. The Gate Tump? What was it that
Nan had said Porth meant?

"The Gate..." whipered Tom.

"There. Right in front of your nose," said Gwynn, pointing to the tump,
"Something the matter with your eyes?"

Tom made himself take a small bite of the apple. It was sour. Still
slightly unripe. But his head cleared immediately.

Now there were two things that Tom had sworn never to criticize anyone
about.

The first was their size, because he himself was, not quite fat, but
what kinder people called 'well-covered'. But now he forced himself to
look at Gwynn in a new light, noting the extreme thin pointedy-ness of
him. Ears, eyes fingers, everything was pointed. Even his smile was a
perfect 'V'.

The second thing was their colouring, on account of his own pale skin
and sandy mop. Gwynn had practically no colour at all. His hair was
spun silver. His eyes were the no-colour of winter rain.

"Gwynn," he asked slowly, "What do you think fairies look like?"

"Coloured," Gwynn instantly replied, "Everything about them is bright -
hair, skin, eyes, clothes, everything. It's their magic does that. And
they're round and stubby and pot-bellied and hairy. And you? What do
you think?"

But before Tom had a chance to answer, Gwynn stopped dead. "Look! LOOK!
There they are."

A misty tableau was unfolding in front of the tump. Bit by bit, two
figures emerged. Buildings began to take shape.

Tom laughed. He went on nibbling the apple and the images sharpened.
There were his granparents gathering vegetables. Baskets of stick beans
littered the path, along with bunched carrots and beetroots.

"Big, aren't they?" Gwynn was rubbing his hands together with
excitement. "Much bigger than I expected. See what I mean about the
colour?" He pointed to Nan's flowery dress and brilliant red
hair.

"Gwynn, listen..."

"Careful now. Don't frighten them away."

""GWYNN! They aren't fairies. They're my grandparents."

Gwynn turned slowly round, his eyes huge in the thin, pale face. "Yiur
people?" he whispered, "You belong here? Then you must be... Why didn't
you say? Oh!" A sudden thought seemed to strike him. "So what do you
think fairies look like, Tom?"

Tom sighed. "Like you."

Gwynn's mouth dropped open. Tom could se that he was fading fast.

"But we're both real," he whispered, then more urgently, "Tom - I can
hardly see you. Come back to the stone circle with me. Quick! It's the
only place where we can both be..."

A flicker of white leapt towards the hillside. Tom raced after
it.

"Gwynn," he called, Gwynn, where are you?"

There was no answer. Stumbling back to the Dancing Stones, he called
again. His voice was lostin the rising storm. Within minutes the sky
had darkened. Lightning crackled over the Black Mountains. Thunder
rolled steadily closer. Great fat rain drops began to splat against the
hot earth.

The sky opened. Plodding miserably back in the pouring rain, Tom made
himself finish every bit of the apple. Even the core.

In the garden Nan was scrambling in the dry washing whilst Grand-dad
carefully put the tools away. Everything seemed perfectly normal.

Every last trace of the Other Place had disappeared. But he'd been
there. He hadn't imagined it.

There was a lot to think about. And he still couldn't make up his
mind.

Which was the Real Worls after all?

His own?

Or the dying green world of Gwynn ap Gwynn ap Nudd.