The Grey King by Susan Cooper Page B

was bound to come, soon, from somewhere. They had their prophecies, as did the Light. The barriers had gone up, and were growing stronger every day. Will felt suddenly how strange it was for him to be the invader; for the Light to be advancing against the Dark. Always before, through all the centuries, it had been the other way round, with the powers of the Dark sweeping in fearsome recurrent attack over the land of men protected in gentleness by the Light. Always the Light had been the defenders of men, champions of all that the Dark came to overturn. Now, an Old One must deliberately reverse the long habit of mind; now he must find the thrust of attack, instead of the resolute sturdy defence which for so long had kept the Dark at bay.
    But of course, he thought, this attack itself is a small part of a defence, to build resistance for that other last and most dreadful time when the Dark will come rising again. It is a quest, to awaken the last allies of the Light. And there is very little time.
    Bran said suddenly, uncannily echoing the last thread of his thought, “Hallowe’en, tonight.”
    â€œYes,” Will said.
    Before he could say more, they were at the door of the cottage; it was half-open, a low heavy door set in the stone wall. At Bran’s footstep the dog Cafall came bounding out, a small white whirlwind, leaping and whining with pleasure, licking his hand. It was noticeable that he did not bark. From inside, a man’s voice called, “Bran?” and began speaking in Welsh. Then as Will followed Bran through the door, the man speaking, standing shirtsleeved at a table, turned in mid-sentence and caught sight of him. He broke off at once and said formally, “I beg your pardon.”
    â€œThis is Will,” Bran said, tossing his bag of books on the table. “Mr. Evans’s nephew.”
    â€œYes. I thought perhaps it was. How do you do, young man?” Bran’sfather came forward, holding out his hand; his gaze was direct and his handshake firm, though Will had an immediate curious feeling that the real man was not there behind the eyes. “I am Owen Davies. I have been hearing about you.”
    â€œHow d’you do, Mr. Davies,” said Will. He was trying not to look surprised. Whatever he had expected in Bran’s father, it was not this: a man so completely ordinary and unremarkable, whom you could pass on the street without noticing he had been there. Someone as odd as Bran should have had an odd father. But Owen Davies was all medium and average: average height, medium-brown hair in a medium quantity; a pleasant, ordinary face, with a slightly pointed nose and thin lips; an average voice, neither deep nor high, with the same precise enunciation that Will was beginning to learn belonged to all North Welshmen. His clothes were ordinary, the same shirt and trousers and boots that would be worn by anyone else on a farm. Even the dog that stood at his side, quietly watching them all, was a standard Welsh sheepdog, black-backed, white-chested, black-tailed, unremarkable. Not like Cafall: just as Bran’s father was not at all like Bran.
    â€œThere is tea in the pot, Bran, if you would both like a cup,” Mr. Davies said. “I have had mine, I am off over to the big pasture. And I shall be going out tonight, there is a chapel meeting. Mrs. Evans will give you your supper.”
    â€œThat’s good,” Will said cheerfully. “He can help me with my homework.”
    â€œHomework?” said Bran.
    â€œOh, yes. This isn’t just a holiday for me, you know. They gave me all kinds of work from school, so I shouldn’t get behind. Algebra, today. And history.”
    â€œThat will be very good,” Mr. Davies said earnestly, pulling on his waistcoat, “so long as Bran takes care to do his own work as well. Of course, I know he will do that. Well, it is nice to meet you, Will. See you later, Bran. Cafall can stay.”
    And he went