The Owl Service by Alan Garner

against the wall in the yard, and Roger climbed up while Gwyn stood on the bottom rung.
    â€œI can’t see much,” said Roger. “The glass is all cobwebs inside. There’s the door opposite – and something square, not very big, a crate, I think: and something black in a corner, but I can’t see. It’s an old junk room, that’s all – nobody inside.”
    â€œIt could be dead leaves in a draught,” said Gwyn. “There’s plenty by the door.”
    â€œWhere’ve you tried?” said Roger when they put the ladder back in the stable.
    â€œI said – all over the house, inside and out: even the kennels, and they’re full of chicken wire.”
    â€œI’m going to use up my film by that stone,” said Roger. “Coming?”
    â€œWhat about Alison?”
    â€œShe’s bound to be back for dinner in half an hour,” said Roger. “And if she’s not around the house we may find her by the river.”
    â€œBut you don’t realise,” said Gwyn.
    â€œI do,” said Roger. “I was being dim on purpose. She couldn’t have stood much more this afternoon, didn’t you see? She was dead pale.”
    â€œWhat do you think it is?” said Gwyn.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Roger. “I do know I wasn’t imagining the row in her bedroom last night. The other business, when I thought I heard that shout – it could have been too much heat, I suppose. But last night was enough for me. If you’d seen it you’d have run.”
    â€œAnd this afternoon?” said Gwyn. “On the lawn?”
    â€œFreak squall?” said Roger.
    â€œOh, man—”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œAnd the plates going blank?”
    â€œThe glaze—”
    â€œAnd smashing? And the billiard-room? And the pellet in the trap? And the owls? And flowers? And The Mabinogion? ”
    â€œThe whation?” said Roger.
    â€œThat book,” said Gwyn. “It’s called The Mabinogion :‘the clear-running spring of Celtic genius’, Dicky Nignog says. I used to think it was a load of old rope.”
    â€œDidn’t mean much to me,” said Roger. “What is it? Welsh myths?”
    â€œSort of,” said Gwyn. “I wish I’d taken more notice.”
    â€œThis is the stone,” said Roger, “and the hole goes right through it.”
    â€œAnd the meadowsweet grew all around-around-around,” said Gwyn, “and the meadowsweet grew all around. You say the hole frames the trees on the Bryn? By, it does, too!”
    â€œHow is it you knew what the stone was if you’ve not seen it before?” said Roger.
    â€œI know every cow-clap in this valley,” said Gwyn. “I know where to look for sheep after a snowstorm. I know who built the bridge to Foothill Farm. I know why Mrs May won’t go in the post office. I know how to find the slates that point the road over the mountain if you’re caught in a mist. I know where the foxes go when they’re hunted. I even know what Mrs Harvey knows! – And I came here for the first time last week! Makes you laugh, doesn’t it? My Mam hates the place, but she can’t get rid of it, see? It feels like every night of my life’s been spent listening to Mam in that back street in Aber, her going on and on about the valley. She started in the kitchen here when she was twelve. There was a full staff in them days, not just Huw trying to keep the weeds down.”
    â€œWhere’s everybody gone to?” said Roger. “Most of the houses in the valley look empty.”
    â€œWho’s going to rent to us when stuffed shirts from Birmingham pay eight quid a week so they can swank about their cottage in Wales?”
    â€œWould you want to live here?”
    â€œI ought to be in Parliament,” said Gwyn.
    He sat on the stone. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s a long way