something that might, with a little cooking, actually be fit to eat. When I am content with the results I jerk my head in the direction of the table and the wooden spoon obediently flies out of the pot and comes to rest next to the chopping board. I find a lid that fits snugly and drop it over the cawl . From beneath it comes a promising bubbling noise. I can see no value in my sitting to watch the thing, and in any case, the room is oppressively hot with the fire glowing on such a warm day, so I go outside.
I scan the high horizon for sign of Cai, or perhaps a glimpse of darting orange that might be one of the corgis. There is nothing. I wander to the back of the house to investigate the yard of barns and stables. They are all constructed of the same cool stone as the house, with steeply sloping roofs of slate to withstand the copious rain of a Welsh winter. I am on the point of entering the tall hay barn when the sound of running water diverts me. I find, a little to the left of the yard, set into a steep bank that climbs up to the higher meadows, a well. There is a low stone wall to the front of it, into which has been placed a trough for the animals. This in itself is not remarkable, but beside it a further circle of stonework separates another deep pool. This has been designed so that livestock cannot reach it, and is set back beneath a curving ceiling of stone, like the entrance to a cave. Mosses of surprising brightness and delicate, feathery ferns grow among the slabs and rocks. At the uppermost point, water, quick and glittering in the morning sunshine, cascades down into the pool. The combination of shade, depth of water, the color of the stones, and some unknown element make the surface appear to be the most beautiful blue. Ah! It comes to me this is what gives the house its name, for Ffynnon Las means “blue well.” There is no visible outlet from either pool or trough, so the water must run on underground, presumably down to the pond in the meadow below. Leaning forward I cup my hand beneath the spout. The water is icy cold, having come straight from the heart of the hill, as yet unwarmed by summer air or sunlight. It tastes good. Slightly peaty, but exquisitely fresh and reviving. At the very top of the well ceiling there is a broad, flat piece of masonry with something carved into it. It is old and worn, but I am able to make out the faint remnant of two letters, though which they are I cannot be sure. There is something about this well, something beyond the freshness of the bubbling spring water and the prettiness of the plants. I sense, no, more than this, I would swear I can hear something more. It is as if the well sings to me, a high, clear note, ringing through the warmth of the day, laying its sound sweetly upon my ears.
I reach down into the pool and soak my arms, the chill of the water numbing the stinging cut on my finger. For a second I see a drop of blood swirl among the eddies before being diluted to nothing, and then the iciness works on my body to stop the flow. When I take out my hand and examine it the cut is almost invisible. Almost as if it never was.
* * *
Cai does not need to take his father’s watch out of his waistcoat pocket to know that it is already past noon. The ponies were at the far point of the high grazing, and finding them took him longer than he had anticipated. The herd was in fine fettle, coats gleaming, foals playful and growing well. The minute he was among them he was sorry he had not taken Morgana. He is certain she will share his love of these fiery little horses. Now, as he urges the old ginger mare down the steep slope to home, he feels he may have been too harsh on the girl. He cannot imagine why she was so hostile toward Isolda, but then, there are many things he has yet to understand about her. It could be she felt at a disadvantage, sitting there in her nightgown. Even if she did look enchanting. Perhaps she had not slept well—it was her first
I scan the high horizon for sign of Cai, or perhaps a glimpse of darting orange that might be one of the corgis. There is nothing. I wander to the back of the house to investigate the yard of barns and stables. They are all constructed of the same cool stone as the house, with steeply sloping roofs of slate to withstand the copious rain of a Welsh winter. I am on the point of entering the tall hay barn when the sound of running water diverts me. I find, a little to the left of the yard, set into a steep bank that climbs up to the higher meadows, a well. There is a low stone wall to the front of it, into which has been placed a trough for the animals. This in itself is not remarkable, but beside it a further circle of stonework separates another deep pool. This has been designed so that livestock cannot reach it, and is set back beneath a curving ceiling of stone, like the entrance to a cave. Mosses of surprising brightness and delicate, feathery ferns grow among the slabs and rocks. At the uppermost point, water, quick and glittering in the morning sunshine, cascades down into the pool. The combination of shade, depth of water, the color of the stones, and some unknown element make the surface appear to be the most beautiful blue. Ah! It comes to me this is what gives the house its name, for Ffynnon Las means “blue well.” There is no visible outlet from either pool or trough, so the water must run on underground, presumably down to the pond in the meadow below. Leaning forward I cup my hand beneath the spout. The water is icy cold, having come straight from the heart of the hill, as yet unwarmed by summer air or sunlight. It tastes good. Slightly peaty, but exquisitely fresh and reviving. At the very top of the well ceiling there is a broad, flat piece of masonry with something carved into it. It is old and worn, but I am able to make out the faint remnant of two letters, though which they are I cannot be sure. There is something about this well, something beyond the freshness of the bubbling spring water and the prettiness of the plants. I sense, no, more than this, I would swear I can hear something more. It is as if the well sings to me, a high, clear note, ringing through the warmth of the day, laying its sound sweetly upon my ears.
I reach down into the pool and soak my arms, the chill of the water numbing the stinging cut on my finger. For a second I see a drop of blood swirl among the eddies before being diluted to nothing, and then the iciness works on my body to stop the flow. When I take out my hand and examine it the cut is almost invisible. Almost as if it never was.
* * *
Cai does not need to take his father’s watch out of his waistcoat pocket to know that it is already past noon. The ponies were at the far point of the high grazing, and finding them took him longer than he had anticipated. The herd was in fine fettle, coats gleaming, foals playful and growing well. The minute he was among them he was sorry he had not taken Morgana. He is certain she will share his love of these fiery little horses. Now, as he urges the old ginger mare down the steep slope to home, he feels he may have been too harsh on the girl. He cannot imagine why she was so hostile toward Isolda, but then, there are many things he has yet to understand about her. It could be she felt at a disadvantage, sitting there in her nightgown. Even if she did look enchanting. Perhaps she had not slept well—it was her first
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