Nelan a Bo

NELAN AND BO

(Intro & chapters 1, 2 and 5)

translated by Angharad Price

Not everyone could say they lived in God’s house, but I do. This is where I grew up and this is where I’ll stay as long as the For Sale sign hangs and the building is listed.

As the crow flies, says the old word. But how much stronger and more dignified is the flight of a raven! And there is nothing I like better at the end of a day’s hovering over the island of Môn, than to turn my beak homewards and fly over the Menai Straits, the breeze of the Irish Sea beneath my wings, the mountains of Eryri my horizon.

And there it is, the old chapel, rising square and proud from the copper-coloured moorland, the village to which it gave its name spreading root-like all around it. The place is falling to pieces. And it is for that reason that a feathered creature like me can fly in and out through the cracks in the windows and make my nest among the gallery pews.

This is Bethel, House of God. Yet in local speech it is known under a girl’s name. Why that is, people barely remember. But I know. Were not my ancestors witnesses? The raven’s memory is a long-lived thing.

But no one seems to care any more about the history of this old place.

Let me just say this: this chapel, as all else under the sun, did grow and not merely appear. As the serpent and the sycamore say, we were all of us planted. And if we spoke the same language, you and I, I would tell you this chapel’s story. Like some black-clad old preacher, I would mediate the moor’s eternal news.

As it stands, however, there is nothing for you to do but to imagine the words in my gurgling and croaking, in the pointy movements of my beak and in my wings’ rustling, which are as dark and prismatic as the damp, peaty earth of Rhos Chwilog.

Chapter 1 (1799)

Bo doesn’t go to Michaelmas Fair

The smell of fruit filled the sky. Bo thought that if he took a bite from the air, it would taste of apple. Autumn was coming.

He hurried across the field and filled the bucket with the stream’s bright water. Cupping his hands, he lapped up the water to quench his thirst before turning back to the house, his arms trembling under the bucket’s weight, his limping gait creating waves on the water’s surface. By the time he reached the house there was only three-quarters of a bucketful left. That would have to do for today.

For a moment he was blinded by the dark interior, but his feet knew each bump and dip in the slate floor and so he walked on regardless. The iron trough stood ready by the fire. Bo’s arms shook in relief as he emptied the bucket’s contents into the trough, listening to the cold water chime against the metal. He gave a shudder. There was no heat coming off the fire, just a stream of ill-tempered, blue smoke rising up through the potato skins his mother had piled on before leaving earlier.

Boas felt guilty. He had lied to his mother for the first time ever and suspected the angry smoke knew of his deceit and was admonishing him for it. The more he thought about it, the more his guilt got worse, burning, burning in two hard spots on his cheeks as he recalled the dismay in her voice when she said:

‘Something or someone’s upset your stomach. Never mind, these things happen I suppose. We’ll just have to manage without you this year.’

He saw Twm and Isaac’s eyes widen in disappointment, his mother lifting her finger to warn the little ones:

‘You two behave yourselves today, d’you hear? There’s just Megan to keep an eye on you now; I have enough on my plate as it is.’

Then she’d paused a little and placed her hand on Bo’s head:

‘You rest now ’til we come back this evening. Michaelmas Fair will soon come round again. You’ll feel better tomorrow.’

She’d assumed he was sad. Sad, despondent and ill. But it wasn’t sadness that grieved Bo. It was his guilty conscience. He nearly buried his face to hide his mortification.

And now, thinking of them heading out in one big, noisy congregation towards town, along with all the rest of Rhos Chwilog folk, and his mother having to cope with everything by herself in his absence, Bo experienced some mixed emotions. He felt guilty – but also not. He hadn’t lied out of mischief, nor waywardness, nor disobedience. On the contrary, he’d sacrificed. Michaelmas Fair was the highlight of the year. It was full of good things like toffee apples and hoop-la and swings and a carousel and women with petticoats and men pissing shamelessly on street corners and sailors punching each other on the quayside until the blood streamed out. Not to mention all the geese honking...

And yet, despite all this, Bo had chosen not to go. Instead, he’d made himself sick so he could stay at home. With his friend, Nelan. He was going to enjoy her company the whole day long – on the day of her tenth birthday. She who never got to go anywhere.

Yes, he’d sacrificed alright! He’d made himself sick on purpose. Ugh, how he’d sweated and vomited all night long, watching those frightening creatures coming up towards him in the dark, filling the space around him. One huge yellow eye, he recalled with a shudder, growing and growing as it gorged itself upon him. Wide open mouths with razor-sharp teeth chattering, chattering. Awful things like that. All he’d done was swallow a handful of unripe blackberries to give himself bellyache, but afterwards, absolutely everything had hurt him. His head, stomach, bottom, every little bit of him had hurt all the way down to his big toe. At one point he’d started weeping as his mother held him. He nearly confessed the whole thing.

But as dawn broke and the light of day slowly lit the cottage walls, his pains had subsided. The gnawing in his insides had calmed. His fever burned cooler. Even those monsters finally went away. And though he still felt queasy, his head aching from how little he’d slept, he felt sure he was on the mend and that he’d soon be fine for playing. He needed to scrub himself clean, that was all. Before going to see Nelan, he needed to wash the weakness out of his constitution.

He stared with apprehension at the sheet of icy water at the bottom of the trough. Was he man enough to step inside it? He mulled it over. Then, straightening his lips, hurling the filthy nightshirt away from his shivering body, he raised his leg clear of the rim, and took the plunge, placing his foot in the liquid ice-sheet. As the water gripped his ankles he nearly cried out loud. But still, he forced himself downwards, landing hard on his buttocks on the metal base, gasping as the chill burned his tender parts, making his eyes water. Back and forth he shook in the trough, clasping his knees until at last, he could bear to stretch out his arm for the flannel. He soaped it. And after a moment or two he started scrubbing.

By the time he stepped out of the bath he was bright as a shilling. He stood on the kitchen floor, teeth chattering, and rubbed himself dry with the coarse towel until his skin tingled all over. He pulled on his best sabbath shirt and clean breeches, and by then he was good as new. Even the fire seemed pleased with his transformation and was gasping quietly through the pile of starchy potato. Bo took no notice of it. Who needed a fire anyway?

And now that he was clean and free from the frailty of the night, the day’s excitement took hold of him, and he began to relish the time he’d spend with Nelan. Nobody left in Rhos Chwilog to disturb them. Nobody to stick their noses in or tell them off. Just him, Nelan – and the heath in all its glory.

So he hurried along, hiding his tracks from his mother who saw everything, wiping away the wet marks on the floor and hanging the towel on the peg to dry. He flung open the cottage door, and, with all the strength of his convalescent body, he carried the iron trough through to the back yard and with one mighty heave threw its filthy contents over the hedgerow. He watched it drip there branch to branch. There was no sign of illness in the crystal rain.

Back in the kitchen he pinched his nose between finger and thumb and downed the physic, a slimy concoction of egg white and salt prepared by his mother. It slithered down, slow and yukky; it was all he could do not to gag. Wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand, took one last look around the house before moving to the last part of his arrangements. Rolling up his shirt sleeve, he gently pushed his hand into the flour bin, fumbling there for a while until at last he touched the smooth, hard surface of the apple. He closed his fingers around the fruit and pulled it out, tapping it lightly on the rim of the small chest to rid it of the excess flour. He went and stood on the doorstep and polished the apple against his shirt before pausing to admire it. Oh, it had been worth every second of his venture, sneaking as he did into Mr. Ellis’s orchard while the curate was having a smoke of his pipe, squirrelling up the tree, not feeling his limp at all, and then cupping his hand around the apple, feeling it giving. A quick flick of the wrist: that was all. The beautiful fruit fell direct into his hands, all rounded and blushing. Nelan’s perfect birthday present.

And now he imagined her biting into the flesh, tasting its juicy sweetness. She’d try to thank him with her mouth full. Then she’d break into laughter.

No, no, of course he didn’t feel guilty for stealing for her. She got so little. Nelan deserved something good on her very special day. And anyway, the curate had a glut of apples.

The need to see her overcame Bo now. He should hurry along. For she might get tired of waiting. She might wander off, like she did sometimes, her head in the clouds or heaven.

But – just once more – he brought the lovely apple to his lips and felt it. Its skin smelled just like the air around him. Bo smiled. The time of the year was behind them.

And so, without further ado, he slipped the apple into the pocket of his breeches and set off across the heath to meet his sweetheart.

Chapter 2

Nelan spoils the Den

A long and thunderous fart from her father’s rump was what woke her. It was nothing new. Harri must have woken himself at the same time. She listened to him moaning. In a while he rolled his body off the bracken bed and landing face downwards on the cottage floor. She heard him muttering some cusses. Nelan shut her eyes in case he saw the white bits.

She listened as he moved away. Reckoning he was halfway across the floor she ventured to open her eyes again. A thin slant of light cut in through the roof and she watched him crawling, his hand waving in front of his face like the whip of a woodlouse. He grappled with the gloom and finally struck his treasure. He gave the wooden clog a shake, and Nelan heard the tinkle of coinage. It was the money Nain had saved for the Michaelmas goose flesh.

Satisfied, Harri continued, pushing his clogs before him across the filthy earthen floor, throwing terrified glances at where his mother lay sleeping. Quietly snoring, her greasy, furrowed brow shone like the surface of a lake in the moonlit darkness.

Finally, he reached the rushen ropes which hung across the doorway. Nelan watched her father cast a final fearful look over his shoulder before slithering through the ropes as noiseless as a grass snake. Oh, the relief of seeing the back of him!

With the trace of his body still denting the bracken, his wind still souring the air, Nelan prepared her departure. Main thing was not to wake Nain. She started off on tiptoe, keeping a sharp eye for any sign of movement. The craggy silhouette under its cloth of sack lay peaceful, though her grandma’s mouth was suddenly open. It seemed a dream had taken her unawares and she seemed shocked or frightened. Nelan felt a pang. Poor Nain! She was fine when she was sleeping.

Her pinafore lay in a dirty heap by the door and she grabbed it without further ado, heading out through the rush curtain into the morning bright. She stretched her arms wide and stood for a moment to listen. Not a sound to be heard. She felt triumphant. Nain, for sure, was getting deafer.

And she was free to go and play! She dragged the pinafore over, tossed her messy hair from her eyes, and set off skipping, not stopping once to pick plums or berries, just giving a hop and a jump as she went and frightening some preening sparrows.

‘Stupid little things,’ she muttered as she heard their wings flapping, ‘getting scared every time I run past them!’

Bo and Nelan’s Den lay just a little bit further, at the outer limits of Nain’s small patch of land which she called her ‘territory’, though it was a mystery to all how such a poor wretch as she had come by it (let alone Tŷ Copyn cottage). But there it was. And here it was the youngsters had built their hideout.

Nelan came now to a standstill, pausing to catch her breath in front of a curious bit of hedgerow. The tree had once, back in the mists of time, been a simple hawthorn. But in the course of many years it had been ambushed by ivy whose tendrils had gorged and fattened themselves upon the mother plant to such an extent you now couldn’t tell between them, the root of the ivy having grown thick and bulging around the hawthorn’s trunk and twisting there like a mortified wooden snake-thing. In short, they’d become one wondrous tree in the meantime, a marvel to behold, an ‘ivythorn’ perhaps, whose branches were covered not by the spiky little leaves of hawthorn, but by the shiny dark-green foliage of ivy, and whose fruit at this autumn time of year were not the scarlet haws of old, but lovely, light-green crowns of angels, darkening and dilating as the winter came.

The whole thing looked quite pretty, in Nelan’s opinion, and it was here, just behind the mysterious mishmash of a tree that they’d carved out their refuge, Bo’s practicality having built the whole thing, and Nelan furnishing it with fancy. And indeed, it suited them just fine, being close enough to hear the whiplash of Nain’s tongue, but hidden enough to let them ignore her, - and further shielding them from the prattle of neighbours.

A wall of bracken hid the portal. Beyond it there was a passage of gnarly gorsebush trunks, rounding back in the end to the ivythorn’s far side. At the centre was a clearance. And this was their hideout, their sanctuary come wind, rain or sun. And though it wasn’t big, it was big enough for them, and furthermore theirs to cherish. This Den was their fort, their palace, their stagecoach, their galleon. In a word, it was all they could wish for, and they wanted for nothing. They had two large stones as chairs and a large, protruding root as table. The bread was moss, they had dewdrops for drinking (from pennywort goblets), and twigs served as knives and forks. When the gorse flowers bloomed, then a hundred torches were lit, and the Den filled with the aroma of honey.

But being eager and in a hurry today, Nelan became careless. She threw herself clumsily through the bracken and was drenched with dew. Her ragged dress was soaked. Her body shivered. She cussed out loud. But still, she pushed on in the hope of seeing him there, scratching her cheek on the gorse as she went and wondering if she hadn’t maybe grown an inch or two on her birthday and finally tripping on something and falling headlong towards the hideout’s floor.

She sat up a little shaken. Bo wasn’t there, she saw. She felt a punch of disappointment, there in the pit in her stomach where the lions growled. Something warm caressed her cheek. She raised her hand and found it was the blood there, trickling from the scratch. She licked it off her finger. It was salty and made her hunger worse but still she liked it.

She thought she’d wash before Bo arrived, so she reached out for a dock leaf. There was a clump nearby. She wiped her face with the cold, dewy flannel and it felt so nice, she carried on, breaking off the green wide tongue-leaves one by one to wipe her neck and arms with, then moving on to legs and knees and two bare feet ’til her skin was prickly clean.

By now the verdant clump of dock was gone, the soft cushion of leaves which had grown there all along all hard and depleted. She looked in dismay at the spindly remains. She felt a flush of guilt. Bo would be disappointed.

To make up for the mess she decided to tidy the hideout. Using the back of her foot, she swept the floor free of leaves and spent blossoms, then threw out all the sheep shit. She straightened the bits of fleece that hung down from the gorse – their lace curtains on undefined windows – then to pass the time ’til Bo arrived, she decided to practise her counting, going from one to ten along fingers and thumbs, then moving down to her toes to reach twenty. Bo would be so pleased. It was he that had taught her.

Oh, but what was taking him so long to come? she wondered and wondered. Why was he dawdling? Nelan became impatient, desperate to see him now, yearning to see his nice, twinkly eyes when he laughed, like stars in the nighttime. Oh, the fun they would have together today... if only he got here!

She started to worry Nain would wake up. She’d start her yelling, commandeering her in a voice that resounded all the way to the mountains to come and do her chores. Making that horrible, disgusting porridge for the old hag. Shoving it into her toothless mouth and down her food pipe. Gathering wood to make a damp fire, then finding some more to keep it burning. Fetching water. Chasing mice. It was never-ending! And she’d had enough! Enough of the daily slaving...

But today was meant to be different. A day to play! If only Bo would come!

A truly awful thought disturbed her. What if Bo had broken his word? What if he’d gone to the fair after all? If someone had made him do it? Someone like his mother. Nelan wouldn’t put it past her. She never let Bo decide things for himself. She always told him what to.

Her spirit suddenly plummeted. She felt giddy with dismay. She sat down on her stone and gaped heartbroken at where he sat. His stone was empty and redundant.

A big, hard lump scorched her throat. She felt tears welling. How ugly that stone was without him there. Those horrid rings of lichen spread out like the dirty insides of broken birds’ eggs.

They needed to be gone! She threw herself down on her knees and pushed her thumb into the lichen circles. The hard, sandy crust went under her nails, piercing the quick and hurting her. Nelan retaliated. She brought the rest of her fingernails in to help, and started scratching and scraping until all the rings of lichen were gone and the dark crescent moons under her nails were enormous.

She drew back. She admired her labours. But rather than the smooth, clean surface of stone, she saw nothing but greyish stains, shadows of the former rings tarnishing Bo’s stone-throne. She froze. Another disappointment when he came. Another mess she’d made there. She’d spoilt that bush of lovely dock leaves first of all, and now had made his seat look horrid. She’d ruined their lovely Den. Bo simply mustn’t see it!

So, Nelan stumbled on her feet. She had to get out, had to leave before he got there. She fled, back through the tunnel of gorse, feeling her flesh and her pinafore tearing. Oh Bo, she muttered, now close to tears, what kept you so long? Why couldn’t you stop me?

And soon Nain might yell. Nothing was surer. And her hunger was growing, it was unbearable, the lions were gnawing...

‘Mama, Mama bach,’ she cried in her quiet despair, the tears falling. ‘Why can’t I climb up the ladder to be with you today? I’d like that so much more than being alone here in this piss-hole.’

Chapter 5

Nelan arrives in Hell

Nelan never thought Hell would be so comfortable. The fire seemed so happy and alive as it waved its hands above its head and rolled its belly, its colours endlessly changing. This was a proud fire, worthy of being called a fire, unlike those harsh, cold tongues which singed the air at Nain’s house. Nelan leaned forward in her chair. She felt its heat against her legs. Its golden light ran like the yolk of an egg out from the hearth.

Everything was in its place here. No mess to be seen anywhere. Nelan was taken aback. There was the row of shiny jugs on the mantelpiece. Another row of pans hanging on hooks, daylight shining like crescent moons on their edges. Near the bottom of the chimney lay various objects; she supposed they were things to poke the fire with. A black kettle hung on a huge chain, as well as a small cauldron with a slanted lid. A puff of steam came out every now and again and it made a quiet spitting noise. The smell was wonderful. Nelan’s hunger grew.

She peeked through the back of the chair and saw that order reigned likewise in the rest of the house. Dishes had been put away. Dishcloths hung on nails. There were rows of colourful jars and bottles on shelves, and in the far corner there was a wooden cupboard with a rounded pattern on the door panels. But what caught Nelan’s attention most of all was the forest that grew downwards from the ceiling: flowers and branches tied up in bunches, their peppery smell filling the entire kitchen. It was the smell of summer. The smell of sunny days.

Nelan would never have thought that such was the smell of Inferno.

Suddenly the door latch lifted. She froze, then quickly turned back to face the fire. The Devil had come home. He was going to devour her.

She listened intently. In a while there came the sound of clattering dishes and water dripping. Hands were being washed. She risked peeking again. The fiery cloak had been taken off and hung on a hook on the back of the door. More surprising even than that was that the Devil wore a dress and a pinny. She watched him dry his hands. He didn’t have claws, nor long nails either. No horns. No tail even. Only a braid of thick hair falling down his back like a silver cascade.

Lucifer was now handling the plants he’d brought into the house, tearing the leaves off the stems and putting them in a bowl for pounding. He came towards the fireplace and poured water from the kettle’s spout into the concoction. Nelan held her breath.

He turned towards her and said commandingly:

‘Stretch out your arms now, there’s a good girl.’

‘Please don’t throw me into the fire!’ she cried. ‘I’ll do anything for you not to!’

‘Throw you into the fire? Dear me! Now stretch your arm out, left one first. Don’t make a fuss now. Those scratches need to be cleaned. The blackthorn’s the danger.’

Nelan obeyed. It was dangerous not to. She watched the Devil dip a white cloth into the liquid until the whole thing turned green. He then rubbed the cloth backwards and forwards along her arms leaving dark trails all along her skin.

She started to enjoy the caresses. Slowly her tears dried. To be fair to the Devil, he was doing his job well, and Nelan found herself thinking, was this what having a Mama must feel like?