Iolo’s house looked like it had been built by accident. It was constructed of white, lime-washed boulders heaped haphazardly on top of one another and crowned with mix-and-match stone roof tiles covered in green and black lichen. Gruff loved its untidiness. It snuggled in amongst the other fishermen’s cottages at the head of the beach, short and squat against their two-storeys, higgledy-piggledy against their neat corners.
Iolo was the last fisherman to live in the fishermen’s cottages, and he was retired now. Ffion lived in one. Rosie Smalls in another. Then there was Elen (who worked on the wool crew) and her baby, Bill; Tim who also worked on the wool crew and was the best at weaving; Jack and Dafydd (who worked on Evan’s farm) and their baby, Rhiannon; and Hardik and Deepa (who ran a bed and breakfast from their house and a tea shop in their front garden) and their little boy, Prem. They were a close-knit community and Iolo was kept well fed despite his lack of culinary prowess.
Lights winked beyond closed curtains and the electricity turbine whirred behind the houses. Prem’s bedroom window was open and he could be heard giggling loudly, probably in the midst of a tickle-attack.
It all seemed so normal and safe. With a sense of relief, Gruff realised that Ffion must have checked on Iolo and found him fine, otherwise there would be general uproar rather than this homely peace.
Gruff knocked on Iolo’s front door.
They waited. The cloaked, silent figure on the ghostly stone stood tall and straight in Gruff’s mind.
‘Maybe he won’t want me here,’ Mat said suddenly. Gruff turned and looked at her, surprised by the panic in her voice.
‘No, it’s fine,’ he said. ‘Iolo loves to meet everyone. Then he loves to find out everything he can about them, and then he loves to tell everyone else.’
Gruff realised almost immediately that this might not have been the right thing to say. Mat looked like she might scarper and never come back. He thought of her returning to the farm alone past the Sleepers and said quickly, ‘In a good way, I mean. He’s not nasty – he just likes to know everybody. He’s a nosy parker but he’s really nice.’
‘Diolch yn fawr, Gruffydd,’ said a voice behind him as the door opened. ‘Thank you very much!’
Gruff turned to meet Iolo, grinning. ‘You know it’s true, Iolo.’
‘Scamp,’ Iolo muttered, but he was smiling. ‘No respect for your elders.’
Iolo stood stooped with his hand on the door to steady himself. His knitted wool jumper was one of the farm’s, a gift from Nain the year before last. His eyes flicked appreciatively to the bowl in Gruff’s hands.
‘Cottage pie,’ Gruff said, stepping inside.
‘Diolch – thank you! Does it have real cottage in it?’ Iolo stooped even lower when Mat crossed the threshold, giving her a little bow. ‘And you must be Miss Matylda Kowalska. Welcome to Ynys Cerrig.’
‘Thanks,’ Mat whispered.
Gruff lifted the plate off the top of the bowl. The cottage pie was a mashed mess after his fall, but it should still taste the same. He opened the metal door in the range and popped the bowl and plate inside to warm the food up a bit. Behind him, Iolo grilled Mat on what her favourite subjects were (science: she was really looking forward to doing biology at secondary school) and whether she had any hobbies (learning about sea animals).
‘Been on the beach, Gruff?’ Iolo asked, suddenly.
Gruff spun round, feeling as though the question was an accusation and he needed to defend himself – but then he looked down and saw that he was shedding sand onto the flagged stone floor of the cottage. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘You went to look at them after what I said to you?’ Iolo pushed, and Gruff knew now that this was a telling-off and Iolo really believed what he’d said on the walkie-talkie.
‘I didn’t mean to!’ Gruff said. ‘I was coming to see you, then I – I mean, it wasn’t me, it was them – they…’ He stopped, wishing he hadn’t brought Mat with him. There was no way she’d believe the Sleepers maliciously lured people out to sea. She would go back to her house and laugh with her family, at him and at Iolo and all the superstitious islanders. ‘I … tripped.’
‘I did too,’ Mat said. ‘Maybe the ground’s slipping there or something? Gruff saved me from falling over the edge!’
‘Interesting.’ Iolo sat down heavily in his flower-patterned armchair and gestured to them to sit on the only other seats in the cottage, the two rickety wooden chairs at the table. They sat.
Gruff knew from experience that Iolo was about to tell them something important. Iolo always got comfortable when he had information to impart.
Gruff also knew that there was no rushing him.
Iolo inspected a loose thread on the cuff of his jumper. He rubbed his chin and stared off into the middle distance. He tapped a rhythm on the arm of his chair.
Gruff caught Mat’s eye and they both grinned and looked quickly away, trying not to laugh.
‘The Sleepers are hungry,’ Iolo said, ‘and the sea is waiting.’
The words settled on Gruff like cold, freshly-fallen snow.
‘You know what it means, of course?’ Iolo asked.
Gruff cleared his throat. ‘It means … you mustn’t climb on the Sleepers.’
‘Sorry,’ Mat said. ‘What’s the Sleepers? Oh, hang on, is it those stones?’
‘Yeah,’ Gruff said. ‘It’s just an old story – I told you earlier. They’re meant to lure people out to sea.’
‘How can a stone sleep?’ she asked.
‘It’s just a story,’ Gruff repeated, out of habit rather than conviction. He glanced at Iolo.
‘It’s a story we’ve forgotten,’ Iolo said. ‘There’s only snippets that remain. I think you should know those snippets – both of you.’ He paused. ‘The Sleepers are angry. They tempt with voiceless words, luring people out to the deep, dark currents. No one returns from a journey out on them. The Sleepers have been luring for as long as memory goes back – and memory on a small island like this can go back many, many centuries. The Sleepers are merciless. They are relentless. They are insatiable. Their hunger will never be satisfied. And they are strongest at the time of the Wounded Sea.’
Gruff let out a careful breath. ‘The Wounded Sea festival is tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Iolo did not smile. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘What’s the Wounded Sea?’ Mat asked.
‘A storm,’ Iolo replied. ‘Around this time of year the island sometimes gets huge storms – even bigger than the winter ones, and completely out of the blue.’
‘It’s something to do with currents and fronts, warm air meeting cold air and stuff,’ Gruff said. ‘Dad explained it to me once. Anyway, we get them but the mainland doesn’t. They’re really isolated. When they happen, they’re called Clwyf y Môr, the Wounded Sea.’
Mat shivered, grinning. ‘Weird. Why’s there a festival though?’
Iolo laughed. ‘It’s just an excuse for a party! Whether we have a storm or not, the island holds a festival every year on the closest Saturday to the highest June tide. The highest tide’s next Tuesday, so the festival’s tomorrow.’
‘It’s fun,’ Gruff said. ‘There’s music and food and dancing. We raise money for the lifeboat.’ The mention of food reminded him of the cottage pie and he leapt out of his chair and rescued it from the range before it was dried to a crisp.
Iolo heaved himself upright. ‘You youngsters should be getting back,’ he said. ‘Your families will be worrying. Tell your nain and dad diolch for the food, Gruffydd, there’s a good lad.’
‘I will.’
Iolo held the door open for them and Mat went ahead to the edge of the beach. She stopped and stared down it towards the Sleepers, into a darkness filled with the sound of the sea.
Gruff paused on the threshold and looked back to Iolo.
‘They pulled me,’ Gruff said in Welsh. ‘They pull Mat too. She doesn’t seem to notice. It’s like she goes into a trance.’
‘I was walking round to meet the newcomers,’ Iolo said, ‘and as soon as I came within sight of the Sleepers … I’ve never felt anything like it. I’ve felt their lure before, of course, but today… It was like they were excited. Like they were waking up, getting stronger. I ran, Gruff. I ran back here. I ran away from a pile of rocks.’
‘That was when you radioed.’ Gruff remembered how breathless Iolo had sounded.
‘Perhaps it’s ridiculous,’ Iolo muttered. ‘But I’ve spent my life on this island, and I feel her changes.’
Gruff half-smiled. ‘Nain says you’re story-smitten.’
Iolo laughed. ‘Your nain is the one I learnt many of my stories from. You ask her about the song that mentions the Sleepers. I’m sure there is one, but I can’t remember it.’
Gruff took a deep breath. He knew what he’d seen, but even now he found it hard to believe. ‘Iolo, I saw someone standing on the Sleepers today.’
Iolo grimaced. ‘From the casual way you say this, I assume they got away with it and are safely back on shore?’
‘It wasn’t anyone from the island … I saw someone standing on a seventh stone.’
Iolo stared at him.
Gruff’s heart did little leaps of excitement and trepidation.
‘There are only six stones,’ Iolo said.
‘Yes. I know.’
Iolo shook his head, slowly. ‘There is something beginning. I wish I knew what it was. You keep away from those Sleepers, Gruff. You keep away from those stones. Anything that can sleep, can wake.’