The woman’s outstretched hand trembled. Gruff could tell she wanted him to take it, but there was no way he was going to do that. He staggered backwards a step and the woman’s features twisted with such anger his fear snapped into sound. ‘Mat!’ he yelled, half-turning to her.
Mat was staring out at the Sleepers, still on the phone to her mum. She jumped at his shout and glanced at him, frowning.
But that was where her eyes stayed. Her gaze did not flick beyond him to the Weeping Stone. Couldn’t she see the woman, the rushing waterfall?
Gruff looked back – and the woman was gone. As though she had never been there.
Relief washed over him. ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed to Mat, and she turned away again. Gruff walked on shaking legs to the Weeping Stone and placed his palm flat against it.
Dry as a bone.
Dry as a rock that had never even heard of the sea.
But…
‘You’re a Sleeper,’ he whispered to the Weeping Stone. ‘You’re the Sleeper. The seventh one.’ And that woman – she was the figure he had seen standing on the impossible seventh stone down at the beach.
The shaking spread up from his legs and into his body so that he had to lean against the rock for support.
Should he have taken the woman’s hand? What would have happened if he had?
Finish the sword. Finish it, or he’ll kill us all.
Who was ‘he’? What sword? The only sword on the island Gruff could think of was the one in the museum at Trefynys. And who was the woman, and what had any of this got to do with the Sleepers? Six stones on the beach and one stranded up here. Seven Sleepers in all, saith Cysgwr.
‘Oh,’ Gruff said quietly. Nain’s song rearranged itself in his head. Saith Cysgwr ar y môr, pontio yw eu gwaith. Seven Sleepers on the sea, bridging is their work. If the six – chwech – was replaced with seven – saith – it rhymed. The song must have had seven in it once but over time the final stone was forgotten.
He still didn’t know what they were bridging. And why on earth had the seventh Sleeper been moved?
As the shock faded and the shaking went away, Gruff focussed on one mystery that he could try and solve right now: Mat. He was certain that Mat had something to do with this. Mat and the sea that she carried inside her.
Mat came off the phone and turned to him, smiling. ‘Mama was just checking we were okay. But then she got in an argument with herself about where we should put the stripey rug. I really don’t mind, but she still told me all about the three places it could go and the reasons for and against. Thanks for rescuing me from my house today! Are you okay? Why did you shout?’
‘I…’ Gruff cast his eyes around for an escape route. ‘I thought you’d gone too close to the edge – the earth is crumbly here.’
‘Oh, okay. Thanks. It was solid where I was standing, I think.’
‘Yeah,’ Gruff said. ‘Er … that’s why I said sorry and didn’t explain. Anyway. Let’s go.’
Gruff shouldered the rucksack and Mat picked up their crate full of recycling. As they headed down the hill towards the lifeboat cove and the jetty, Gruff decided on a question and leapt in. ‘Do you ever feel like the sea’s pulling you towards it?’
‘All the time,’ Mat said immediately.
Gruff glanced at her. ‘Really?’
‘Like I’m joined to it with a thread,’ Mat said. ‘I remember feeling like that when we lived by the sea before, too.’
‘Do you ever feel like it’s – I don’t know – inside you?’ Gruff asked, but this time Mat gave him a confused look and half laughed.
‘Er … no? I don’t think so. What would that even feel like?’
‘Never mind,’ Gruff said quickly. They reached the bottom of the hill and started across Evan’s second cow field, this one empty to allow the grass to rejuvenate. ‘You know that story about the Sleepers luring people, tempting them? Do you feel that?’
Mat nodded. ‘Yeah, definitely – it’s just because they look like stepping stones, I guess. Good story, though.’
So that was that. Gruff didn’t know how he could continue the conversation without telling her outright that he had felt and seen the sea inside her, and that he thought she was somehow connected to a ghostly woman and a seventh Sleeper, which was the Weeping Stone, which had wept. Finish it, or he’ll kill us all.
He wasn’t sure there was a point in any friendship when telling someone things like that wouldn’t sound like pure rubbish. He said nothing more.
The Grey Seal pub at Trefynys was as busy as Gruff had ever seen it. It was always bursting to the seams at the Wounded Sea festival. There were small children everywhere, running around and shrieking in excitement as Rosie Smalls chased them in a lawless game of tag. Eleanor and Llewelyn, the resident teenagers, sat aloof on the harbour wall and watched the frivolities from a distance. Neighbours had hung bunting between their houses and there were several open-air stalls selling homemade cakes, jams, cheese and crafty things, all in support of the lifeboat. Islanders and holidaymakers talked and laughed on the hardstanding outside the pub. From inside came the rich sound of Iolo singing a song.
As they watched the festival in full swing before them, Gruff noticed Mat close in on herself like a clam.
‘Everyone’s really friendly,’ he said.
Mat nodded. ‘There’s just a lot of them,’ she whispered.
‘How about we go to the museum,’ Gruff suggested, trying to sound as though the idea had only just occurred to him. ‘No one’s ever in there, and there’s a porpoise skeleton.’ He saw Mat pull a face. ‘A very old porpoise skeleton,’ he qualified. ‘Like, two hundred years old. And it died of natural causes, as far as I know.’
Mat wrinkled her nose, then she laughed. ‘All right. It’s the closest I’ve been to seeing one!’
After sorting their crate of beach rubbish into the big community recycling bins near the harbour, Gruff led Mat through the crush of festival-goers outside the Grey Seal and down the gravel path to the equally crowded garden at the back. People called greetings and gave Mat welcoming looks, but Gruff waved to them without stopping. He was determined to get to the museum and he could feel the waves of self-conscious shyness emanating from Mat.
The island’s museum and library were housed in what had once been the pub’s pantry. Gruff unlatched the wooden door into a cool darkness and switched on the light to reveal stone walls lined with glass-topped cabinets on one side and bookshelves on the other. A couple of sad-looking stuffed animals glared from the corners and the porpoise skeleton hung from the ceiling.
‘Woah,’ Mat said, staring at the porpoise. ‘That’s amazing. Look at all those vertebrae! And it’s got fingers!’
‘The fingers are weird, right?’ Gruff agreed. He closed the door, shutting out the hubbub in the pub garden, and crossed the room quickly to the cabinet labelled ‘Medieval’.
There it was. Gruff put his face close to the glass and squinted at the only island sword he knew of.
‘What’s that?’ Mat asked, appearing at his shoulder.
‘Sword,’ Gruff grunted, reading the label underneath. It wasn’t very helpful. Sword guard, 11th-century. Silver decoration in Hiberno-Scandinavian style. This guard was found off Trwyn y Gân and is thought to have come from an ancient wreck.
‘Doesn’t look like a sword,’ Mat said, leaning closer. ‘Oh wait, I get it. Is that the bit that sticks out between the handle and the blade?’
‘Yeah. Nothing else survived in the water, but I think the silver decoration saved this bit.’
‘Silver, wow. Posh sword.’
‘Useless sword,’ Gruff muttered. He sighed and stood upright, glancing at the rest of the exhibits in the case. He’d been hoping to find some clue that would help him understand what the ghostly woman had been talking about. But perhaps it had nothing to do with this sword at all.
Mat wandered away from him, working her way back down the line of cabinets towards prehistory and island geology.
Gruff pulled out his phone and took a picture of the sword guard as best he could through the protective glass. Then he noted everything he could about it – its size, its materials and its decoration: the two stretch-necked birds tying themselves in knots. At last, feeling deflated, he went to join Mat.
She was standing at the geology case looking at neat rows of small rocks labelled with mind-bogglingly old dates. ‘Rocks,’ Gruff grinned. ‘I thought you liked sea animals. There’s a case of shells over there.’
‘Look at that one,’ Mat said, making no sign that she had heard him at all. ‘It’s shiny. Almost like it’s wet.’
Gruff looked where she was pointing. A small lump of rock, no bigger than a fifty-pence piece, glistened darkly. Water pooled at its base.
The case was sealed. The other stones were dry.
I do not like this. ‘Come on,’ Gruff said, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘Do you feel like meeting everyone yet?’
Mat pulled a face. ‘Not really.’ She turned and wandered over to the library shelves and Gruff looked back to the geology case.
The stone had moved.
It was no longer in its neat line-up. It was against the edge of the case closest to him. Behind it was a trail of glimmering water.
‘Let’s go down to the harbour,’ Gruff squeaked, backing away from the case. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘There won’t be so many people there.’
Mat turned from the bookshelf, shrugging and smiling. ‘Okay.’
Gruff turned the light off with a shaking hand and cast one last glance towards the display cabinet before closing and latching the door.
Stay there, he thought. Just stay there.