Gruff twisted his body round and began to swim grimly back towards the land. He felt the current pull at his legs and knew he had to keep moving or it would sweep him away like it had taken the sheep. He tried not to think about them, or the huddled group he had left at the top of the field, or Dad and Zosia and the rest of the lifeboat crew, or Mat. He tried not to think about what would happen if the current claimed him. Just keep swimming, he thought.
A tug on the rope. For a moment he thought it was just the loose end catching against something, but then three tugs came in quick succession and with a rush of relief he realised that someone had found him. James? Ffion? Nain? He wrapped numb fingers round the cord and tugged back. There was a pause, and then Gruff was jerking through the water in short spurts, the rope tight under his arms as someone reeled him in hand over hand.
The water warmed and Gruff found land beneath his feet. He staggered up the field to find that his rescuer was John, a pile of rope beside him and his face red with exertion.
‘Thank you,’ Gruff gasped, as John untied the swollen rope from round his chest.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ John’s voice was hoarse with fear and anger. ‘If I hadn’t come down the field –’
‘The barn door broke,’ Gruff said wretchedly. ‘I was looking for them. I lost three sheep. I failed.’
‘Oh, Gruff…’ John glanced at the huddle of bedraggled animals. ‘You were rescuing your sheep?’ He put one waterproofed arm round Gruff’s shoulders. ‘Let’s get you and this lot back to the farm. Then I’m going to the fishermen’s cottages to find Mat. You said she’d gone to see Iolo?’ He shuddered. ‘Did you hear that horrible screaming sound? I thought maybe you were hurt; I went to the farmhouse and when you weren’t there I came looking… This storm is worse than I realised, and I don’t even know where Mat is…’ His voice broke.
‘Gruff! John!’
Gruff’s heart leapt. That was Mat’s voice! He and John turned as one and ran back down the field. Mat was headed for shore on the crest of a wave, and with her…
‘Hetty!’ Gruff waded in and grabbed the sheep from Mat, hauling her up so she could get her feet on solid ground.
John splashed into the water. ‘It’s all right, Matty, I’ve got you.’
‘No! I can’t –’
John picked her up out of the water and Mat gasped and clawed at him, and then at her throat. Gruff leapt forwards, realising what must be happening. ‘John! She can’t breathe!’
‘What?’ Shock at Mat’s panic etched deep lines across John’s face.
Gruff lifted one of Mat’s plaits away from her neck so that John could see the raw flaps of skin there. John made a small choking noise in his throat. ‘What’s happened?’ he whispered. ‘Did you cut yourself on the rocks?’
But Mat couldn’t speak and Gruff saw that she was losing air. She was a fish out of water, gasping for life.
‘Put her back in the sea!’ Gruff shouted. ‘Please, John. She’s a morgen. She’s got gills. Put her back in the sea or she can’t breathe!’
‘What?’ John was close to tears, and so confused that Gruff knew there was no way to persuade him without showing him the truth of it. He grabbed John’s hands and loosened them, pulling him away so that Mat dropped into the water like a limp rag doll. She slipped under the surface and John lunged towards her, but Gruff hung onto his arm. ‘No! I promise it’s okay. It’s okay.’
Mat bobbed back up, fresh as a daisy. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, John. I’ve got to go back – there’s two more sheep out there.’
‘Mat … thank you…’ Gruff watched as she sped away through the waves, which seemed somehow smoother where she passed.
‘But,’ John whispered, ‘Mat can’t swim.’
‘Um,’ Gruff said. ‘I wish Mat had told you all this before. But she was worried what you’d think.’
John blinked at him and then jumped as Mat reappeared with a soggy sheep in tow and handed her over before speeding away again. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’ he suggested. ‘Whatever it is, I’ve got no choice but to believe it.’
Mat was back again, impossibly fast, and Guinevere trotted ashore as cheerfully as if she’d just been for a short paddle in the stream rather than a long slog through the Irish Sea. She shook herself off and bounded away up the field. ‘What a ridiculously lucky sheep,’ Gruff said. He turned to Mat, bobbing in the shallows. The waves were quieter around her and though the spray leapt wildly high to either side, it hardly touched them here. Gruff was reminded of the bubble of calm around Dylan.
‘Thank you so much,’ Gruff said. ‘And I’m really glad you know who you are, even though you’re swimming.’
Mat didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I don’t think I can come ashore.’
‘Dylan said it’s your choice,’ Gruff said firmly.
Mat’s mouth dropped open. ‘You talked to Dylan? Did you find out what the sword is for?’
‘Who’s Dylan? What sword?’ John squeaked.
‘I can make the waves calmer by thinking calmly when I’m swimming through them,’ Mat said, not waiting for Gruff to answer and ignoring John completely. ‘I didn’t know until I went to get the sheep. I was trying to calm them down by being calm, and the waves got less so it was easier for them to swim. I’ve got to go out to the lifeboat and do that.’
‘What?!’ John exploded. ‘You’re not going back out there! Even if you can swim, which I don’t understand, you could be crushed by the boat. Matylda, please –’
‘If you were me, John, I know you’d go and help them,’ Mat said. ‘I love you and Mama. See you later.’ And she was gone, before anyone could say another word.
She left her question behind, unanswered. Did you find out what the sword is for?
Yes. Gruff had found out what the sword was for. If the blacksmith was right, it was for cutting water.
Gruff hadn’t even thought of the sword in his panic for the sheep. He couldn’t see how it would have helped him, anyway. How was cutting water some kind of magic power? Water was water. Anything could cut through it. But then again, the first time he had seen the blacksmith, her words to him had been ‘Finish it, or he’ll kill us all’. Which meant that now the sword was finished, they stood some chance against Dylan.
There had to be something he was missing.
Gruff dropped to his knees in the shallow water and plunged his right arm in above his elbow. He closed his eyes and felt around, buffeted by wind and spray.
There it was, cold and solid against his palm. He wrapped his fingers around the sword hilt, a thrill of trepidation running through him. What if it just disintegrated when he drew it from the sea? He had never succeeded before.
‘What are you doing?’ John snapped. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’ He broke off with a yelp. ‘Wave! Big wave! Move now!’
Gruff pulled his hand up and out of the water. The sword followed in an arc of droplets, the fluid-solid blade flashing bright even on this dull day. The sea animals on the hilt wriggled and writhed against Gruff’s fingers.
‘Sword!’ John goggled. He grabbed Gruff’s elbow and dragged him away as a great rush of water chased them up the field. The wave caught their ankles and swept ahead of them before turning and racing back towards the sea. Struggling in the foaming water, captured in the wave’s attack, was a weak, half-drowned scrap of bedraggled black fleece. Greta’s lamb.
Gruff leapt towards the lamb but she was too far away and the water would carry her out of reach before he could get there. He threw out his sword-arm, thinking to catch the lamb against the flat of the blade and hold her there. The sword sliced through the water – and the wave split in two.
The greater part of it rushed on, back towards the sea, but the wave’s foaming fringe fizzed and swirled aimlessly, its power gone. The lamb staggered to her feet as the remnants of the wave bubbled down into the sodden grass.
Gruff raised the sword up and stared at it.
If you have forged it well, it should cut water.
Another wave swept towards them. Gruff grabbed the lamb tightly and turned to meet it, slashing the sword back and forth across the water as it reached his toes. The wave continued on and up to either side of him but at his feet the sword-cuts stopped it short and it fizzled away back into the sea. Gruff laughed out loud at the complete strangeness of it all.
‘Impossible,’ John croaked.
Gruff grinned. ‘Awesome.’ Now he understood why the blacksmith had wanted them to finish the sword. It was a defence against the sea.
There was a loud crackle of static and John pulled a walkie-talkie out of his coat pocket. ‘I saw it on your boot-rack,’ he said apologetically. ‘I thought I might need it.’
The walkie-talkie crackled again and Iolo’s voice blurted from it.
‘Gruff. Matylda. Are you receiving? There’s something in these waves. It’s Dylan, isn’t it? He’s trying to drown us. He’s giving the storm purpose. He’s angry.’
John looked at Gruff in silence.
‘Yeah, it’s Dylan,’ Gruff said. ‘And Iolo’s right. He’s really angry. And hurt.’
Iolo’s voice crackled again. ‘Matylda? Gruff? Did you manage to finish the sword? I don’t know what to do.’
Gruff tightened his grip on the sword, plucked the walkie-talkie from John’s hand and pressed the ‘talk’ button. ‘Iolo? I’m coming.’