MAD DOG MOONLIGHT Pauline Fisk
‘From high Plynlimmon’s shaggy side Three streams in three directions glide; To thousands at their mouths who tarry Honey, gold and mead they carry. Flow also from Plynlimmon high Three streams of generosity; The first, a noble stream indeed, Like rills of Mona runs with mead; The second bears from vineyards thick Wine to the feeble and the sick; The third, till time shall be no more, Mingled with gold shall silver pour.’ Lewis Glyn Cothi
Mum’s Story Winter came early the year that you were born – and I mean early. Usually we’d be off back down the Preseli Mountains before the first storms blew in, making the high roads impossible to navigate. But that year the last leaves had scarcely dropped off the trees before the bad weather rolled in. The main roads were clear, but the back roads up round Snowdonia and Plynlimon, and all about the region that people in the old days used to call the ‘wilderness of Elynedd’, were like sheets of ice. And, as you know, the wheels of our old van aren’t that good at the best of times. It was cold too. By God, it was cold. Usually it takes a whole winter to get through our supply of gas, but we were through the first two bottles already and only had one left. I remember worrying about that. Lying in the van listening to your dad snoring and the wind howling outside as a snowstorm got up and flakes slid down the windows. All the blankets were piled on the bed but I was shivering. Usually a bit of bad weather doesn’t bother me. I’ll sleep through anything, me. It’s being born with travellers’ blood – that’s what I say. The blood of people who are used to putting up with things. But, blood or no blood, that night I couldn’t sleep – and it was nothing to do with the weather. I was 1
nearly nine months gone with you and, no matter how I lay, I couldn’t get comfortable. There wasn’t a bit of me that didn’t ache, but my back was worst. Our mattress was old and its springs were giving out. We were always saying we were going to look out for another, but we’d never found one. Worse than the mattress, though, was the small matter of you. You never liked it when I rested, you little mad dog, you. The moment I put my feet up, you’d start having a go. What you wanted was me on my feet walking up and down, rocking your impatient little body inside of me. I used to reckon that even in my womb your travellers’ blood was driving you. Anyhow, that night I got so fed up lying there being pummelled by you and snored at by your dad that I climbed out of bed, wrapped myself up in the nearest coat that I could find and went outside to stand in the snowstorm. I’ve always liked doing that – not just watching the weather but feeling it going on all around me. Other people hide from it but I’ve always wanted to drink it up. There are songs to be heard in the dawn, you know, when the sun’s getting up and the sky is thin and clear. And colours in a storm – you can see them before it ever hits. Reds, blues and greens that people never notice because they never look. A storm should never surprise you, not if you use your eyes. Least, that’s what I always used to think. But that night the storm surprised me, all right. It was ragged with snowflakes one minute, dancing at breakneck speed and churning up clouds like waves on a sea. Then, all of a sudden, it was gone. The moon blinked like an eye, opening and shutting, turning the land2
scape back and forth from silver to black as if a police car with flashing lights had arrived to move us on. Then the clouds suddenly blew away like a carpet that had been rolled up. The wind dropped. The land stopped flashing on and off. The moon shone full. The stars were bright and between them all – I swear to God – A SILVER RIVER FLOWED THROUGH THE SKY. I scarcely could believe it, and yet there it was. A real live river, made of silver, in the sky above our van! It snaked a path between the stars, and it was no Milky Way. No jet stream that I’d mistaken for something else, or strand of cloud lit up by the moon, or the Northern Lights or anything like that. It was a river of water flowing over my head, over the mountains and off through the night, and it was as real as anything I’ve ever seen. There were waves on it, and beaches on its shoreline, and pools that were still and deep, and other places where the water ran fast, bubbling and crashing in its hurry to get on. At one and the same time it was just like any other river I’d ever seen, and yet as unlike any other river as anything could be. I remember calling for your dad, but he carried on snoring and didn’t hear. I was the only one who saw it. I held out my hands as if I wanted to take hold of it. I’d have given anything to leap into those shining waters and let them carry me away. But they were too far from me and, besides, I had you to think of. No sooner had the merest idea of swimming lodged itself in my head, than you got my insides, you crafty little beast, and started tying them in knots. And I’m not just talking about kicking here. I’m not even 3
talking about pummelling. I’m talking about going into labour. From the first contraction onwards, you really went for it. The world was out there and you couldn’t wait to see it. Nothing timid about your birth, my lad. Nothing nervous, inching forward. From that first contraction onwards, I was in for a full-on assault. Hardly surprisingly, I forgot about the silver river and rushed to shake your dad awake. For the next couple of hours, it was panic stations. The mountain passes were all choked with snow, but then I didn’t want to go to hospital anyway. I wanted you to be delivered on the open road the way that travelling people always used to do it. But, for all my forcing him to mug up on home deliveries, your dad had refused to hear of such a thing. In the end, though, I had it my way. By the time your dad got the van even halfway down the mountain, the clouds had long-since come rolling back, full of snow, and the whole world was so white that he couldn’t see beyond the wipers on his windscreen. The van started sliding about all over the place, and your dad said we’d never make it to the hospital. So we gave up trying there and then, and you were born in a lay-by, in a blizzard, on an empty mountain pass road with not another soul in sight for miles. Your dad acted as midwife and made a brilliant job of it. It’s amazing what that man can do when he stops grumbling and gets on with it. After the blizzard was all over, he wrapped you in a blanket and lifted you to the van window to see the world into which you’d been born. The mountains 4
and valleys stood like white ghosts beneath an earlymorning sky, but the river had long-gone as well, and all that remained of that unforgettable night was a pale moon growing paler by the moment as the sun broke over the mountains, setting the snowy landscape on fire. It was a wonderful sight. So wonderful that your dad opened the van door and carried you out into it. But, instead of being impressed, you started howling. He thought it was the cold air, and rushed you back inside. But I knew you were crying because you’d come too late. It was as if the snowy landscape was the support band, and the silver river in the sky the main attraction, come to earth for a once-in-a-lifetime performance, and you had missed it and you knew. You howled as if you’d never stop. Howled the way that mad dogs do at the moon. If you ever hear them out in the wilds, on a lonely night with not a soul around, you’ll know how chilling they can be. But, if a newborn baby’s doing it, to show that it’s alive, it’s awe-inspiring. Believe me. And that’s the way you got your name. MAD DOG MOONLIGHT. It’s not some crazy name we came up with off the top of our heads. It’s the name you earned for yourself the day that you were born. It’s your name, and don’t you ever let anybody take it from you, because it’s who you are.
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Also by Pauline Fisk for Bloomsbury
SABRINA FLUDDE THE RED JUDGE
For Jake
Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin and New York First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY Copyright Š Pauline Fisk 2009 The moral right of the author has been asserted Original poem in Welsh by Lewis Glyn Cothi, English version from George Borrow’s Wild Wales All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 0 7475 9407 9 The paper this book is printed on is certified independently in accordance with the rules of the FSC. It is ancient-forest friendly. The printer holds chain of custody.
Mixed Sources Product group from well-managed forests and other controlled sources Cert no. SGS - COC - 2061 www.fsc.org 1996 Forest Stewardship Council
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