The Owl Service by Alan Garner

path.
    â€œHello,” said Alison.
    â€œHello.”
    Alison climbed on to a rock.
    Gwyn pointed through the trees. “See that dark line going up the mountain?” he said. “That’s the old peat road. Every summer the people from the valley went up the top to cut peat. Four days it took them.”
    â€œHow did they carry it down?” said Alison.
    â€œHorses,” said Gwyn.
    â€œBut it’s so steep.”
    â€œThey used sledges. And see that scar above the stream there? That was the quarry for building the house. All the good slate is that side of the river: over this side it’s very poor stone. Have a look at the road bridge next time you go to the shop. It was made of the bad slate, and it’s falling to bits. But the house is like new. It’ll never wear out.”
    â€œI wish I was like you,” said Alison. “You belong here.”
    â€œMe? This is the first time I’ve seen the place—”
    â€œThat’s it,” said Alison. “You came a week ago, and you know everything as if you’d always lived here – while I’ve been spending holidays at the house all my life, and yet I don’t belong. I’m as useless as one of those girls in fashion photographs – just stuck in a field of wheat, or a puddle, or on a mountain, and they look gorgeous but they don’t know where they are. I’m like that. I don’t belong.”
    â€œIt’s your house,” said Gwyn.
    â€œThat doesn’t count for much at the moment.”
    â€œHow long has your family owned the place?”
    â€œI’ve no idea. Daddy inherited from a cousin who was killed.”
    â€œWhen was he killed?”
    â€œOoh, ages ago: before I was born. I’ve seen pictures of him – he was very good-looking. His name was Bertram.”
    â€œBut it is your house.”
    â€œâ€”Yes.”
    â€œIf you really put your foot down, would you have your own way?”
    â€œMummy and Clive run the estate now. It’s not easy. Why? What’s the matter?”
    â€œI’m worried about Huw,” said Gwyn. “You won’t sack him, will you?”
    â€œThey’re talking about it,” said Alison. “But there’s no one to take his place. Clive’s bothered about him being dangerous. Is he?”
    Gwyn shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s too much that’s screwy with him – and too much of it is sense. He talks so elliptical, even in Welsh, you just can’t make him out. I’m feeling bad about it, I suppose, because we had a set to after you went in, and I lost my temper. But now I’ve been thinking, and what he says could be true.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œCome and look in the hen hut,” said Gwyn.
    â€œI’d rather not,” said Alison. “I’ve been thinking, too.”
    â€œIt won’t take a moment,” said Gwyn. He opened the door. “There. One dinner service, plain white, smashed: ready for instant disposal. What am I offered?”
    â€œNo, Gwyn. I’m scared again. And the tight feeling inside.”
    â€œDon’t worry. The pattern’s gone and every piece is bust. You can tell yourself we broke it when we were scrapping last night, if you like. I don’t know how you cope with the pattern. And where are the owls you made?”
    â€œGwyn, don’t go on at me, please! Not you. You’re the only one I can talk to.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t think it,” said Gwyn. “What about when I needed to talk to you? – The way you swept past and went in: ‘Oh, Clive, how sweet!’ – and me out there. How do you think that felt?”
    â€œI had to,” said Alison. “Mummy was coming down any second, and we’d had the most awful row about that message you put in the sprouts.”
    â€œWell, so what?” said Gwyn.
    â€œSaying you had to see me. Mummy was livid.