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Into the Grey

By: 4ofSwords



David Jones stood atop Cefn Bryn, one of the higher points on the Gower Peninsula. It was early spring, or late winter, depending on how you wanted to look at it, and the air was unusually clear for the season. The twenty-or-so houses and pastures that made up Nicholaston spread out at the bottom of the hill, about a hundred feet down, and pressed up against the small cliffs overlooking the bay. Out beyond the bay, ghosting over the dark green Atlantic waters, he could make out a bit of Cornwall. The first time he'd seen that low, black stretch of land, he'd imagined he was seeing Ireland, but an hour that same night in the hostel with his maps spread out over the floor convinced him otherwise. He turned 180 degrees, to look back on the Gower. A nippish breeze picked up a tuft of his hair and tried to reach its fingers down the neck of his coat.

The Gower was considered one of Glamorgan's areas of beauty, but the winter had turned most of the land brown. Down toward the end of the peninsula he could make out a spattering of new growth in the otherwise bare small forests, and the tough grass along the coastal cliffs was always green, but up here there was nothing much beside scrubgrass and bracken, and they were brown. Even still, there was a beauty to the place, especially for someone who had grown up in the flat concrete expanses of a city. The sky was as blue as he'd ever seen it; not just blue, but a radiant, shocking, -alive- blue. The clouds looked clean, and bright, and crisp. Gulls hung over the beaches, turning in the updrafts; he'd heard that there were even wild ponies living up here between the hollows, too -- apparently they were a protected species.

David went a few feet down the leeward side of the hill and unfolded his map on the ground. The map was far too big to be useful completely open, so he folded it back on itself until it showed just the part he needed. There were standing stones near here, and a cairn, according to the markings, but he had seen enough of those to satisfy him in the last two days. He scanned with his finger across the map until he came on 'Arthur's Stone'. Glancing up to fix the direction in his mind, he refolded the map and stowed it in his coat pocket and began gallumping down the hill.

Arthur's Stone turned out to be not too difficult to find -- it seemed to be a tourist attraction of sorts, and there was a well-worn foot path leading to it in a roundabout fashion. It was both cairn and standing stones combined: a half-dozen stones about a foot-and-a-half high sat in a circle, completely supporting a much larger rock that must have weighed as much as a small truck, from the size of it. There was room to squirm between the short stones and lay under the rock if you were one for dares; it looked like someone had done that recently. Someone else had laid a bouquet of flowers on the rock. That took him somewhat by surprise.

Another rock about the same size as the first stood on end a few feet away. David sat down by its sunny side and leaned against it, enjoying its warmth, then pulled an apple from his pocket and ate it as he contemplated the stones. There were two main stories that explained how they had taken their name: the first claimed that the Gower was actually Avalon, and Arthur's Stone was the great king's final resting place. The second said that after Mount Badon, where the Saxons were defeated, Arthur plucked the stone from his boot and flung it back over his shoulder, sending it all the way to Southern Wales. David doubted them both, especially the second. The first he had found many Gower residents liked to believe. Historians said it was the grave of an unknown local chieftain, and of little real significance.

After a while, David lifted himself up and continued on over the Gower, away from Nicholaston. He picked his way between the heath and bracken, and made his way down the hill toward River Loughor's mud flats. On the far side of the river lay Llanelli, a moderately-sized city as far as they went in Wales, and definitely larger than anything on the Gower. He found the worn-dirt trail that was the public footpath and followed it as it led between several homes and set him out on a paved road. He was in a small town about half the size of Nicholaston. Overhead the clouds had begun to fade away, slowly disappearing into the blank grey that would soon be a thick fog. A bit down the road to his right, a two-storied stone and wood building sported a sign naming it the Greyhound Inn. Most of the 'inns' he had stayed in had been little more than a bed-and-breakfast home with a sign out front, but this place had more of an 'establishment' look to it. However, he knew Welsh hospitality did not lack in home or business, and he had no preference. Since it would be dark soon, what with the fog rolling in, he decided not look up the local hostel. He turned up the road and walked up to the front door of the inn, stopping to wipe his boots on the mat outside.

Just inside the door a hallway branched off to separate dining rooms on the right and left side, and to a dark staircase a bit further back. A copy of the same Ordinance Survey map of the Gower that David had in his pocket hung on the wall in a frame, with the Greyhound Inn marked by a red dot. David poked his head into the room on the right and glanced around. A half-dozen or so round tables arranged in no particular order were circled by four dark-wood chairs each. Booths with high backs lined two walls; the other two were taken up by a curved bar that fenced off their shared corner. Between the shelves of glasses and framed photos hanging on the walls behind the bar, a door led back to the kitchen. A large man with long, grey mustaches stood just outside that door, drying out pint glasses with a rag. He looked to be in his fifties, and had an English face. When David stepped into the room he glanced up and smiled. "Hiya."

"Hiya," David said. "Am I too late for lunch?"

"Close, but you made it in time." The man nodded toward one of the tables. "There are menus there on the tables, if you'd like."

David smiled and thanked the man, and picked a table to sit at. He skimmed over the menu and ordered one of the specials, he didn't pay too much attention to what it was. After the man had taken the order and relayed it back to the kitchen, he returned to continue drying out glasses. He seemed a pleasant enough sort, and introduced himself as Andrew Williams, so David gave him his name in return.

"David Jones -- that's a good Welsh name," said the man.

"My parents were both Welsh. Well, not them exactly; I mean, neither of them were born here. I think their ancestors came over a pretty long time ago. But they were both of Welsh blood, if you know what I mean."

The man nodded. "Are you from the States, then?"

"No, Canada. Vancouver." David lifted his backpack to show the flag patch he had sewn onto the front pocket.

The man grinned. His teeth were uneven. "Even better. Americans are nice enough, see, but sometimes they get a bit rude, particularly when they're pissed. Then they act like they own the place, and should be waited on hand and foot. Canadians, though..."

David lifted his cup; "Our mothers train us well, and here's to them."

From back in the direction of the kitchen, a woman's voice called out. "Are you talking to yourself again, Andy? What are you saying out there? Something about Canadians? Leave off 'em, Andy -- they have manners, and they always leave a tip." With the last words a plump woman as old as the man poked her head out from the door to the kitchen. Her eyes fell on David and she clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh, pardon me, love, I didn't know anyone was in this room." She winked, and her smile gave the lie to her words.

The meal was brought out by a tall, skinny man in his late twenties who gave his name as Gerald. He was the Williams' nephew as well as the cook. By this time David had forgotten what he ordered, and he'd hoped to tell by looking at the plate, but he couldn't. It was tasty enough in any case, and warm. The innspeople left him alone as he ate, so he chewed in silence, but as soon as he pushed back his chair the plump woman, Mrs. Williams, bustled out of the kitchen to clear his place and give him the bill.

"Do you have any single rooms available tonight?" he asked her.

She nodded and told him the price was seventeen-pounds-fifty.

He asked if he could pay in advance and she nodded again, but said, "It isn't necessary, though. Tomorrow morning or tonight -- either is fine, love." The bill said the meal cost four-pounds-ninety, so David gave her a twenty- and five- pound note and told her to keep the rest. Her cheeks reddened but she smiled.

After David had settled his things in his room, he came back down the stairs and headed for the door, stopping to glance into the dining room. Mr. Williams was leaning over the bar, talking to a couple of fellows in heavy coats and caps. From the way they talked, David thought they were probably regulars here. When Mr. Williams noticed David he turned from the men to ask, "Are you going out, then?"

"Yeah," said David, "I thought I'd take a walk along the mudflats for a bit."

The man nodded. "Alright, then. Mrs. Williams and I turn out the lights at twelve-thirty, so you'll want to be back by then."

David looked at his watch. It gave the time as a bit past five. He nodded. "I will."

Mr. Williams glanced out a window. "Have you got a torch with you? The fog is thick tonight, and there won't be much light on the beach." David lifted his hand to show a small flashlight, at which the other man nodded. "'Twill do. Be careful, then." David nodded, and Mr. Williams went back to his conversation.

Outside the air was thick and wet, and appeared to hang like a weightless veil, moving in the slightest breeze. David zipped his jacket up under his chin, and looked around for a sign that would indicate the footpath leading between the houses and down to the River Loughor. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, he decided to change his plan and set out at an easy pace along the side of the road, instead.

The road was only wide enough for two small cars to pass each other, and on either side of the paved surface a shallow ditch preceded a steep bank, almost as tall as David in some places. At the top of the bank long grass poked through a wooden fence, and an occasional tree, half-hidden by mist, stood beyond the fences. The road twisted and curved as he walked along it; he thought there couldn't be more than four or five feet together that were straight. Even when it was relatively straight, it rose and fell along small hillocks. With the fog hiding everything more than a dozen yards off, he began to lose his mark on the direction, but it did not bother him. There were few enough roads on the Gower that it would not be too difficult to find his way back, or at least to a bus stop. Once, a dark cat slunk onto the road, freezing when the beam from David's flashlight caught it and set its eyes a-glow. When he walked toward it, it broke and fled the rest of the way across the road, then bounded up the banks and into the grass. Another time a car came around a curve a bit too fast; the fog absorbed the sound of it until it was nearly on him, and David only had time to hop into the ditch before it zoomed past, nearly crossing where he had just been. The driver did not swerve, or even honk.

As he walked the mist slowly thickened; eventually billowing rolls buried his beam only a few feet from its source, and in the darkness he could barely make out the edge of the road. Grey washed over the sky, blanketing out any last gleam of the moon, and muffling even the normally loud nightsounds of the Gower. The mist clung to his clothes and dampened his cheeks and hair. He stumbled and caught himself on the bank, almost falling face-down into the ditch. He turned to look back the way he had come, and saw only grey. He considered walking back that direction, but he knew there should be a town only a few minutes further on, and it wasn't too late at night to catch a bus back from there. 

Even as he was thinking, the fog thinned. It didn't lift or blow away, it was just suddenly less. Shrouds of mist still faded away the road and the grass beyond the banks a ways off, but the stars overhead were clear and the moon bright. David switched off his flashlight; the moon somehow seemed plenty bright to see by now. Looking back to the road, he saw a pale white just on the edge of the grey -- the first sign of headlight beams, he thought. He stepped down in the ditch and began walking again, but the white disappeared and no car came. He didn't think much of it, except to get back out of the ditch, but it happened a second and a third time. The third time he stopped and focused on the white; now it didn't seem to be reflected high beams at all, but maybe something softer, like moonlight playing off a rock. But it couldn't be that either; David had already passed the spot he'd seen the white the first time, and there had been no rock pale enough or large enough. He blinked and the white was gone from view again. David shook his head and crossed the road to look at the place it had been. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the spot.

David blew out a breath and watched it ascend in a cloud. The white was just a trick of the fog, that was all. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the moon. It was three-quarters full, enough to make the face out. The man in the moon had always looked somewhat smug to David, like he knew something an earth-bound man couldn't. He wasn't any different tonight. David dropped his gaze to the bank on the other side of the road, and there, just beyond the wooden fence, was a glimpse of white. His heart jumped, and it was gone again, but he furrowed his brows and re-crossed the road to stand by the bank just under where the white had been. It was just the fog, he told himself, but it would not hurt to be certain. He found a jut in the bank and pulled himself up so his chin just cleared the fence ... and found himself staring into black, depthless eyes in a face as white as the moon's. With a shout David jumped back from the fence, rolling onto the road. His heart was pounding so hard it was about to rupture his head, and he barely had time to see a full figure in white rise up above the fence before he was running down the road, back into the fog. Dark shapes and claw-like trees passed him by unmolesting; the road twisted beneath his feet, but he kept running, mindlessly running, until his legs felt like jelly and he was sucking air in hard. He didn't stop running then, but his mind came back to him and he tried to remember which way he was running. He didn't have long to worry; another minute and the Greyhound Inn loomed up out of the fog, from the direction opposite David had left it.

The lights above the door washed the fog white, showing night shadows for what they were, and David began to feel foolish. He leaned against a post outside the inn and let his panting die to even breathing. He had not seen a scarecrow in Britain before, but he had no reason to think they weren't used -- it could easily have been a scarecrow. Or kids; kids are kids everywhere, and in his mind kids lived for pranks. There was probably a bunch of them out in the dark somewhere laughing their heads off now. He looked at his watch. Seven-fifteen.

Once he felt reasonably calmed down, David pushed open the door to the inn. He could hear dozens of voices laughing and talking and arguing and getting drunk. He looked in both dining rooms; they were filled -- with men, mostly, though a few women sat here or there -- and in both rooms the televisions showed the same rugby game. Most of the people seemed to be paying at least half of their attention to the game. David walked into the room he had eaten lunch in and looked around. Andy Williams was in there, behind the bar, neck craned to watch the game with everyone else. Some of the men near him were trying to get him to make a prediction on the outcome. David walked to the bar and waited a few moments, then asked, "Do you have any Longbow here?"

Mr. Williams glanced away from the t.v., searching a moment for the voice before spotting David. "Hiya. Didn't see you there. Longbow? No. We've got Blackthorne, though." David nodded and shrugged as the man filled a pint glass with the cider, still talking. "I thought you'd be out for a while yet. It is a bit nippy outside, though. Do you care for rugby?" He nodded toward the t.v. David shrugged again, and the man shrugged, too. "Pound-twenty." After ringing in the sale, Mr. Williams turned back to watching the game.

David took a short drink and was startled to hear a voice address him from behind. "You look a bit peaked, lad. Been running in the fog?"

He turned to see who had spoken. The only person behind him was a short man on a bar stool, looking to be in his sixties, maybe. He had a round, cracked face with squinty, smiley eyes, and he wore a beige overcoat over trousers and a shirt and tie. "Aye, there at the end a bit," David replied. "Something spooked me." He frowned, thinking now that it was out that the confession was not very manly.

The man laughed and his eyes squinted even more, but if he thought David un-manly, he didn't show it. "Ghosts, I'd say! Ghosts frighten me, I'll tell you that." He leaned closer as if to reveal a secret. "There are ghosts on the Gower, you know," he whispered, "or at least one that I've heard of anyway."

Mr. Williams had been refilling a glass for someone else and apparently overheard. He leaned against the bar and grinned at the other man before speaking to David. "Don't trust everything Joe says. Studying at the Uni has filled his head with more stories than he had already." Another man who had been listening added, "He's got more tales than the Brothers Grimm, Joe does. And every one better than the last!"

Joseph chuckled over his pint glass. He didn't seem at all abashed. He pushed out a stool for David to sit on and continued. "I was in the Royal Navy when I was a young man, and I saw all sorts of things, scary and otherwise. I saw what might have been a couple of ghosts, and they scared the life right out of me. I don't believe much of superstition, or religion either -- though I don't mean to offend if you do -- but these very well could have been ghosts -- if they weren't, I don't know what they were. So, having possibly seen one, I can't completely discount a ghost story when it appears in a reliable newspaper, can I? In fact I read the article just the other day, and it drew out a whole history and life story for this particular ghost, the one that lives on the Gower. I can't say it sounds like a complete truth to me, but until I hear something better it's at least believable, partly, if you know what I mean."

David nodded.

"See, they said that a ghost is the spirit of a dead person, and this particular spirit belonged to a lady who had died out on the Gower, near Rhossili. She was Irish, not Welsh, but she had married a Welshman named Jack Davies." Joseph slapped his forehead. "Pardon my manners, lad. I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Joseph Watson. What's your name?" He offered his hand.

David took his hand and shook it. "David Jones," he answered.

"A good Welsh name, Jones. I'm English, of course, not Welsh, but I've lived in Wales the last eighteen years. You're Canadian?" David nodded. "What province are you from?"

"British Columbia," David said.

"I've not been there," said Joseph, seeming a bit sad about it. "Perhaps someday. As I was saying, though, they were telling about this Irish woman; her name was Katherine. This was not too long ago, before the war on the continent. World War II, that is. Her husband was wealthy, but so was she; she didn't marry him for money. They lived out in that great white house by Llanmadoc; have you seen it? Well, it is the largest in the Gower from what I've seen, nearly a mansion, and it was built up next to an old castle. They started to renovate the castle, patching up the stone again, and had it as sort of an annex to the house. The house is a museum now -- it's one of those Cadw Welsh Historical Monuments. Have you been there? It's worth seeing, from what I heard.


Into the Grey



"But then Hitler did his bit and there was a war, and Jack Davies went off to fight in it. He was young, but money mattered back then just like it does today, and they made him an officer of sorts. A lievtenant, the paper said, I believe. War is a nasty business; I can tell you that myself -- don't go into the service if you don't have to. But Jack Davies fought for several years on the continent somewhere and didn't take a wound for it. He came back to Llanmadoc for a few months, and the paper said that he and Katherine were madly in love and that sort of thing; I don't know how they think they know that, but that's what they said. But after that he left again for a post outside of London somewhere. His command was hit by one of those V-2 flying bombs, though, and not a trace of him was found. His wife Katherine refused to believe he was dead and pined for him for months, says the paper, before she killed herself jumping off Worm's Head into the sea. The paper dressed it up a bit, of course, I can't remember the particulars, but they say that she is 'the Gower Ghost', and 'haunts the nights waiting for her husband to return to her'. Or something near that." Joseph chuckled again, and David could not help but smile, if for no other reason than the man's infectious nature.

Joseph continued on into a related story, and he and David traded several rounds of drinks before the night was through. He had a natural gift for narration; David was drawn into his stories in part because the man was so friendly, but mostly because he was so interesting. He had lived more in his life than any other two or three men David had known, and it seemed he remembered every bit of it. And willing to tell it all in one evening, if such were the circumstances. Before Mr. Williams closed the inn down for the night, Joseph had given David his address and told him to stop by sometime, perhaps the next day even, and they could share another drink. David nodded and said he would.

The next morning David woke up and showered, then had breakfast downstairs in the dining room. It was included in the cost of the night's stay. Mrs. Williams knew the times for the Gower buslines pretty well -- she knew the times for the bus to Llanmadoc, in any case -- so David went back upstairs to brush his teeth and pull on his jacket and made it to the bus stop about ten minutes early. When the bus finally trumbled up the road, he climbed aboard and bought an all-day pass, with the thought of going to see Joe later on. With all the stops it was almost half an hour out to Llanmadoc, but it was still the middle of the morning and too early for the museum to be open. He bought a roll of film from the off-license shop and climbed a ways up a nearby slope to take some home-made panoramic shots of the morning cloudline rolling in. He would line up one side of the frame with a tree, take a shot, then line up that same tree on the other side of the frame and take a shot, and keep on going in that same way until he had about four or five frames in a row. The air was crisp and clear for miles this morning. The sky was the same vibrant blue it had been yesterday, and he imagined he could see Ireland out over the sea, beyond the thin black strip that was Carmarthen's district.

When he checked his watch and it read a few minutes past twelve, David put his camera away and tromped back down the slope and up the street to where the museum was. It was a big white house, practically a mansion, with a wrought-iron fence out front, just like Joe had described it, easily the biggest building he had seen on the Gower. It was probably twice the size of the Greyhound Inn, counting just the house itself. A round, bare-stone tower rose behind the house, and David saw a wall of the same material angling off through the trees that would describe an area at least twice the size of the house over again. He walked through the iron gate and up to the front door, which was unlocked. Inside, a small, grey woman sat on a stool beside a counter. Books for sale were propped up around her, and there was a colorful pamphlet on the 'Penbrynedd Museum and Castle' for a pound. A wire rack with postcards of the Gower, and Wales in general, stood near a corner. The old woman smiled as she greeted David and took his money for the entrance fee and one of the pamphlets.

"This was the entrance hall to the Penbrynedd manor," she said. Her voice was surprisingly strong for her size. "There were several paintings on the walls here before the home was restored, but we moved them to the upstairs bedrooms. Other than that, the house and castle both are nearly as they were when its last residents, the Lord Jack and Lady Katherine Davies, died. Each of the rooms has a large board standing in the middle which tells some of the history of the Gower, as well as that of the castle and the Davieses, in English on one side and Welsh on the other. The boards are numbered to lead you along the best path through the house and into the castle. The first room is through that doorway there. If you have any questions, please feel free to come back and ask me." Having finished her speech, she smiled again.

David thanked her and flipped open his pamphlet as he passed through the door. The first few rooms were interesting enough; they were about the history of the Gower in the earlier times, and some of it was worth knowing. One sign said the castle behind the house had been built as part of a chain by a Welsh prince named Gruffydd ap Rhys against the threat of Norman invasion, but did not last out more than a day when the army finally arrived. Another sign said Swansea, the large city where the Gower attached to Southern Wales, derived its name from Svenn's Ey, or Svenn's Aisle. Svenn was probably a Danish lord of some sort.

It wasn't until David climbed the stairs to the bedrooms that he really paid attention though. The sign in the first bedroom gave the history of the Davies family, which was long and melodramatic enough for a made-for-t.v. movie. There was even a red button that, once pressed, would start an audio narration, complete with voices and sound effects, of the Davies' family's involvement in the North American French and Indian War. David listened to it twice. The room for the McCulloughs, Katherine's side, was less dramatic, but certainly interesting. There were pictures of Katherine as a child, and of her family. She had had three older sisters, all of whom were beautiful. Her family had come from a richer part of Northern Ireland; but her father had secured the family's fortune later with a chain of breweries.

The third and last bedroom open to the public was devoted to Jack and Katherine themselves. He had not seen a picture of either as adults yet, so he stopped to study a large portrait of Katherine. She had been even more beautiful than her sisters, David thought -- the diamond in a family of jewels. She had a long, slender neck, a sharp chin, and dark eyebrows that set over a pair of eyes painted piercingly blue. In the painting her hair was a pile of red curls on top of her head, held by a gold clip. Her lips were red and full, and formed in a hint of a smile.

But it was when David turned to look at Jack's portrait that he stopped dead. He could have been looking at himself, if ten years older. David did not spend hours studying himself in the mirror, but he knew his own face, and this was it, or fairly close. The man in the painting had darker hair which was cut quite differently, in the time's fashion, and his chin and neck were stronger. His eyes were a different shade of blue, too; David's were not far from green. David spent almost an hour staring at the two dozen pictures of Jack in the room; from some angles and at certain ages he could have been a different man entirely, but for the most part, when the picture had a strong angle on his face, David knew he could have passed for him. He flipped through the pamphlet to see if he could find a picture of the man, but oddly enough the only picture was too small to make out anything more than that it was of a man with black hair and mustaches. 

David didn't read the board in the room; he skipped through the rest of the house as well, and went straight out to the castle. With half a mind for it he glanced at the boards as he wound through the stone-walled rooms, vaguely noting their various purposes and levels of restoration. At last he found his way to the tower, which happened to be across from Jack and Katherine's bedroom. He twisted up the circular staircase to the top room. Large, uncastle-like windows had been cut out of one side and filled with paned glass, and wooden benches lined the walls. A cushioned window seat was tucked under the large center window, and David sat himself on it. The board bolted to the stone wall across from him named this as the Observatory, and claimed it was Katherine's favorite room. David turned in the seat to look out the window; it gave a view over the River Loughor. It was mid-tide now, and marshes and mudflats extended for a couple of miles before reaching the river itself. A few tree-topped humps of land, probably islands when the tide was high, reached out in a chain from the left of the tower. Birds circled over the islands and stepped slowly across the mud, searching for shellfish. With the glass in the windows sealing the tower from the cold and the wind, the room was peaceful, and warmed with his own body heat. He thought he might fall asleep if he was not careful, but a glance at the pamphlet rolled up in his hand brought his mind back to his head.

He stood and went back down the stairs, through the castle and through the house to the entry hall where the old woman sat on her stool, reading glasses perched on her nose as she pored over a paperback novel. She noticed David come in, and closed the book on her finger. "Do you have a question?"

David nodded. "Do you have any books for sale with a picture of Jack and Katherine Davies in it; I mean one with a big picture; a portrait this big or so?" He held up his fingers to show a square about three by three inches. "It's Jack Davies in particular I'm looking for."

The old woman considered the question as she began poking through the books propped on the counter behind her. She decided on a particular book, thin but oversized and with a lot of black-and-white photographs. She opened it to the middle and flipped a few pages back, checking each page as she did so. At last she held it open to David; "There are several of Jack and Katherine in this chapter, I believe." David nodded as he took the book and studied the pictures for a few pages. "Will it do?" the woman asked.

David nodded and looked at the pictures. There was no reproduction of the portrait hanging upstairs, but there were two or three good versions of Jack's face. None of them showed quite the same resemblance he had noticed before, but they would do. "Yes, thank you. How much for it?"

"Twelve-pounds-fifty," the woman said, and thanked him when he paid her.

David left with the book in a paper bag under his arm and walked to the bus stop, where he stood waiting. Mrs. Williams had let him borrow a schedule of the busses when he told her his memory was not as sharp as hers, and he had figured out what busses to take to reach Joe's house. He took the long ride into Swansea's city centre, and bought a lunch there from Burger King. The bus to Joe's house left just as he returned to the bus station -- a few minutes early, he thought -- so he had to wait a half an hour for the next. He took the book he had bought out of the bag and looked through it again.

Joseph seemed surprised and happy when he opened the door a few hours later. His creased face wrinkled further and his eyes squinted as he smiled. He invited David in and offered him something to drink. "I didn't think you would come," he said. "There aren't too many young men like you who would be interested to come visit a crazy old fellow who talks too much." David grinned and assured him that he was very interested in a man with so many great stories. Joseph's wife came in from the kitchen and met David, and shook his hand, and smiled before leaving them to talk in the living room. Joseph's living room was fairly large, with two or three chairs, a couch, a t.v., and walls full of books. He had a small library. He noticed David's book right away and asked what it was. David showed it to him.

"'Llanmadoc Today and Yesterday'," he read. "Fascinating, no?" He chuckled and turned the book over in his hands. "You went out to the museum, then, did you? Good for you."

David nodded and took the book back when Joseph handed it to him. "I bought it because of a picture though." He flipped the book open and, after a moment, found the page he was looking for. Pointing to a particular plate, he handed the book back to Joseph again. "What do you think of that?"

Joseph looked over the photo and read the caption. "'Lord Jack Davies, 1934.' Ah, it's the husband of the woman ghost, is it?"

"Yeah, but does he look familiar?"

Joseph stared at the photo for a while more, and frowned. "Maybe. I can't say. There might have been a picture of him in the newspaper."

David frowned, too. "Do you think he looks like me a bit?" He turned his head to try to give Joseph the same angle.

Joseph looked at David and at the book, and at David again. "Well, yes, now that you say it, he does, a bit. When you stand with your head like that there is quite a resemblance. His chin juts out a bit more, but he could have been your father. What was your last name, again? Not Davies?"

"Jones," David said. "And the book said he didn't have any children, or any brothers or sisters, either. I don't think we could have been related; at least, not very closely. I know most of my family pretty well."

Joseph handed the book back again. "I'd bet he was a relative of yours, in some way. Maybe one of your uncles or aunts would know about it back home." Joseph's wife stuck her head into the room just as he asked, "Have you had tea yet?"

David said he had eaten, but after smelling what was cooking, he decided there was still room. Mrs. Watson seemed to take a joy in feeding him, and the three of them sat around the table for more than an hour. He didn't know where the time went; after tea story led to story, and soon it was time for dinner. The Watsons' daughter came home from work, having picked up her son on the way, and David met the both of them. When he noticed it was nearly eight, David said he should go if he wanted to catch the last bus, but Joseph told him he would drive him back if he wanted to stay. David gave in, and the next thing he knew it was past ten. Joseph agreed then that there was just enough time to drive David back and return himself before he had to be asleep, if he was to be up in time for the rugby match next morning.

When David stepped outside, the air was heavy and wet. The fog had rolled in again, even as far inland as Joseph's house was, and the headlights of the car did little to cut through it. Joseph drove expertly, though, apparently so accustomed to such conditions as to not even notice them. The ride by car was considerably shorter than that by bus, considering the much more direct route, but it still took almost an hour before they were out onto the Gower and not far from the Greyhound Inn.

Joseph had slowed to navigate the blind turns of the Gower roads, seeing as how with the fog they would not notice a car coming the opposite direction until it was only a dozen yards off. They passed few, though. Joseph was telling a story about when he was in the navy, how he had been able to spend the night sleeping among the rocks of Stonehenge (as it had not been fenced off back then). David was listening, but watching the banks of the road slip by out his window. Suddenly a flash of white went past on his side. He clapped his hand to the window and craned his neck to look out the back but, it was already gone. Joseph slowed and looked over at David. "What is it? Did you see something out there?"

"Ah, it was nothing, likely."

"We'll take a look and see." Joseph put his car in reverse and backed up. There was nothing, and nothing, and then the white out the window again. Joseph stopped and they both got out of the car. Without looking closer, David could see it was a white shirt snagged on the fence on the top of the bank. Joseph came around the car and walked over to reach up and tug the shirt down. "A ghost!" he said, holding up the shirt. "Congratulate yourself! I'd say we've caught the Gower Ghost, you and I. Perhaps we'll be in the papers." He chuckled and tossed the shirt down into the ditch before crossing around to his side of the car again. They drove on the remaining few miles to the inn in an odd silence.

Joseph stopped the car in front of the inn and came around to shake David's hand. "In case you are taken by the urge to move on, and I do not see you again, good luck to you, and it was a pleasure to meet you. I enjoyed having you to my house. If you come about this way again, you are always welcome. And since you have my address, drop a note sometime."

David assured him he would as they shook hands. Then Joe got in his car and drove off. Lights and the sound of people enjoying themselves came faintly through the windows from the dining rooms of the inn. David moved out from under the well-lit sign showing a greyhound in full stride and walked around to the darker side of the inn. The fog seemed a bit lighter here than it had been by Joe's house; it was thin enough to see a few stars and the moon, anyway. A nightbird called from somewhere a ways off, and David leaned against the side of the inn. The wall was warm behind him; there was likely a heater right on the other side of the wood. It was comfortable.

Then the mist cleared a bit and a white shape appeared at the edge of the grey. It could have been watching him -- he felt like there were eyes on him. It chilled his skin. It stayed there, and David stayed where he was. He was torn between running back around to the lighted side of the inn and going toward the white shape; the compromise was not to move at all. After a few minutes which seemed ten times as long, the shape moved slowly toward him. It flowed like a loose cloth teased by a breeze. The fog shifted around and through the white, until it began to pull back, revealing a shape. Pale, bare feet peeked out from beneath a white dress that came almost to the ground. The dress was simple, but it had the sheen and flow of silk. Arms covered to the wrists by long sleeves hung loosely at the sides. A high neck came up just under the chin of a pale face framed by loose, dark curls. Two black, depthless eyes reached out across the gap between them to hold David where he was. Bloodless lips opened slightly. Her face was only inches from his. She held his eyes still. At last came a cracked whisper between those lips. "You are come back to me." No breath came with the words. She reached up a hand to touch his face, and the cold of it ripped the heat from David's toes and tore it through his body. He ran, ran around the inn to the light and through the door into the safe inside; surely he would have been screaming if he would have had any breath.

He stood just inside the door and sucked air into his lungs. His knees were wobbling, and his arms bristled with goosepimples. A few men squeezed past him, coming from one of the dining rooms and heading outside to their cars. They were looking at David oddly, so he turned his eyes to the map of the Gower, pretending to study it. After a few minutes he glanced into the dining room he had eaten in up to now; Mr. Williams was in there, laughing with someone, and David didn't care to talk to him just now. 

Mrs. Williams was in the other, serving drinks and smiling, but not talking to anyone in particular. When he came up to the bar, a mirror of the one in the other room, she smiled at him. "There you are, love, I was starting to worry you weren't coming back after all. When you did not come back for your things, I decided you were likely staying for another night, and we saved you the room. You look half frozen, my dear! Have you been walking? It's nearly ... it is, midnight. Be sure to turn the heater up in your room, then. Would you like something to drink, now? I could boil you up a cuppa, if you fancy one."




Into the Grey



David nodded and shook his head in response to all of this, and when he started to dig through his wallet for money for the room, Mrs. Williams told him he could pay her in the morning. Thanking her, he went out the door and up the stairs to his room. He turned up the heater and changed into warm sleeping clothes, feeling somewhat numb. He dropped his worn clothes in the center of the floor, suddenly too tired to put them away. He reached out to flick off the lights, and the room fell into complete darkness. He turned for his bed, and stopped in midstep. There, at his second floor window, was the face of the woman in white, staring at him with those dark eyes. With a stifled shout he slapped the lights back on and crossed to the window, taking the last few steps slowly. The face was gone, replaced by pitch black; even with the room's light reflecting in the window he could see it wasn't there. He drew tight the curtains at the window and did the same for the other windows in the room. Then, his eyes still searching for signs of the face at the cracks of black around the edge of the curtains, he fell into bed. He slept with the lights on.

David woke up late the next morning. He might not have woken up for morning at all if Mr. Williams had not knocked at his door around nine-thirty. He ate breakfast downstairs again, paid for his room, and asked if he could take the room for another night; Mrs. Williams said, "Certainly, love."

The fog from the last night had remained through to the morning, and it was cold enough for there to be a light frost on the ground. David took a bus down to the end of the Gower Peninsula, to Rhossili. He took the steps down the cliffs and walked along the beach, staring out at the sea. Grey met grey with a fading grey spanning the distance between. Rhossili was supposed to be one of the most beautiful spots in the whole beautiful Gower -- postcards attested to this -- but it felt dead today. Even the green grass crowning the islets of Worm's Head looked black and dreary. There were no birds. Sometimes he would see spots of white on the water, but it was only the wavecaps. Eventually he turned around and went back the way he had come.

By the time he'd climbed up the steps from the beach back to the town, David had decided to skip lunch and go back to the museum. It was not an impossible walk to Llanmadoc from Rhossili if he hurried it, but it was past one already and he was not sure how late the museum would be open. The bus was not by any means direct, but it was still faster than walking.

He went through the iron gate, and paused to wipe his feet before going through the large white door into the museum. The curator was sitting on the same stool reading the same book. She looked up and smiled at David before she recognized him. "You were here yesterday, weren't you, and bought a book?" She was friendly, and evidently surprised to see a return visitor. When David nodded, she asked, "Did you know about our two-day pass? It is good for any of the Cadw historical monuments, and is less than the cost of two tickets."

David shook his head. "No, I didn't. I had not thought I'd come back until just a few hours ago, but thank you." The woman smiled and sold him his ticket.

David skipped past what he'd seen the day before, especially the bedrooms, and took the rest of the tour through the museum. His mind was not on it, though, and after standing in the Observatory, watching the grey out the large windows, he went back to the bedrooms.

He did not know the time when the curator came through looking for him. He was staring at the pictures of Jack and Katherine Davies again. She stopped in the door. "The museum will be closing in a quarter hour, sir."

David turned to look at her, then nodded. "This picture -- do you notice a resemblance? With me, I mean."

She looked past him to the large portrait of Jack. She tapped a finger against her lip, and looked between the picture and David. "Yes, I think I do. It is quite strong, actually, except for the chin, though I would not have noticed but for you asking. Are you related to Lord Davies?"

David shrugged. "I don't know for sure. I don't know of any Davieses in my lines, but there could be."

"What is your name, then?" she asked.

"Jones."

"Yes, there could be. Jones and Davies both are good Welsh names. You might consider looking into it." She smiled. "I can sell you a two-day pass for minus the price of your ticket, if you'd like to come back tomorrow."

He shook his head but smiled. "No, but thank you though. I'll be right along."

She left him, and a few minutes later he followed. She said goodnight to him and locked the door when he left. It was dark already, and he didn't have his flashlight with him. The fog filled the spaces between houses and trees and road, making it difficult to see where to go, but in a town this small it was not difficult to remember where the bus stop was. There was a bench, which he sat on. After about fifteen minutes passed, a bus came along, but it was the wrong line and David waved it on. Another fifteen minutes passed, and then it was half an hour. He realized he must have just missed the last bus, since they came every hour. Rather than continue to wait, he decided to walk back to the museum. Even if he missed the bus again, there should be three more, and he could walk to the inn from here if it came to it.

He made his way in the fog, back to the large house, around the iron fence to the back, where it joined the old castle. The ground sloped down steeply where the house stopped and the castle started, so he had to walk slowly so as not to slip. He knew the house would be locked up tight, especially with the value of the furnishings inside, but since the castle had never been completely restored, openings in the walls still remained. He had not considered the slope into the equation before then, though, so he stood at the bottom of the castle for a few moments looking at those large cracks some twenty feet above him. Finally he set hand and foot to the rocks below the broken wall and scrambled up to and through a crack. A bright light illuminating the small courtyard blinded him momentarily, but he slipped behind a wall and let them re-adjust to the dark. He crossed the walkway to the tower and stepped inside the doorway. There was not enough light in the tower even to make out the first stair, but he felt with his feet and leaned against the wall, and slowly made his way around and around and up to the top step and the Observatory.

The fog was low, apparently, or the tower high enough to receive some moonlight; there was enough light, in any case, to see the pale outline of the window seat. He crossed to it and sat down, looking out the window. In the darkness grey blanketed grey, and a silver-blue glow frosted its edges. The tips of a few evergreen trees below the tower dully reflected the yellow courtyard light.

He woke up when the light in the courtyard was turned off; or at least he could not see the yellow against the trees anymore.

He woke up again when the fog had cleared considerably, enough for him to see the black waters of high tide holding at the edge of the marsh a mile off. There were a few dim stars, and the moonlight showed the outlines of the trees. He shifted on the cushion and rubbed his neck to loosen it. His eyes began to blink slowly, heavily, but he forced them open. They resisted. He placed his hands on the window; it was freezing, but it did nothing to wake him up. He looked out over the marsh again. There, on the edge of the waters, where grey ghosted along black, a white shape moved softly. His breath fogged the window and he wiped it off, but the white was still there. It was still now, and seemed almost to be looking back up at the tower. David watched it, and then it was gone. He searched to the left and right, along the edge of the river and between the trees, but there was no trace of it.

He rose, and turned for the stairs. There, at their head, was the woman in white. She stood there, staring at him with those depthless black eyes, and he stared at her. She blocked the exit. Her cold and David's warmth swirled through the room, coalescing and eddying, sending chills through his chest. She took a step closer. "Jack." Her voice was a broken whisper. "I ...I thought I saw you. You were waiting for me. You are home. I ...I was out on the beach, Jack. Waiting for you."

David sat down on the seat again, and she came and knelt before him. Her eyes had been black before, hugely black with no pupil, but now instead they seemed a pale blue. Her hair had taken color, as had her lips. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, they glistened. "You are returned to me, and you will not leave again." Her voice was softer now, a true voice instead of a whisper. "It could not be, Jack. I could not bear it, and I would die." She blinked, her eyes wet. "Jack?"

Jack answered. "Yes?"

"Say you'll not leave again. Say you'll stay with me forever."

Jack pulled her to him, and she embraced him, kissed him. A tear from her eye brushed his cheek. She was still cold, but when their lips met he gave her his warmth and shared her cold until they met in the middle. He pressed her face to his chest, and she clung to him. The grey had seeped in through the windows, and it clung to both of them. "I say it, Katherine. Forever."