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About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
AUTHOR’S NOTE (#ulink_1a2ab216-d39e-50a4-a66c-dadd2ba6e95a)
I am indebted to Betty Greaves, who saw the pattern; to Professor Gwyn Jones and Professor Thomas Jones, for permission to use copyright material in the text; and to Dafydd Rees Cilwern, for his patience.
A. G
INTRODUCTION (#ulink_efe8be0d-65ea-5eb9-9615-f7b4395af503)
When this book was first published, in 1967, I was an undergraduate at Oxford reading English, and I remember the sensation it caused – not among the academics, for whom children’s literature was an area of no interest whatsoever, but among those of us who had arrived at university with our heads already harbouring an unhealthy fascination with hobbits and elves and so on. Tolkien was all the rage, but we weren’t allowed to take an academic interest in that sort of thing because fantasy was as un-literary, as looked down on, as an enthusiasm for books that children read. The fantasy fans had already read and enjoyed the three earlier books by Alan Garner, The Weirdstone of Brisingamen (1960), The Moon of Gomrath (1963) and Elidor (1965), but The Owl Service was something new, and tougher, and truer than anything we’d yet seen.
Like the earlier books, and unlike The Lord of the Rings, The Owl Service is set in our world, the “real” world as we call it. The fantastical elements irrupt into everyday life: the realistic settings and characters experience and are altered by their encounters with the mythical or the other-worldly. This way of writing a story is sometimes known as “low fantasy”, in contrast to the “high fantasy” of the Tolkien sort, where everything is made up. I think it’s a useful distinction, and I vastly prefer the low to the high.
What distinguishes The Owl Service from its predecessors, and from pretty well anything else published for children until then, is something uncompromising in the telling. We have to keep our wits about us as we read: everything we need is there, and nothing we don’t need. A great deal of the text consists of dialogue, which is sharp and tense and brilliantly economical. As a way of revealing character, Garner’s dialogue is unsurpassed: we can almost see the patronising, unperceptive, well-intentioned and severely limited Clive, the nervy, quick-witted, imaginative, generous, rebellious Gwyn. Clive’s relationship with his stepdaughter, Alison, could hardly be better revealed than through his own words:
“You’re looking a bit peaky this morning,” said Clive. “Sure you’re OK? Mustn’t overdo things, you know. Not good for a young lady.”
The tension in the family situation is made even more vivid by the setting. Garner is exceptionally sensitive to the atmosphere of places, and the Welsh valley where he conceived the story, and where the TV version was filmed, is a powerful and oppressive character in its own right. I have driven past that valley many times, and never without feeling glad to have left it behind. Setting and people, both living and mythical, combine in this wonderful novel to produce an effect unlike anything else in fiction. Is it a children’s book? Of course it is, and of course it’s not only for children. Nowadays, I’m very glad to say, children’s literature is taken seriously by academe, and not dismissed as trivial. The Owl Service is one of the books that made that both possible and necessary. Fifty years after it was first published, we can see that it was always a classic.
Philip Pullman
CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_418351af-e513-524b-9bfd-86ee1663ec53)
“How’s the bellyache, then?”
Gwyn stuck his head round the door. Alison sat in the iron bed with brass knobs. Porcelain columns showed the Infant Bacchus and there was a lump of slate under one leg because the floor dipped.
“A bore,” said Alison. “And I’m too hot.”
“Tough,” said Gwyn. “I couldn’t find any books, so I’ve brought one I had from school. I’m supposed to be reading it for Literature, but you’re welcome: it looks deadly.”
“Thanks anyway,” said Alison.
“Roger’s gone for a swim. You wanting company are you?”
“Don’t put yourself out for me,” said Alison.
“Right,” said Gwyn. “Cheerio.”
He rode sideways down the banisters on his arms to the first-floor landing.
“Gwyn!”
“Yes? What’s the matter? You OK?”
“Quick!”
“You want a basin? You going to throw up, are you?”
“Gwyn!”
He ran back. Alison was kneeling on the bed.
“Listen,” she said. “Can you hear that?”
“That what?”
“That noise in the ceiling. Listen.”
The house was quiet. Mostyn Lewis-Jones was calling after the sheep on the mountain: and something was scratching in the ceiling above the bed.
“Mice,” said Gwyn.
“Too loud,” said Alison.
“Rats, then.”
“No. Listen. It’s something hard.”
“They want their claws trimming.”
“It’s not rats,” said Alison.
“It is rats. They’re on the wood: that’s why they’re so loud.”
“I heard it the first night I came,” said Alison, “and every night since: a few minutes after I’m in bed.”
“That’s rats,” said Gwyn. “As bold as you please.”
“No,” said Alison. “It’s something trying to get out. The scratching’s a bit louder each night. And today – it’s the loudest yet – and it’s not there all the time.”
“They must be tired by now,” said Gwyn.
“Today – it’s been scratching when the pain’s bad. Isn’t that strange?”
“You’re strange,” said Gwyn. He stood on the bed, and rapped the ceiling. “You up there! Buzz off!”
The bed jangled as he fell, and landed hard, and sat gaping at Alison. His knocks had been answered.
“Gwyn! Do it again!”
Gwyn stood up.
Knock, knock.
Scratch, scratch.
Knock.
Scratch.
Knock knock knock.
Scratch scratch scratch.
Knock – knock knock.
Scratch – scratch scratch.
Gwyn whistled. “Hey,” he said. “These rats should be up the Grammar at Aberystwyth.” He jumped off the bed. “Now where’ve I seen it? – I know: in the closet here.”
Gwyn opened a door by the bedroom chimney. It was a narrow space like a cupboard, and there was a hatch in the ceiling.
“We need a ladder,” said Gwyn.
“Can’t you reach if you stand on the washbasin?” said Alison.
“Too chancy. We need a pair of steps and a hammer. The bolt’s rusted in. I’ll go and fetch them from the stables.”
“Don’t be long,” said Alison. “I’m all jittery.”
“ ‘Gwyn’s Educated Rats’: how’s that? We’ll make a packet on the telly.”
He came back with the stepladder, hammer and a cage trap.
“My Mam’s in the kitchen, so I couldn’t get bait.”
“I’ve some chocolate,” said Alison. “It’s fruit and nut: will that do?”
“Fine,” said Gwyn. “Give it us here now.”
He had no room to strike hard with the hammer, and rust and old paint dropped in his face.
“It’s painted right over,” he said. “No one’s been up for years. Ah. That’s it.”
The bolt broke from its rust. Gwyn climbed down for Alison’s torch. He wiped his face on his sleeve, and winked at her.
“That’s shut their racket, anyway.”
As he said this the scratching began on the door over his head, louder than before.
“You don’t have to open it,” said Alison.
“And say goodbye to fame and fortune?”
“Don’t laugh about it. You don’t have to do it for me. Gwyn, be careful. It sounds so sharp: strong and sharp.”
“Who’s laughing, girlie?” He brought a dry mop from the landing and placed the head against the door in the ceiling. The scratching had stopped. He pushed hard, and the door banged open. Dust sank in a cloud.
“It’s light,” said Gwyn. “There’s a pane of glass let in the roof.”
“Do be careful,” said Alison.
“‘“Is there anybody there?” said the Traveller’ – Yarawarawarawarawara!” Gwyn brandished the mop through the hole. “Nothing, see.”
He climbed until his head was above the level of the joists. Alison went to the foot of the ladder.
“A lot of muck and straw. Coming?”
“No,” said Alison. “I’d get hayfever in that dust. I’m allergic.”
“There’s a smell,” said Gwyn: “a kind of scent: I can’t quite – yes: it’s meadowsweet. Funny, that. It must be blowing from the river. The slates feel red hot.”
“Can you see what was making the noise?” said Alison.
Gwyn braced his hands on either side of the hatch and drew his legs up.
“It’s only a place for the water tanks, and that,” he said. “No proper floor. Wait a minute, though!”
“Where are you going? Be careful.” Alison heard Gwyn move across the ceiling.
In the darkest corner of the loft a plank lay over the joists, and on it was a whole dinner service: squat towers of plates, a mound of dishes, and all covered with grime, straw, droppings and blackened pieces of birds’ nests.
“What is it?” said Alison. She had come up the ladder and was holding a handkerchief to her nose.
“Plates. Masses of them.”
“Are they broken?”
“Nothing wrong with them as far as I can see, except muck. They’re rather nice – green and gold shining through the straw.”
“Bring one down, and we’ll wash it.”
Alison saw Gwyn lift a plate from the top of the nearest pile, and then he lurched, and nearly put his foot through the ceiling between the joists.
“Gwyn! Is that you?”
“Whoops!”
“Please come down.”
“Right. Just a second. It’s so blooming hot up here it made me go sken-eyed.”
He came to the hatch and gave Alison the plate.
“I think your mother’s calling you,” said Alison.
Gwyn climbed down and went to the top of the stairs.
