John Ross closed his eyes against the tears that suddenly welled up. “I just want my life back. I just want this to be over.”
He felt the rain on his hands, heard the sound of the drops striking the rocks and trees and stream, small splashes and mutterings that whispered of other things, “Please, help me,” he said quietly.
But when he looked up again, the ghost of Owain Glyndwr was gone, and he was alone.
He climbed out of the Fairy Glen and returned-walking mare than half the distance before he found a ride-to his inn. He ate dinner in the public rooms and drank several pints of the local ale, thinking on what he would do, on what he believed must happen. The rain continued to fall, but as midnight neared it eased off to a slow, soft drizzle that was mare mist than ram.
The innkeeper let him borrow his car, and Ross drove out to the Fairy Glen and parked in the little parking lot and walked once more to the gap in the fence. The night was clouded and dark, the world filled with shadows and wet sounds, and the interlaced branches of the trees formed a thick net that looked as if it were poised to drop over him. He eased his way through the gap and proceeded carefully down the narrow, twisting trail. The Fairy Glen was filled with the sound of water rushing over the rocks of the rain-swollen stream, and the rutted trail was slick with moisture. Ross took a long time to reach the floor of the ravine, and once there he stood peering about cautiously for a long time. When nothing showed itself he walked to the edge of the stream and stood looking back at the falls.
But the fairies, those pinpricks of scattered, whirling bright light he remembered so well, did not appear. Nor did the Lady. Nor did Owain Glyndwr. He stood in the darkness and rain for hours, waiting patiently and expectantly, willing them to appear, reaching out to them with his thoughts, as if by the force of his need alone he could make them materialize. But no one carne.
He returned to his rooms in disappointment, slept for mast of the day, rose to eat, waited anew, and went out again the following night. And again, no one appeared. He refused to give up. He went out each night for a week and twice more during the days, certain that someone would appear, that they could not ignore him entirely, that his determination and persistence would yield him something.
But it was as if that other world had ceased to exist. The Lady and the fairies had vanished completely. Not even Owain returned to speak with him. Not a hint of the magic revealed itself. Time after time he waited at the edge of the stream, a patient supplicant. Surely they would not abandon him when he needed help so badly. At same point they would speak to him, if only to reject his plea. His pain was palpable. They must heel it. Wasn’t he entitled to at least the reassurance that they understood]) The rain continued to fall in steady sheets, the forests of Snowdonia stayed dark and shadowy, and the oar continued damp and cold in the wake of fall’s passing and the approach of winter.
Finally he went home to America. He despaired of ,giving up, but there seemed to be no other choice. It was clear he was to be given no audience, to be offered no further contact. He was wasting his time. He packed his bags, bussed and trained his way back to Heathrow, boarded a plane.” and flew home. He thought more than once to turn around and go back to the Fairy Glen, to try again, but he knew in his heart it was futile. By choosing to give up his office, he had made himself an outcast. Perhaps Owain Glyndwr was right, that once you gave up an the magic, it gave up on you, as well. He no longer felt a part of it, that much was certain. Even when he touched the tune-scrolled length of his staff he could find no sign of life. He had wanted to distance himself from the magic, and apparently he had done so.