The low hum of unsophisticated, friendly chatter ceased at the precise moment the three black shadows, improbably lengthened by the sun’s angle low in the western sky crossed the threshold of the Drovers pub. The giants to whom the shadows belonged entered a second later bulked out in heavy duty riding leathers and topped with full face visor helmets, which added significant inches to their height.

“Take off your helmets please” said Dai the Bar, trying to sound braver than he felt, “We don’t want no trouble ’ere, bach …”

“We didn’t plan trying to drink beer without taking them off!”. The one who was fractionally in front suited action to word, but didn’t appear a great deal smaller: his long, thick blonde tresses sprang loose, as if they’d been crammed tight beneath his helmet and now demanded their freedom. “We’ll have three pints of Brains SA, please …”

They sat at a table next to an expansive bay window where they could keep at least one eye on their bikes, racked neatly close to the half-doors of the pub entrance. Although the pub wasn’t in a town (or even a small village) it had a large, well-tended parking area to accommodate all the hill walkers and mountaineers who used it as their base camp for most of the year. Top-of-the-range bikes such as Frank’s Harley Davidson or Mike’s Triumph Bonneville were crowd magnets, even in the depths of the Welsh countryside. Curiously Pete’s Kawasaki, although it could outperform either of them, attracted less attention - probably because it was less ostentatious, more of a workhorse.

“D’you notice, they’ve done it again!” Mike groused. indicating the whole room with a flicker of his glass.

“Done what, Mike?”

“Switched t’ jabberin’ along in bloody Welsh, Pete, soon’s we walked in! I could hear someone talking about Liverpool’s match when we walked past the open window, they do it deliberately!”

“Chill, Mike! Even if they do, don’t forget they live here all year round: if they want a bit o’ privacy when furr-iners like us walk in, well ”

“Our money’s good enough for them though, innit?” Frank muttered: he seemed to be favouring Mike’s side of the argument. He drained his glass: they’d been on the road a couple of hours, and they were all thirsty.

“Listen, lets go and set up the tents while there’s still plenty of daylight: we can always walk back down for a few scoops later on …!”

“Jayz, I could have done without that!” Pete growled. They’d set up camp in the same farm field they’d used several times before, but when they got back from the pub just before midnight they discovered that they were sharing the field with about a hundred sheep, possibly more.

“As long as they don’t keep us up all night with their bleating an’ such!” Mike sighed.

“An’ last time it took me over a week to get rid of the sheepshit marks on my leathers” Frank added, “and the smell was still there another week or more.”

He dug his hand in his pocket, dragged out his ignition keys and gave the throttle several long, angry wrenches. The powerful engine roared, reflecting off the trees around the perimeter of the field and rebounding from the hills in the mid distance. The sheep scattered in panic, baaing and bleating as they ran.

“That’ll larn ‘em!” he laughed. Mike frowned.

“The shepherd’s brought the flock to this field to be safe for the night. He’s not going to be too chuffed to find them scattered to the four winds tomorrow morning when he brings the dogs to go back up the hill, or wherever they graze during the day!”

“”Ha! Don’t be such a wimp, Mike1 If I could have it my way, I’d shoot the bloody dog an’ chase ‘em all off the hill with my Harley!”

*** 

All but invisible between the tall reeds on the banks of Llyn Cowlyd, Huw Gryffud flicked his rod with a minimum of effort and watched as the bait flew exactly where he wanted it, a good twenty yards from the bank, just where the lake dropped into its deepest part. Though barely eleven, he saw himself as a trophy hunter. For the last three days he’d seen something enormous gliding just below the surface, back and forth. Today he’d come out earlier, just after daybreak: that was the time the really big ones are out on the hunt, he told himself. It was too long, too slim to be a carp: it was more the shape of a salmon, or perhaps a pike? Now there was a scrapper, a worthy opponent if he could land it. What he hadn’t thought about, in his childlike innocence, was the sheer power of the lean. mean. fighting machine a specimen-size pike would present …

And there it was! A ripple on the totally still surface of the lake and a hint of something dull yellowy-gold and suddenly the rod was alive in his hands. He felt the immense power of his prey as the hook drove solidly home and the battle of wits began.

“Never forget: the fish has a ‘Home Team’ advantage. The lake (or the river) is his environment, not yours.” This advice, from older more experienced anglers ran through Huw’s mind as he fought to gain control. Three times he had the fish less than two rod lengths from the shoreline but was forced to ease off, unable to scoop it up in his landing net, which he was beginning to think might not be big enough when (if) he got the opportunity to use it.

He eased off once more and sensed this time that his quarry was slower to pull away: the relentless attempts to escape had weakened it, the battle was turning in Huw’s favour. He still had to be cautious, but now he had good grounds to hope for success. He took the strain and began one more patient attempt at reeling in his prize. This time there was a definite difference. It was almost like reeling in a tree stem or some other inanimate object fouled on his hook: there was no fight or resistance, ass if the fish had given up, or had been rendered unconscious from exertion. He continued to reel in as close as he dared, then raised his rod to a vertical position and stepped off the bank. The cold, black waters of the Loch reached almost to his waist: his bright yellow waders kept him dry. From this angle, and dealing with an exhausted fish, using the landing net was much easier.

Exhausted, but still alive – and neither salmon nor pike, though of a size which would be worth checking against current record weights. But before he could do that, he had to be certain which records he ought to be checking. He thought he could identify all that bred and swam in British waters, but this was … different.

It didn’t have the sleek, plump scales of a salmon, or the standard rose pink flash of colour on its belly. Nor was it equipped with the powerful, lethal jaws of a specimen size pike. And the colour of the scales was something he’d never seen before in any fish: a golden yellow throughout from its nostrils to its powerful tail, with a few black feathery fins as navigational aids. Huw was reluctant to lift it completely out of the water. He knew that would make breathing more difficult than it already was, and he had no wish to cause his defeated opponent more pain.. He laid his rod aside and swiftly disengaged the hook from the fish’s mouth. He let it lie in the shallow water, secure in the folds of his landing net. He studied it once more, trying to be objective. If it had been a pike or a salmon of similar proportions, he’d have guessed at 35 to 40 pounds – an excellent size for a ‘food fish’ such as salmon (he wasn’t sure if anyone actually cooked and ate pike) but he didn’t think even 40 pounds would be a new British record for either species.

He haddn’t brought any scales with him, and didn’t have any books on British fish either, but he knew of at least one person who could help him identify what he’d caught. Carefully (and somewhat reluctantly) he began packing away his rod and all his fishing gear, leaving his catch in the net until last. When everything else had been secured to his bicycle he opened up a large, sturdy plastic bag, placed several scoops of lake water in it, and transferred the fish into it. Its gills still heaved and its tail flapped weakly, confirming it was still alive, but Huw had no idea how long that might last. It was imperative he find the Druid, Gwyddon, as quickly as possible.

Chapter 2

“It’s no use! I can’t get a wink o’ sleep, not with all them sheep bleating away all night! Don’t they ever sleep?”

“Calm down, Frank!” Pete countered, “I’ve known you sleep through a Def Leppard concert before now …!”

“Yeah, but they were terrible, that night … nah, this is different, the night’s so quiet out here, the least little thing’s enough to keep me awake. I’ve half a mind to fire up my bike, round ‘em all up and chase ‘em outta the field and down into the valley…!”

Frank had the advantage on Pete and Mike. He’d decided to roll one final smoke before turning in: other than unzipping (but not as yet removing) his boots he was fully clothed. Pete and Mike had stripped and crawled into their sleeping bags. The first hint they had of Frank turning threat into reality was when they heard his ignition key jingle as he strapped up his helmet and fired the engine. Before they had time to react he was away, and the soft baa-ing had turned to terrified bleats as the flock scattered before his halogen headlight spread. Over the years, Frank had fitted as many lights and mirrors as any European space satellite might carry. The traditional wooden five-bar gate had seen better days, and crumbled to matchwood once more than three or four sheep were penned against it by their frantic followers. Fate had them turn left, away from the only town of any size, and they charged unchallenged into the darkness of the thinly populated Snowdonian National Park, pursued by Frank, screaming obscenities as he ruthlessly gunned the engine of his Harley-D, not caring where they were headed.

Of course there were casualties. Sheep are placid by nature and unused to prolonged, strenuous activity such as galloping at full speed to avoid capture. Some swerved, terrified, and fell into ditches. Others failed to negotiate a twist in the country lane and ran straight into a thick bush, becoming tangled: these at least had a fair chance of surviving long enough to be found and rescued.

When Frank noticed that the number of sheep bouncing about in his headlights was considerably less than it had been, the blood-lust in his brain eased and he was capable of some slightly more coherent thought. He kicked the bike into neutral and allowed it to tick over while he thought.

He hadn’t turned off the road. To return to the camp site, all he had to do was turn around and drive back the way he’d come. The serious nature of what he’d done had yet to unfold in all its graphic glory, but he knew it couldn’t be counted as a mad schoolboy prank, petty crime or minor misdemeanour. As the short summer night paled to dawn and he saw the broken bodies and stiffening corpses of the sheep that finished up in ditches the enormity of his actions began to sink in.

There were a handful of sheep still in the field when he got back. Pete and Mick were also there: they’d packed all three tents and were anxious to be away before the farmer (whom they assumed would be an early riser) came along and witnessed the carnage.

“ … and if you’d been another five minutes – ten, tops! – we’d have buggared off and left you to face the music on y’r own!” Pete growled, “Why d’yer do something that stupid? We can never show our faces down here again – we’ll be lucky if the Rozz aren’t lookin’ for us before we get back to Liverpool!”

Chapter 3

Huw pedalled furiously up the steep road leading out of the village and away from the main road leading down to the pearl-string of restaurants, hotels and other accommodation along several miles of the Welsh coastline which were popular with tourists for eight or nine months each year.

He scooted past two or three minor junctions, none of them deemed important enough to merit a roadsign informing a chance traveller where it led – the assumption being, only local people would be heading in that direction, and they would already know where they were going (and recording the name of the village or hamlet in both Welsh and English required considerably larger signboards).

The tarmac’ed road developed a terminal dose of less well maintained sections and increasingly scabby potholes before giving up all pretence of council responsibility and petering out into a meandering track of beaten dirt. It ended at a narrow gate, secured by a rusted padlock between high hedges. Vehicles of any size (particularly those large enough to require wheels in four corners as opposed to a humble bicycle such as Huw was riding) were definitely discouraged.

Huw was unconcerned. He’d ventured out this way many times without ever encountering anyone else who’d made the trip. For him, not possessing a key wasn’t a problem: normally he’d leave his bike on the roadside and thrash his way through the hedge, confident that no casual sneak thief would wander past and steal his means of transport home. For once he paused, staring at the parcel basket mounted over the front wheel. He still had to make his way up a steep, pathless hillside to find the Druid and ask his advice, and he really needed to carry with him a certain strong plastic bag containing a fish and a gallon or so of the lake water needed to keep it alive. Even if he had to push the bike instead of riding it, that would surely be easier than carrying the bag in his arms (as it was too heavy to carry comfortably one-handed). He cast about, examining the tall hedge twenty to thirty yards either side of the gate until he found a weak spot where it was thinner, due to poor soil quality or perhaps winter storm damage. The cause was of no consequence for Huw: he was simply grateful for the chance to force his bike through the gap, careful not to puncture the plastic bag and risk suffocating the unidentified fish, his reason for consulting the wisest person he knew, the Druid.

His target was a small copse of trees, mostly sycamore, standing just below the summit. Little else grew on the hill: the trees provided the only protection from the weather, which was harsh most of the year at these heights. It was the only place where even a Druid could hope to find sufficient shelter. Huw kept his eyes down and concentrated on the ground immediately in front of him, constantly scanning for shards of flint and other dangers: a puncture to either tyre this far from home could prove disastrous.

He reached the woods without mishap and sank gratefully to sit, supporting himself against the trunk of the nearest tree. If only he’d thought to bring along a bottle of water … suddenly he discovered a small bush of plump, ripe blueberries growing under his right hand, inches from where he was sitting. With a sincere whisper of thanks he stripped the bush, being careful not to crush a single berry so the juice ended up in his stomach, not wasted as stains on his fingers.

He stood and cast a glance between the trees. Was it his imagination, or was that a path, a track of some sort, even if only the suspicion of a trail worn by the occasional passing rabbit? In the absence of anything else  to follow, Huw padded along deeper into the copse.

“Croeso.”

Roughly Huw’s height (if you discounted the tall, pointed hat) but with a snow-white beard which almost reached his brass-buckled shoes, the Druid appeared from behind a tree: or perhaps he’d been standing there, waiting for Huw to negotiate that specific bend.

“I return your greeting, Druid Gwyddon: croeso, and most welcome! I seek your advice …”

“I know your name, Huw: I have seen you in this stand of sacred trees and on this mountain many times, and you never cause damage to any living thing here. But how is it, you know my name?”

“My grandmother treats many ailments in our village, and she is also full of tales of times and people from the past. I need your advice to care for an animal – a fish I fail to recognise …”

Gwyddon nodded and accepted the plastic bag Huw offered but made no attempt to open it. Instead he turned to his right and began to walk away. Not a word had been spoken, but Huw sensed that he was invited/expected to follow and hurried after the Druid, leaving his bicycle leaning against a tree. A short walk (and two sharp zigs, changing direction) led to an open glade which fronted a cavern. A trickle of water spooled the rock vertically on one side of the cave mouth, filling a small pool edged with smooth round boulders: a natural gap had been left at the lowest point to allow water to flow out of the pool and cascade away downhill.

Gwyddon stood near the inflow immediately by the cave mouth and gently eased the fish out of the bag, murmuring soft sounds. Huw was unable to hear any words- was it possible to talk to a fish, even if you were a Druid? – but there was a certain rhythm to the sounds, as if Gwyddon were reciting a poem or singing a fragment of a song. He paused, seeming satisfied and stooped low, releasing the fish into the pool with great care.

“You have done well to bring this fish to me, Huw. He was in some pain with the sharp thing in his mouth when you caught him, but once you had him on the ground before you, you knew what you needed to do next.”

“The tear in his mouth will heal fairly quickly, and there is no other lasting damage that I can see or sense” Gwyddon said with a soft smile “but don’t make a habit of this!”

“I brought the fish to you to ask if you can tell me what it is? Because until today I thought I knew all the fish that live and swim in these parts, both fresh and salt water, but this is one I have not encountered before.!

Gwyddon gazed down at the fish, which was still lying motionless in the shallowest water at the upper rim of the pool, scant inches from the Druid’s toecaps. He leant forwards on his staff and appeared to pause between breaths as if it helped him to concentrate.

“You set me a pretty riddle, young man!” he said, but there was neither malice nor rebuke in his voice.  “I have warded this location, mountain and forest, through many generations. Even by a magician’s reckoning (or a Druid’s) I am old, older than any mortal man can imagine! Yet this fish – it is from a time which pre-dates even the oldest Druid. The time is … I hesitate to say, ‘measured’ but that is the only term I can find! The time this fish lived in any lake of this country can only be measured in thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of what you so swiftly refer to as years! Skeletons from that time have been found, and the species given the name verdace. That is as much as I can tell you for the moment, Huw. Does that help?”

“I think so – I’m just not sure who I…”

        “ … can tell? Perhaps that question will answer itself, in time. The  best thing you can do right now, if you want to help this fish and me would be if you go back to the lake and try to catch another one? If there is a way to help them breed, the species might survive.”

Chapter 4

“Anything on the News?”

“Not BBC – but it’s only local news, it might be on ITV, or Wales – do they have a TV station?”

“Nah, that’s in Cardiff, innit? Nothing in North Wales …”

“Try the radio, then: what’s the frequency ..?”

“We got back last night, and nobody’s come banging on the door yet. I reckon we’re safe …”

“Too many kids eyeballin’ the bikes in the pub car park. Someone’s gonna want to know where we got to –an’ the farmer’s gonna see someone’s camped there and smashed the gate …”

“Yis, but we never done that …!”

“And the sheep wouldn’t have charged the gate if you hadn’t chased  ’em, Frank! Bustin’ the gate’s hardly a crime compared with killing god knows how many sheep by driving them into ditches or off a cliff edge!”

“Yeah, orright! Listen, look in the Echo, see if you can find an FM guide for Harlech or any of the Welsh radio stations …..”

Reception was at best scratchy and drifted on and off station, but by midday the Snowdon Sheep Stampede had earned a passing mention in a Welsh local radio chatroom. The aggrieved farmer told the police he’d lost “Well over a hundred head” ready to be sheared and taken to market.

“That’ll be 50 tops, most with mangy fleece an’ more mutton than lamb” Pete sneered, “He’s got at least one eye on the compo he can screw outta the insurers!”

“Hang on!” Mike said suddenly, “ … there’s more!”

“  … and in a possible link” the newsreader continued, “ one of the dead sheep was discovered crushed under the front wheel of a Ford Transit van on a notorious accident black spot bend just outside Capel Curig. The van was reported stolen two days ago by a firm in Aberystwyth: there was no sign of a driver or other passenger. Police are working on the theory that it was taken by joyriders. They don’t believe there’s a connection between the two events: an updated version of cattle rustling taking place in Welsh Wales is considered unlikely.”

“We’re in the clear, then!” Frank said, “ ’Cos none of us robbed a Trannie van, no way!”

“As long as nobody starts asking about the bikes, and how come they disappeared so fast” Mike pointed out, but even he thought it unlikely.

Chapter 5

Huw wasted no time following Gwyddon’s suggestion and raced back through the woods to retrieve his bicycle. Flinging himself on it he hurtled down the steep hill, somehow missing all the biggest and most dangerous potholes as he aimed for the slim suggestion of a space in the thicket he’d dragged the bike through on arrival. It was only in the very last seconds, as he was on final collision approach he realised that he had no brakes worth speaking of: somehow he managed an inelegant running dismount, holding onto the handlebars to prevent a gory head-on smash. When he’d walked the bike through the gap he inspected it. The handlebars seemed reasonably straight, the wheels were still the correct shape and both tyres appeared fully inflated. Even riding on the unmetalled dirt track felt like sheer luxury compared with bouncing down the hillside, and when he reached the tarmac’ed roads once again he knew it would feel like driving a luxury limousine along a Royal Mall. Huw rarely wore a watch: automatically he glanced at the sun and was surprised to see it was still in the ‘early’ part of the morning sky: he’d been out and about since before dawn and achieved a lot in a relatively short period of time.

He took the first unsignposted track he came to which wandered lazily away from the right hand side of the main road, one of several short cuts to Llyn Cowlyd only the locals would know. All his tackle was still there, of course: in the unlikely event of danyone else coming past, nobody would have dreamt of taking someone else’s tackle, it just wasn’t done! As he swiftly assembled rod and reel Huw debated with himself: should he return to the same point on the bank where he'd caught his first verdace, or try a different ‘spec’? Mental flip, heads or tails …? Fair enough, right or wrong he’d start where he’d had success earlier on, he could always try a few different places afterwards if he had no luck there …..

His float trembled, jigged half-left … flopped slowly to lie flat on the glass-green surface of the lake for an agonising moment, then disappeared, running hard to the right before disappearing as the full force of a strong fish in full flight transmitted itself up the twine, along the 3m of solid fibreglass rod to slam without mercy into the tender youthful muscles of Huw’s shoulders and forearms. Immediately he knew that this specimen whatever its breed or ancestry, was very much the Big Brother of the first specimen he’d captured. His grandfather’s advice rang once more in his ears: “Don’t matter how powerful he is! Give him some slack, let him run: sooner or later he’ll run out of energy and you can reel him in like a sack o’ coal.”

*** 

“Automatic Number Plate Recognition places this bike as one of a group of vehicles using the Silver Jubilee Bridge early this morning sir. Can you confirm, you were riding the vehicle?”

“Thank you. Can you confirm where you began the journey? No, just routine inquiries, sir. As far as I’m aware there hassn’t been any report of traffic accidents, and I can see your bike is well looked after, not so much as a scratch on the bodywork, I’m not going to ask you to give a breath or blood sample … if I might just see your driving licence, sir, I’ll be on my way …”

Identical doorstep interviews were taking place at Pete’s house and Mike’s at almost exactly the same time. The net of suspicion was slowly settling around each of them …

***

Huw was tiring. He had no idea how long he’d been battling this still-unseen monster from the depths of Hell but he was definitely sagging, losing out …

 … and suddenly he sensed that Gwyddon stood behind him, watching silently, following every movement of Huw’s muscles as he strove for supremacy. Without needing to turn or acknowledge the Druid’s presence, Huw felt a second wind of Power strengthening the inmost fibres of his being. Lifting his rod close to vertical he reeled furiously, nor did he stop when previously he might have paused, allowed some Give in between the Takes.

This time, as he brought the golden specimen into the scant inches of shallow water close to his feet, Gwyddon was suddenly there, bearing a large triangular landing net, far bigger than Huw had ever seen anyone possess or use. It didn’t even have a rod or pole: Gwyddon held two of the three sides within his arms and guided it under the struggling fish. The monster collapsed into the mesh, its fins immediately entangled in the folds.

“You fought the good fight, Huw!” the Druid said, once Huw had recovered his breath and could concentrate on anything which was being said.

“Next week is the full of the moon. You are one of the few I have allowed to know where and when to find me. Visit me that night, and I will show you how this female’s eggs can be fertilised and the verdace species saved …”