Free White Trail by Fflur Dafydd

known.
    He waited before going to see her again. His mother came and went, and he dreamt of the damp flaxen hair in that stream, longing to touch it, to see her properly. He thought of nothing but her, this girl in the hut in the forest. And yet his parents acted as though nothing was amiss. He had expected them to find the birds missing on their daily rounds, and yet there was no mention of them at all. The three of them would still sit around that table and pretend their life together was entirely normal and ordinary. As if there was not a girl living a few feet away from them, caged, like the silent birds in the aviary. As though his parents had not done something so terrible that they had to keep looking after her and had little or no say in what they could and could not do.
    He was determined to set her free. Grabbing his father’s tools the following night, he had never felt such bravado. He would wrench that door open and she would fall into his arms, he envisaged it time and time again. His heart was pounding as he approached the hut. To his surprise the door was wide open. The strip of light from his torch revealed it to be bare and empty. Fury rose up in him; he kicked the door, punched a wall, shouted into the night. He had not been prepared for the physical pain of losing her, and he knew – at that moment – that there was nothing more important to him than finding her again. Once he was able to still himself, he lay down on the wooden floor, frantically sniffing the air for any trace of her. That’s when he became aware of a silhouette in the doorframe, one that was all too familiar. His mother.
    â€˜What are you doing here, Culhwch?’ she asked. He could hear the fear in her voice. ‘What have we told you about the forest?’
    â€˜You’ve told me a lot of things,’ he said, without getting up. ‘None of them seem to be true.’
    â€˜I think we’d better go back to the house,’ his mother said. ‘We can talk things through. Perhaps we could answer any questions you may have. It isn’t... we aren’t... we aren’t bad people, me and your dad. It’s just we got... a bit caught up in some things and...’
    â€˜But you’re not my parents, are you?’ he said. The sentence surfaced in the dark between them.
    â€˜No,’ his mother said quietly. ‘No, we’re not.’
    â€˜What’s going on? You always said you would tell me. One day, you said. We’ll tell you – you’ll understand. We’ll explain everything. Isn’t that what you said?’
    â€˜I always wanted to – it was your father...’
    â€˜He’s not my father though, is he! Stop pretending.’
    â€˜No, he’s not. Culhwch, I’m sorry, he’s not... he’s not... not my husband either. He’s nothing to me. This whole thing... it’s just not... not real. I’m as tired of it as you are.’
    His mother burst into tears. He’d never heard her cry before. He wanted to put an arm over her shoulder, but he stopped himself – holding on with all his might to the anger which rose in him, a new and delicious feeling. He kicked the wall again. Enough to hurt himself. Enough to feel alive.
    â€˜What have you done with her, with Olwen?’
    â€˜She’s gone home, Culhwch, that’s all. Let’s go back to the house, eh? I’ll explain things.’
    â€˜Was it the birds?’ he asked. ‘Did the birds set her free?’
    His mother gawped at him, as though he’d said something ridiculous.
    â€˜No, Culhwch. God, no. The birds wouldn’t be able to come here...’
    â€˜Don’t lie to me! They were here, I saw them.’
    His mother’s face paled with shock.
    â€˜No, they couldn’t have been.’
    â€˜They were here, I tell you. They knew her...’
    â€˜But that’s not possible, I mean they aren’t… aren’t meant