The Owl Service by Alan Garner

these.”
    Roger showed his father another seven prints, enlarged so that none of the Stone of Gronw appeared, only the trees on the Bryn.
    â€œThere’s the three with Gwyn, there’s two after he’d gone, and there’s the two when Halfbacon was watching.”
    â€œNo doubt about it now, is there?” said Clive. “There’s something extra in the last two.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    Clive put on his glasses. “—No,” he said. “No go. If you made it bigger we might see.”
    â€œI have,” said Roger. “Here’s your wet weekend.”
    The prints were coarse patterns of blobs and lines.
    â€œWhat’s gone wrong?” said Clive.
    â€œIt’s the film and the paper,” said Roger. “You can only blow the negative up so far, and then the grain of the film starts to show, and the colour definition separates into black and white, so you’re left with patches of each, and nothing in between. If you do it deliberately it can be a kind of abstract.”
    â€œYes—?” said Clive.
    â€œI’ve tried to compromise,” said Roger, and he pointed to another row of prints. “Here. I’ve taken it as far as possible and stopped just before the picture disintegrates. What do you make of it? Again, the shading’s different because they’re two different exposures.”
    The trees in the picture were like burnt match sticks, and between two of them was a cluster of grey and black beads.
    â€œI’d say this was someone on a horse, either lifting a pole up, or waving his hand.”
    â€œHave you seen any horses since we came here?” said Roger. “The farms use tractors.”
    â€œIt’s a bit on the small side, I must admit,” said Clive. “I tell you what, though: it could be a pony. Pony trekking’s very popular nowadays.”
    â€œWhat’s on his head?”
    â€œAh – nothing?”
    â€œHis hair’s long, then,” said Roger. “Gathered at the back and down to his shoulders.”
    â€œOne of these beatnik types,” said Clive. “I must say, it’s not often you see them in the great outdoors, is it?”
    â€œLook at the next print,” said Roger. “It’s underexposed. That’s why it’s so much darker, and the blobs have run together more.”
    â€œHe’s taken his hand down,” said Clive, “but you can’t see much of him, can you? Wait a minute – that pony’s a bit round fore and aft.”
    â€œIt may have dropped its head,” said Roger.
    â€œTrue. But if I hadn’t known about the other photo I’d say it was a motorbike.”
    â€œUp there?”
    â€œJust the place for a scramble, though I think we’d have heard more about it, don’t you? Was there anyone riding round?”
    â€œNo, Dad. That’s the point. The pictures were all shot within five minutes, and I was watching the Bryn. How have these two turned out like this?”
    â€œI haven’t the faintest: unless Halfbacon was putting a jinx on you.”
    â€œAre you serious, Dad? Could he?”
    â€œCould he what?”
    â€œPut a jinx on me.”
    â€œNow steady,” said Clive. “We’re not in the Middle Ages: you’ll be roasting the chap at the stake next.”
    Roger and his father gathered up the prints and carried them to the billiard-room. The door was open, but they could not go in, because a wheelbarrow was blocking the way. The wheelbarrow held broken pebble-dash and Gwyn was clearing the last of it from the floor with a brush and shovel.
    Roger and his father waited outside. Gwyn said nothing, but went on with his sweeping. “I’d forgotten,” said Roger. “There’s something to show you.”They waited.
    â€œWe’ll settle for that, old lad,” said Clive. “Chop-chop.”
    â€œI was brushing up, like,” said Gwyn. “You