The Slate Clock

    Nobody could ever consider Iolo ap William to be what you would call  a handsome man but he had certainly married the most beautiful girl in three valleys in Rhyannon Morgan. Jet dark eyes, coal black hair like silk and a complexion as creamy as a Spanish    peach for it was rumoured the family Morgan had blood from a ship wrecked Armada vessel. She had broken many a mans heart before Iolo won her round and, to give him his due, he was the hardest worker in those three valleys.
    Iolo had been a ‘rybelwr’ around the slate quarries for more years than the usual apprentice. It wasn’t that he was bad at the job. Fact was he could split the slate like no other before his first Bargain was over, a man born to the task. As every Bargain gang was only  paid by the amount of finished slate, there was more than enough competition for Iolo’s skill in producing any size of tile required from ‘Duchesses’ down to ‘ladies’ in half the time. Even as an apprentice.
You see, back in Victoria’s time, the slate was worked in gangs who to all intents were self employed. They had to bid at the beginning of each month for a particular area of the quarry, called a Bargain, depending on how much usable slate there was, how much rubbish, how difficult it was to mine the slate and how much the Setting Steward had it in his mine to settle for. On the first Monday of every month, the Bargain Letters were handed out and the work for the next month was allotted. The Bargain gangs had a hard time of it, for they had to pay for their own tools and sharpening, ropes and chains to haul the slate and explosives to clear to the slate vein. They also had to pay the men who cleared the rubbish but they themselves were only paid by the company for finished slates. So the gang depended on the finishers for their money at the Day of the Big Pay. Oh yes, all had been given subs at the end of every week but after all the expenses, and the management fees on top, there was little out of the 7 shillings per ton left to split at month’s end.  The mine owners, English of course, and Anglican Tories at that, were sure of a decent profit and when they weren’t, it was the Welsh miners that suffered. 
    Even so, Iolo was always sure of work even from the first and could choose his gangs as it suited him. He went for men he could speak to easily in Welsh, Non-Comformists like himself and of a Liberal disposition. Soon he had acquired a gang who knew each other well and could bid for the best bargains and, depending on the market for slate, could make a living amongst the cold, misty mountain around Dinorwic. Better still, the gang was mainly Anglesey men. Waking on Ynys Mon at 3 am on the Monday morning and traveling via the rails back to the valley, they slept in the barracks, made of the same slate as the hills, between Monday night and Saturday afternoon when they returned to their families for the Sabbath. So it continued for five years until Iolo married his dark eyed beauty, Iolo having money put by for such an occasion and having gained a reputation as a very suitable catch.
    They made a fine pair and were happy to rent a small cottage a few miles down the road at Deiniollen. Nice Staffordshire on the dresser surrounding a gold carriage clock, his Mam’s pride and joy, a fine bed brought all the way from Chester and even a range, as coal black and shiny as Rhyannon’s hair to keep the wolves from the door. But it couldn’t keep the ‘Mam yng nghyfraith’ away; Margaret Morgan, Iolo’s mother in law. Far from it.
    Now a chapel man may be dry, that is he will take none of the demon rum; but it is an iron heart that will remove from him the washing of his throat with a pint of ale. Not too much mind but the slate dust dries one out more thoroughly than if one was sheltering beneath it. Margaret Morgan was not of this opinion. She had seen the founding of the North Wales Temperance Union as a vocation God had given her but until she moved into the newly wed’s, she was well off over in the next valley at Bethesda. Now preaching is one thing, nagging is another. Having barely met the the woman before, it came as a rude awakening to Iolo to find that he had the shrewdest termagant on God’s sweet Earth under his roof. Duw, she could  quote chapter and verse about everything and let no occasion pass not to do so. She was relentless. From the pulling on of his boots in the morning to the drawing of the range in the evening she was reminding the poor man of his duties and his failures. He could do no right.     His wife could do no wrong and though he tried to please the Mam, it naturally began to affect his marriage. The wife invariably took the mother’s part. To put it bluntly , if he had known about the Mam, he wouldn’t have married the daughter. His mind did get to wondering what had happened to all the other suitors she had and whether or not they had been eaten!
    The Lord sayeth , or should do, that an unhappy man is not a good working man and it came to pass that the change within Iolo had manifest itself even unto his Bargain gang. He could barely finish half of what the miners could bring down and some of that spoiled. He no longer had his bids accepted for the choicest sections  and if it carried on much longer then the Bargain gang would barely break even at Big Pay Day. The rest of the miners had noticed it and, though none would say it to his face, the nickname Iolo the Nagged had been whispered abroad. They knew Margaret Morgan propensities and though the daughter was beautiful it is rare man who did not remember the proverb: if you want to see the girl as a woman, look at her Mam.  So Iolo’s gang mulled it over during the first week of September at the barracks and they deputed Dafyd Jones to have words with Iolo; on the grounds that he worked with Iolo as a finisher and that he was out at the toilet when they decided. There were better reasons though.
    Now Dafyd Jones was the kind of man who could think out a solution better than any other and he well deserved his nickname of Dai the Fix. He knew just the kind of person to go to for advice. The ‘Dyn Hysbys; the Wise man. Geoffrey Pritchard was his name. Famous around Ynys Mon for his abilities and his discretion. It was even said that he had restored the life of a man pulled drowned from the Menai Strait by blowing pipe smoke into his lungs as he hung by his heels above the dock, earning for himself the name Lazarus Pritchard.  So the next Saturday afternoon, Dafyd took an excursion to Caernarfon to see the man himself. He knew that he frequented the ‘Black Boy’ and may have found him sooner had not an owner re- christened it the ‘Kings Arms’, a problem that troubles many of us still today. Dai the Fix  bought the man a drink and then related the problem, stressing that time was of the essence and that there was the living of several others to consider. Over a pint or two and an ounce of what the old gentleman cared to call tobacco, the Wise man considered the problem, asking several questions in order to clarify the situation.
     Was the woman amenable getting married again? Dai though it highly unlikely that anyone could be found to take her on. Could she be prevailed upon to move out? Dai assured Mr Pritchard that Mam had got her feet set squarely under the table and it would take an earthquake to get her out. What about her moving to Anglesey? Could not the daughter give a hint that she was not wanted? Dai maintained that any woman who could be separated from her Mam was unlikely to exist outside of Heaven, Dafyd Jones  being a married man himself. Besides Iolo would take it badly if his wife had to go as well. Marriage had actually for a short time made  him increase his productivity. After many possibilities had been mooted and rejected, Lazarus Pritchard said that it was beyond him. However, there was an old book he could consult that might have an answer so would Dafyd return the week after. There was little choice so Dafyd Jones made a second appointment and left to go to his Anglesey home.
    Iolo must have have been getting near the end of his tether during the intervening week. He actually swore once at the young man clearing the rubbish stone and was short even with mates he had known for years. By Friday the tension was so taut that he had to talk about it and let it all out to Dafyd Jones, by that time the only person who could get near him. Blurting out his troubles tearfully he finally said the fateful words ‘I would do anything to get rid of her’. Dai was thus given ‘carte blanche’ for his second meeting with Mr Pritchard.
    ‘Anything?’ asked Mr Pritchard. ‘Anything’ replied Dafyd Jones.’
    ‘Well then, In this book I told you about there is an ancient Celtic, let us call it a process, for making a person go away.’
    ‘Yes, what is it? Dai sat forward.
    ‘ It is called, “ Carving the name in stone’’.
    ‘ “ Carving the name in stone’’ I could have gone to a memorial mason for that!’ said Dai whose funds were running low from keeping Mr Pritchard in baccy and beer.
    ‘ No. You don’t understand. You can’t carve the name yourselves. Oh no. No human can. It has be inside the stone.’
    ‘That’s impossible. How can you carve a name inside the stone?’
    ‘You can’t. You have ask someone very special to do it. And person wishing  for it to happen has to pay for it to be done’
    ‘ Who does it and what exactly do we have to pay?’
    ‘I couldn’t say who exactly. The book is not clear on this matter. ‘
    ‘Why not’ insisted Dai for he  was nothing if not thorough.
    ‘ It is a translation of a copy made by a monk many centuries ago . Where it is clear is that the payment has to be in gold. Along with certain other, hmm, oddities.’
    ‘How much gold? ’ Dai was beginning to get a funny feeling.
    ‘ The first is simple enough. As much gold as the person owns.’
     ‘What are these oddities then?
    ‘ Only two of them. The first is a page torn  from the Old Testament’.
    ‘Oh, that’s not too bad. Which one?’
    ‘Genesis. Chapters 11-14 and 19. Preferably in English.’
    ‘Well that’s not too hard to come by, is it?’ Dai tried optimism. It didn’t suit.
    ‘No... but maybe the threads from a hangman’s rope are.’
    Dafyd went pale and sat back. ‘Duw  Where the... am I going to get that?’
    Mr Pritchard leant closer and took his pipe out of his mouth.
    ‘ I thought of that and I just happen to have some that I acquired earlier’.
    ‘Duw! What do you use that for?’
    ‘I couldn’t say and you wouldn’t want to know either’ replied Mr Pritchard.
    ‘And it doesn’t come cheap either.’ Mr Pritchard held out a package to Dai the Fix and quoted a price that made Dafyd blanch once more. He paid up though after weighing the splitting of the cost between the Bargain gang against how much they were losing in wages and received a hempen thread about two feet long wrapped in brown paper. He didn’t look too closely.
    ‘It’s the genuine article, I assure you. I was there at the time,’ smiled Mr Pritchard.
    Dafyd did not pursue the matter.‘Ach a vi! What are we supposed to do with it?’
    ‘In your line of work, very easily. Take the torn page and write the name of the person across it. Put it between two blocks of stone, slate in your case, and bind them with the thread. Place your gold offering on the stone and leave them out over the next full moon. Lucky for you that is this  Wednesday coming. For safety’s sake it might be well to leave it on the quarry somewhere. Well away from any habitations.’
    ‘Duw! What happens then?’
    ‘It’s not exactly clear. My runic is a bit rusty and there are, what you might call, ambiguities in the language. Best not to find out.’
    ‘Will it work and how will we know if the lady in question’s name is inside the stone?’ Dai was beginning to worry that he was being made fun of; ‘fel hwch ar y rhew’, like a pig on ice.
    ‘Well, either she goes or she stays. I wouldn’t go cracking the stone open to find out though that’s for sure.’ warned Mr Pritchard as he took his coat and walked to the door. Dai the Fix turned to him and asked him one last question.
    ‘Why does it have to be an English Bible?’
    Mr Pritchard took his pipe out of his mouth and smiled.
    ‘Because English is the Devil’s own tongue, look you. Nos da.’ and left.

    Finding an English Bible was easy. He spun the local vicar from the Church of Wales a tale and got it given free and ‘ with the love of Jesus’. The problem was getting Iolo to agree to the strange and disturbing procedure and to get hold of the gold. Although Dafyd Jones was not what one might call a ‘ righteous man’ he held the superstitions of miners as strongly as the next man especially as regards even naming ‘Hen Nick’. Worse even than saying the word for furry, long-eared vermin. So after two sleepless nights worrying about it like a old dog on a bone Dai determined that the less Iolo and the bargain gang knew the better. Least said, soonest mended. So when Monday came Dai the Fix made a point of finding a slate block that looked unlikely to provide a good clean tile, split it in two and set it aside for later. He broached the matter with Iolo during their tocyn, but he kept it simple and without detail in case Iolo got cold feet. He merely said that he had heard of a way of relieving a marriage of a nuisance mother-in law and that it would require the use of gold. This meant the carriage clock.
    ‘So you reckon if I give you my Mam’s carriage clock, my mother-in-law  will leave us in peace?’ Iolo was sceptic. Dai had a way with words but Iolo couldn’t see how Margaret Morgan could be bought off with a carriage clock.
    ‘ No, you don’t understand. The clock is payment for someone who will persuade Mam Morgan to go with him. I’m just a go-between as it were.’ soothed Dai. Iolo had taken a lot of persuasion on very little information.   
    ‘And you are sure this will work? My Mam’s pride and joy that clock was.’
    ‘ But it’s the only gold you possess isn’t it? The... man won’t accept anything less. And there’s three weeks to the next Day of the Big Pay.’
    ‘ I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to. Better be worth it though. And it better work.‘  Iolo was not pleased but muttered ‘Rwy'n barod i roi'r ffidil yn y tô.’ Or in English ‘I'm ready to put the fiddle in the roof; In other words he was ready to give in. Iolo agreed to the deal.
    Dai the Fix took Iolo by his word and later that day went down with Iolo to his cottage and was given the carriage clock on the pretext that it needed cleaning in Caernarfon as it was losing time due to the slate dust that was always around,. Mam Morgan  merely sniffed and wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders but let it pass. She didn’t trust Dafyd Jones as far as she could throw him.
    So it was on the Wednesday evening after work that Dai the Fix took the slate blocks he had prepared to a site a little away from the Bargain they were working. He placed the page torn from the Old Testament, signed with Margaret Morgan by her less than devoted son-in -law [ Dai wasn’t taking any more chances than he had to] and tied the stones with the distinctly greasy hempen thread. Upon them he placed the carriage clock and left the place quickly before the full moon rose above the mountains in the south east sky. The sky was a clear as a bell though it rarely stayed that way. Storms come down fast in Snowdonia, so there was little comment when as the moon passed it’s zenith there was an almighty ear splitting crack as of lightning from the quarry that woke everybody in the valley.  Everybody except one that is.
    In the morning Rhyannon Williams awoke as usual, stoked and fed the range and made tea for her husband and her mother. Iolo was dressing in the half light before dawn when he heard the scream from the room next door. He saw his wife in the doorway, stock still and crying pitifully and moved her gently aside to see the cause. In the bed, propped up by her pillows, sat Margaret Morgan. Grey, stiff and as cold as the slate on the mountain.
    The doctor was called for but only as a matter of course. There was nothing anyone could do. The doctor put it down to a stroke. Natural causes of course. Nothing anyone could have done. That didn’t make Iolo any happier though and as soon as was decent and proper and could be explained by his having to inform his gang, he strode up the hill to see Dai the Fix. He did not mince his words. He demanded an explanation. ‘What exactly have you done?’ he demanded of Dai.
    ‘I didn’t really do anything at all, look you. I just made the payment, named the person and ...’ Dafyd Jones was believable only because it was obvious he had not expected this outcome either. Besides he had checked first thing and he had no explanation for the strangest result of his efforts. He showed Iolo what he had found in the place he had put the slate, named page and the gold. He left out the hempen thread. Which was just as well for it would have only confirmed their suspicions further and besides, what was there before was no longer as it was. There before them stood a polished slate block with the face and movement of the carriage clock embedded in it. Still ticking away with a measured tread, the exact time given by the hands.  No sign of the gold, the thread or page, which was comfort of a sort. For it involved Lot’s wife. Which for you ungodly creatures is how she was turned to a pillar of salt, on looking back on Sodom or Gomorrah. I can never remember which.
    What there was was a few lines in English, carved in a copper plate script that was beyond the masons craft. In English. Now neither Iolo, Dai or Rhyannon was given of the English so it did not signify until after the death watch and the funeral. The slate clock was given pride of place next to the corpse, on the grounds that it had been made as a present for the deceased in order to mollify the bereaved daughter. It was only when the wife of Rees the Undertaker came to lay the body with Rhyannon and the other women that the cat was let out of the bag. Molly Rees was a respected wise woman herself. She didn’t need to be told what the slate clock meant but she kept her thoughts to herself and winked at Iolo knowingly. She had had her run ins with Margaret Morgan herself and it was no business of hers.
    And what a funeral it was. The local North Wales Temperance Union made it a point of pride to send Margaret Morgan to her rest in style. Parading in full fig, with the banners waving, down from the cottage to the chapel lower in the valley, followed by the men in their Sunday best corralled by their wives, all secretly glad of a morning away from labour and for the chance to prove the old bat had gone to her long home.  A wake there was not. Tea and cakes were demanded by custom, however. The men excused themselves quickly though and leaving the women to their grieving went back to work where they found a barrel provided by Iolo and presided over by Dai the Fix to wet their whistles and drink the respect of his mother-in-law.
    It was only after the guests had departed that Molly Rees took Iolo aside.
    ‘ Do you know what is written upon that fine slate clock of yours?’
    ‘Come Molly. You know I don’t have the English, look you.’
    ‘ Well if I were you I’d be careful to always wind it every night and to put it secure on the wall if you are to keep it. Never let it be fall to crack open or broken up. Ever’. Molly whispered.
    ‘Why Molly. What do the lines of poetry mean?’
    ‘ They say, more or less;
    If I run down, I will come around. If I run slow, my fate you’ll know.
    If you break me, you will wake me. Till the crack of doom, let this be my tomb.
Molly winked again. ‘I think it’s better to let Maggie the Shrew rest in peace, don’t you?’

To which Iolo could only agree and he and the beautiful Rhyannon had three fine sons and lived as happily as any working man’s family could before the Great War.
   
    And what became of this diabolical clock. Well, not knowing what to do with it, and Rhyannon not liking it as it reminded her of the death scene and thinking it might please her mother, Iolo donated it to the North Wales Temperance Union for their jumble sale. It didn’t make much money though. It seems there were too many slate plaques around with English poems on at that time  and everyone only spoke and had the reading of God’s tongue. Welsh.