The stream gently rolled over its pebbles and made the same soothing sound any other stream would, rested and retired, after untold years carving away at the mountainside. The folly of youth had paid off, rewarding it with a fixed route from birthplace to resting place to flow completely and constantly. Halfway down the small valley, so tirelessly worked on by the stream, a small bridge of stone connected trodden down footpaths for the convenience of dry feet. The bridge was scarcely used, bar the odd hiker or dog walker; of which included the occasional partaker of poohsticks.
As the afternoon sun broke between the branches of the surrounding trees, two small boys stopped on the bridge, accompanied by a lamb. The boys had found the lamb not long before, as they walked along the higher mountain road that passed by Pugh’s farm. The little lamb had come some way from its flock and become stuck in the barbed wire fence. Upon seeing this poor lamb, the boys had helped it free from the fence and onto the path. Feeling as though it had found something like its flock again, the lamb followed its new found friends.
The boys walked with their lamb in tow along the mountain, completely in solitude and silence on a gloriously sunny afternoon. As the threesome walked the main mountain road, they came to the head of the path that dipped down toward that seldom seen stream and its bridge. Down the boys went, making sure their newfound friend followed suit. The boys would often come down to the bridge when walking. Whether to cross it and make way for King George’s park or to partake in a few games of poohsticks, before returning to the road for Clydach lake, the boys were two of the few who came down here.
They had not stopped for poohsticks though, and they weren’t intending on heading to the park. The boys headed down to the bridge across the stream that was seldom seen to be out of the way, because they had another game they wanted to play. Before heading for the mountain, the boys had been to the market in Tonypandy car park, where one stall in particular had caught their attention. It was a stall not unlike an army surplus store poured onto a foldaway table from the back of a clapped out car. There were boots, camouflaged jackets on a rack, and there were BB guns, but what caught the boys’ attention were the knives.
The man who ran the stall lay inside the open boot of his car smoking a cigarette, business was quiet, he’d sold nothing all day. He watched the boys with curiosity as they, in their own nervous curiosity, stared at the array of knives spread across the cloth over the table, anxious to touch, but afraid. He continued to smoke, and watch, as the boys became more and more enamoured with his selection. He looked around the nearby stalls; everyone busy with customers or looking through things, certainly no one watching these boys.
“Don’t you think that blade is a bit big for gentlemen of your… size?”
The boys were startled, but Glyn was always quick to get cocky with adults in front of friends.
“No! I’ve got loads of knives bigger than that at ‘ome, and swords, and everything!”
The stall owner swung his legs from inside the boot and sat facing the boys.
“Then I guess you won’t be wanting any new knives today then? Not with all those huge swords back home.”
“Yeah! You can always ‘ave more. I collect ’em see.”
“Yeah ‘e collects ’em, ‘as got loads of ’em.” Rhys joined in, caught up in Glyn’s bravado.
“Oh, he does, does he? And what about you then, you a big collector too?”
“Yeah, we both collect ’em, it’s like a joint collection. We share.” Glyn countered before Rhys could speak.
“Yeah, we share.”
The stall owner rested his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his clasped fists.
“Let’s see you pick up the biggest one there then. See you handle a heavy blade. What with all your… expertise.”
Glyn and Rhys looked at each other before Glyn cautiously reached for a knife on the table.
“No, not that one. The biggest one, by there.”
The boys followed the stall owner’s nod, just as Glyn’s trembling hand did too. Slowly clasping his fingers around the handle, Glyn began to lift the knife, but as he did so all his confidence faded and his small stature became abundantly clear in comparison to the table, let alone his hand to the blade. Glyn faltered and dropped the knife back on the table.
The stall owner laughed. “I thought as much. Now, I don’t think mammy and daddy are going to be happy to find you looking at knives, are they?”
In spite of his embarrassment, Glyn still bit back, “We’re not with our parents, we’re big enough to go out on our own.”
“Oh yeah? So big you don’t have to go nursery?”
“We don’t go to nursery, we’re in primary school, and we got the day off!”
“Oh ho, my mistake, but what money were you planning on buying a knife with, without mammy and daddy?”
“We ‘ave pocket money! Don’t we?”
“Yeah, I, uh, don’t know, uh.”
“Ooh, looks like your butty ain’t too sure about that.”
Turning away from the stall owner, Glyn challenged Rhys, “Come on, both our money could get a knife, we could show the boys. How cool would that be?”
“Uh… yeah, okay. Yeah.”
“See? We got money to buy one.”
“Oh yeah, and how much have you collectors got exactly?”
The two boys reached deep inside their pockets and pulled out any change they had, before they unloaded it onto the table. The stall owner scanned it quickly; a few pound coins, a bunch of silver, and a load of coppers – somewhere between a fiver and a tenner. He grabbed it up quickly before the boys had a chance to count it.
“Well, let’s see. How much do we have here?” Definitely a tenner. “It doesn’t look good for you boys. Don’t think you’re going to be affording any of my fine instruments today.”
The stall owner, once again, checked the surrounding stalls. Everyone busy, and not a single soul aware of the exchange between him and the boys. As he looked back to the table he noticed one of the very small knives without a price tag, only worth a couple of quid at the most, if that.
“You might just be in luck boys, because it looks like you almost have enough for this knife here.”
Their money pocketed, he reached for the knife without a price.
“Now, you’re a little short, moneywise, not just height-wise, but I’ve got a lot of respect for keen collectors like yourselves. So here you go.”
Unaware that they had been ripped off, the boys received their knife with nervous glee. They had a knife, they had a knife. How cool were they, now that they had a knife?
“Now, on your way before I get caught for selling products under price!”
Glyn pocketed the knife and the boys ran off through the market as the stall owner watched. A sale is a sale.
An afternoon of carving swear words and their names into things, and stabbing empty cans and things with fevered childhood excitement, had lead the boys to the mountain, to the fence, to the lamb, to the bridge over the stream. The bridge they played poohsticks on, they stood with a lamb, and a knife.
“Come on, it’s only a sheep mun, Rhys.”
“It’s not a sheep, it’s a lamb.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s a baby!”
“Nah, you’re the baby, a baby chicken.”
“No I’m not.”
“Then do it. It’s not like you don’t eat lamb. I had it for Sunday dinner last week.”
“But-”
“But you’re a baby?”
“Alright! I’ll do it! I’ll do it.”
Rhys and Glyn both leant over the lamb to keep it in place, but their new game had become scared of its new flock and tried to fidget its way out. Rhys tried to hold its chin with his left hand as he reached over its neck with the knife in his right, but the lamb pulled away and bit him. Quick to act Glyn kicked the lamb.
“Don’t!”
Without thinking, Rhys had swung his arm out to hit Glyn away, completely forgetting the knife in his hand. His eyes followed the knife in slow motion as the blade hit Glyn’s throat. First the blade slashed across his neck, leaving a trail of red instantly in its path, before the force of the swing punctured Glyn’s windpipe. Immediately, time snapped back as Glyn spluttered a bloody scream that couldn’t quite pronounce itself over the coughs and the gargling, as the boy fell to the ground.
The lamb frantically tried to escape, and in a panic Rhys swung his knife at its stomach, just stabbing it at first, before the struggle resulted in its guts been spilled open onto the bridge. He stabbed it again and again until its wails were silenced, and all that could be heard was the soothing sound of the old stream as it rolled from birthplace to resting place. This time it carried blood under the bridge in place of sticks. It was hard to tell whose blood had won.
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