Dafydd Mills
Fiction
The Thane of Cawdor Lives was named to the longlist for the 2026 Clarissa Dalloway Prize for Short Prose, judged by Lucy Ives.
Prologue: At the Fork in the River
The two sisters, Mari and Mabli, turned left off Thomas Street and made their way beneath the old Marble Bridge, where many of the young boys of the village had gathered to play their games. One or two of these boys had called down to them as they passed, asking if they would retrieve their aggies or their taws from the thickets below. This request, however, was done in vain. for they passed on by as if not having heard their desperate pleas. One small and sullen boy, then, was elected by the rest and sent down below to complete the task himself and by the time that he had reached the water the two women were gone.
They had carried on along the riverbank, following its winding curves, and come upon the usual place where the women of the village gathered and washed their clothes. Here they had all come, with washboards and mangles and baskets and carts, but Mari and Mabli carried on past them without so much as a glance in their direction. Mabli carried in her arms their own basket of wares, with another cotton sack strapped across her back, and Mari lugged along their own wooden washboard and carried in a tub three bars of lye soap. They passed the other women and came to a fork in the river and sat there beneath the shelter of a great oak tree. Here, then, they set about their work, beating their dry and dusty clothes against the bark of the tree and the many rocks strewn along the ground, then they waded into the chilled waters and set about their scrubbing.
“It’s much colder today,” bemoaned one to the other.
“I wouldn’t mind so, if he’d at least try to keep them clean.”
“That one will stain – what is it? Is that blood?”
“May well be,” Mari sighed. “Fighting again last night, down the pub, so he says.”
“You picked poorly there, with that one,” Mabli said, looking down to her sister, kneeling now in the sodden earth. Her tiny fingers were crimson from the cold and she scraped so furiously against the board that her nails caught against the metal ridges. Her long, auburn hair had become wild in the wind and water and clung to her cheeks. “Has he been the same with you?” She asked. “Since the last time.”
“He’s always the same with me,” Mari replied, without pausing in her efforts. “Comes home drunk, covered in blood and beer, embarrassed, I presume, that someone else had had the better of him and made him look a fool… then he tries it with me, to try to redeem himself, I suspect.”
“And last night?”
“He’s always the same.”
Mabli noticed that her sister looked frail, she seemed to shrink in size whenever she spoke of her husband, and she sighed and so joined her there in the mud. “Your dress will need doing now,” looking down at its ruin. “We should find somewhere else, somewhere less spoiled.”
“It’s fine here.” The blood hadn’t come out from the shirt; she tossed it aside nonetheless and began work again on the next. Mabli handed her the soap. “And yours?” Mari asked.
“My what? My soap?”
“Your husband. Same as before?”
“Oh, aye. A little passion wouldn’t hurt him none! And that yours has in spades. He slept alone again last night, as is his way lately. Barely looks at me now, only to ask or check this or that – transactional things, more or less. Never know what he’s thinking anymore.”
“And have you tried again, since the last?”
“No; he won’t have none of it. It’s why – he says – he’s since set to sleeping alone. Says there’s no more pleasure in it anymore, and all my – ‘accosting’, is what he calls it – is making matters worse. He’s kind enough, mind, and he won’t get mad at me, but won’t touch me neither, even in goodbyes – and it’s the touch I’m wanting – not all that that comes with it.”
“You’ve always wanted children, Mabli. Don’t lie about it now.” Mabli was surprised by the bluntness in her sister’s voice and showed her as much with a cold glance.
“Of course I did, but now that we’ve tried, and we know we can’t ever, it’s not such a terrible thing. There’s lots of women can’t – ” here she wavered and her lip began to tremble beneath her cold eyes and twisted brow.
“No sense in lying about it now, Mabli,” Mari went on, still so without looking up from her work. “You have every right to be upset and disappointed in it – and to try to do whatever you will about it.”
“But there’s nothing I can do about it,” and with this admission, Mabli began to cry. “Not when he won’t allow it – he won’t touch me – and won’t tolerate my touching him – and I can’t bare the way he looks at me when I try, so I won’t – not again. Not ever. I won’t force myself on him – to lie in bed beside me, if the thought of it repulses him so. I haven’t the strength anymore after so long at trying.”
“You won’t try?” Mari stopped and finally looked up to see the strain in her sister’s face. “Not with him?”
“I can’t – I can’t abide it, not again – not to see him look that way at me again and to cause him such suffering – I can’t. I’m not strong enough.”
“Well, I am,” Mabli stopped her crying. “I’ll try it. I don’t care a cent for how a man looks at me; looks can’t hurt me the way Emry can.”
“What are you saying?” Her words choked themselves in her throat.
“I’ll try. I’ll be you and you be me.”
“And so – ” She scoffed in superfluous anger, “How will I get pregnant from you laying with my husband?”
“You will lay with mine. They’re both so idle, neither would tell the difference… I’m sure of it. Twins have been performing this little magic trick since time began, on men far more self-aware than Emry and Marc are – and anyway, Emry’s so drunk each night he can hardly stand on his own two feet; he’d welcome any woman there to help him keep his balance.”
“Your husband…”
“Why not? What’s mine’s yours… And he’ll never know the difference. And I don’t doubt he ain’t able – you know as well as I do all the tales of what else he gets up to with other women – and there’s new rumours abound – please, don’t ask me to tell it – that might attest to his abilities… Let’s just say, he ain’t impotent as your Marc is, if what I hear is accurate. True, he hasn’t caught one with me yet – that’s down to my doing – but there may well be one or two others with little baby bastards dotted about, so I’m sure he has it in him.”
“And what about Marc?”
“Well, I’ll have to go with him – but I’ll make it so it’s dark, so he won’t see proper – and then I won’t see that dreadful, pitying look in his eyes you keep saying about. I won’t let him refuse. I’ll try, I’ll beg, I’ll stamp. I won’t take no pleasure in it, but it must be done, see, ‘cus if you do end up pregnant, then he’ll have to believe it’s his won’t he?”
“You won’t take no pleasure in it?”
“Well, I’ll take pleasure in making a fool of Emry – sure enough, I’ll enjoy that. Whether he knows it or not, he’ll be a stinking cuckold, and I’ll know the truth of it. Knowing I’d done to him what he’d done to me. And, of course, I’d take pleasure in my giving you a child, which is what you’ve always wanted, ain’t it? You’ve so much love to give, Mabli. There’s no sin in this, but sin enough in his keeping you mewed up like a bird in a cage the way he does.”
A long time passed before either sister spoke again. Mari went on back to her work and Mabli spent a long while listening to the boys playing beyond the trees. A kite flew out from over that way and landed upon a bough above her head and she smiled.
“And you won’t be jealous?” Mari laughed loudly. “No, but truly, Mari. Don’t you want your own child, with your own husband too? Won’t this taint all that?”
“Not with that ape of a man, no, I don’t.” Her reply was curt.
“And they’ll never know?”
“How could they?”
“Well, won’t they suspect? What if I can’t convince him?”
“He won’t need much convincing, Mabli. He’ll be drunk enough – just like I said. He won’t question it. And, I warrant he’d little care even if he did suspect.”
“But his temper! Is he not gentle? Won’t he hurt me?”
“No, not in that way – he never was like that. He’ll be done and drained and sleeping in the blink of your little eye… His passion lacks considerable in the bedroom.”
“It feels wrong.”
“Oh, of course! It is wrong. This ain’t a good thing we’re doing here, Mabli.” Mari was smiling despite it. “But God will forgive us – there are different rules in such instances. Remember that story of Bilhah and Rachel? The sanctity of the surrogate… and twin sisters, all the more – what’s yours is mine and mine is yours and all being done in the hope of a miracle, see? And moreover than that – as I said – it won’t do for us to feel guilt and shame for our husbands who feel none of either for us. We’ll only be playing false with those that deserve it and left us no other choice. I won’t lose any sleep about it.”
“And the child, coming out looking all like Emry? How’ll we justify that?”
“Nobody can suspect it – he’s never shown any liking to you, has he? Nor you him.”
“Fine then, but how?”
And with this, the two sisters retreated from the water and hid themselves behind the shelter of the great oak tree and there, away from prying eyes, they exchanged their clothes and Mabli dishevelled her hair as Mari’s, while Mari straightened her own into a plait as Mabli’s; they laughed at the sight of themselves and played at walking and talking as the other, then they collected their work and Mari carried in her arms the basket and the sack and Mabli lugged along their own wooden washboard and the tub with two bars of lye soap and the women ventured back the way they had come, smiling, this time, to the other washerwomen and pausing to watch the boys playing in the street. Mabli was now overcome at the sight of them and repeated in her head their movements and their voices as the two sisters walked back along Thomas Street, then left as they’d come, and Mari went into Mabli’s home on Edward Terrace and Mabli on further to Mari’s on Ffordd Dowell, watched keenly on by as she went up the hill.
From Mabli’s kitchen, Mari could hear the children on the green out front and steeled her resolve; but Mabli, further up the hill, was quite alone in the silence of Mari’s house. It would be some time now until Emry would finish at the pit, and was likely – said Mari – he’d stop at the pub before home. And so, Mabli went about hanging his clothes in the garden; she saw again the blood-stain of his shirt, billowing gently in the wind, and felt the same unease as before. Then she went about the cooking of his dinner, hoping to appease and placate him on arrival.
The potatoes had boiled atop the fire and a thick strip of beef seared in the pan besides; she had time then to rest and pictured herself awhiles away in the future, playing in the grass with her bouncing baby bach, or dressing in her skirts a little cariad, brushing her hair in the vanity beside her bed. These thoughts had comforted her greatly in that moment, and she felt again her composure strengthening her resolve.
Marc was the first to arrive back home. But Mari did not suffer the same as her sister. The daylight was waning, but she kept the fire low, so much so that as Marc entered the sitting-room, he could only faintly discern the lines of his wife’s face and the straight, neat plait of her hair as she turned her back towards him.
“Hello, Love,” she said, from behind that same back. He murmured in reply and sat himself in his chair beside the fire. He seemed almost at once to have fallen asleep, without so much as a word.
“Marc,” Mari said, through the soft light shadows of the room. Then she went to him. He did not open his eyes, only murmured again in much the same way. Then she reached out to him and sat upon his lap. “Just once more, please. For the love you still bare me.” She unfastened his trousers and would not be deterred.
It was then that Emry also returned home. He had walked along the same path as his wife had done, passing the same house where she presently lay with Marc in her sister’s bed. He was drunk enough, indeed, and eventually stumbled his way over the threshold and kicked off his boots by the door in a cloud of dust. Mabli greeted him, wearing Mari’s best dress.
“I’ve made you some food,” she said softly by the door. The light from the fire was much brighter here, but Emry too had hardly noticed her.
“Not hungry,” he snorted deep into his throat and reached instead for a bottle of whiskey.
Mabli gave him space for a while, working her nerves while he drank, gazing into the fire. She left his food on a plate beside him, then went to their bedroom and lay naked and waiting. Before not too long, he’d joined her.
“You’ve had enough of your moping then, woman?” He grabbed her firmly by the wrist, pulled her from the bed and took her there in the darkness, unsuspecting of her willingness, unaware of her contrition.
The next day, the husbands alone or else at work, the sisters met again by the fork in the river and exchanged again their lives back to one another, just as they had been, without so much as a word of what had passed.
Chapter One: At the Schoolhouse
The interior was just as drab and pale and grey as the façade; the classroom had been boarded with thick, ancient timber and the floor was so heavy that the scraping of chairs and desks, and the soft patter of the children’s feet, scarcely made a sound. And Schoolmaster Morgan had so often commanded his presence over the room with such a strict severity that his entrance was met only with a greater and more stern silence from his students. They rose to their feet and hung upon his every word.
“Bore da, bant.”
“Bore da, athro,” they intoned as one.
Little Dewi Davies, much younger than his twelve years, occupied the crooked desk situated most near to his teacher’s, and very often found himself too afraid to meet his gaze. He remained standing, only looking forward, unable to see or hear or feel the twenty other children still standing (he hoped) behind him.
“Sit,” Mr Morgan commanded, and they sat. And after a moment of silent apprehension, the man recited thusly:
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it for the proper false In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we, For such as we are made of, such we be. How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly, And I, poor monster, fond as much on him, And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. My state is desperate for my master’s love. As I am woman (now, alas the day!), O Time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t’ untie.
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master’s love.
As I am woman (now, alas the day!),What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O Time, thou must untangle this, not I.
It is too hard a knot for me t’ untie.
The class had heard every word, that much was sure, but understood nought, or very little and dreaded silently what they were sure would follow next. Mr Morgan eyed about the room and finally settled on one:
“Geraint. You boy,” he pointed with his stick, so much the less that Geraint might not have even comprehended his own name. “Tell me.”
“Sir,” the boy answered timidly. “Tell you what, Sir?”
“Wait for my question, Geraint. Then respond accordingly.” The master sighed. “Apprehension is as unbecoming to you as is your nervous disposition. Tell me. The Bible teaches us that lying lips are an abomination. Why might that be?”
“Sir?” The poor boy wavered again.
“… Why is lying bad, Geraint?”
“It’s dishonest, Sir, to lie,” he really was floundering now, trying desperately to find his footing. “Lies cause suffering for others.”
“Then why, here, is Viola lying? Wouldn’t that make a villain out of her? But then, why does the audience view her as pitiful, unlike the wretched and equally dishonest Iago?” He could see that the boy could not follow, and so tried again, again… “Why do we forgive her for lying, Geraint? When so many others are unforgiven.”
“Because she’s a woman, Sir?” Dewi could hear those behind him trying to stifle their laughter.
“Lady Macbeth is a woman, boy – despite her best efforts. What of that?”
“Well, this one is a woman forced into lying, by her master.”
“Not quite good enough,” he dismissed the boy, and went on. “Anwen,” the little girl shuddered in her chair at the sound of her name. “Tell me. What such frailties can be found in women’s hearts as those that so suffer Viola?”
“Sir?” Anwen’s voice, now, was filled with such frailties – despite her best efforts.
“Viola – ” the man sighed again. “Says women are weak. How? Why? In what way?”
“My Mam says women ain’t so weak, Sir…”
“Within the context of the play, please, Anwen…. How are these fictional women being portrayed as weak?”
“Um…” She contemplated the question, perhaps for too long…. “The princess – she’s in mourning – and weeps and sits alone all day.”
“And what of it?”
“Her feelings, Sir. She is too emotional. Women feel too much with their feelings, Sir.”
“And do you?” She started. “Do you, as a young woman, do you feel too much with your feelings and fail to hold them at bay?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“Dewi – ” The boy could avert his eyes no longer, and was forced to look deep into the ashen face of his master. “Disguise and deception – what is its role within the play?”
“To manipulate, Sir.”
“Too vague. Manipulate what? Why? To what end?”
“For revenge – that’s with the men, and for protection – that’s with the women.”
“Not all terrible. Class – expound upon this question. Write now for twenty minutes on this theme and its function. And do not interrupt me with your queries. I’ve grown impatient with the lack of focus from many of you. You cannot always be given assurances in your simple thoughts, or an easy way out. You must learn to think and write for yourselves. Shakespeare is perhaps the zenith of your literary education, and you must learn to wrestle with him on your own terms. On your own. Begin now.”
And the master sat himself down behind the desk, looking through Dewi – nearest to him – to the rest of those behind. The room fell into an eerie stillness; pencils could be heard scratching behind, but Dewi sat awhile, musing. He turned slightly to see the one or two others sat beside him, nearest to the front of the room. Arthur Edwards was nearest to his right, picking at his pencil with his grubby nails, then bringing it to his teeth to tear away at its shavings – and on the other side, his cousin Derwen Evans, dutifully scribbling onto her little piece of paper.
It was often said that these two cousins bore a unique likeness to one another, more akin to that of siblings than what cousins often share; and indeed, there had been many rumours about the village these past twelve years regarding the peculiar circumstances surrounding the upbringing of these two youths. It would be, perhaps, too crude to try to condense so many years of allegations into only the twenty minutes that Little Dewi had been allotted – and yet, he could not help himself but to try… He was well aware of the hearsay that surrounded him, stalking behind him wherever he went, and – having now grown somewhat incensed by the work of the Immortal Bard – he found himself attempting to evaluate these claims. He found that he could not quit this line of enquiry, and so embraced it.
As he sat there, eyeing the empty scrap of paper placed upon his desk, the dusty schoolroom vanished around him and his eyes and ears closed themselves inwardly. He remembered again his earliest memories and could not find any semblance of a time in his life where his cousin was not present. In fact, now that he tried, he found that he could actually recall her life – her childhood – her memories – with a far greater clarity than he could recall his own. Where he only saw himself as he was now, as he is – as if he had always been – that same little boy of twelve years of age – meagre and mild – in contrast to this, he saw his cousin Derwen clearly through each and every stage of her development. He remembered herself as a young infant, perhaps only three or four year old – but found himself, as the observer, as this same meagre boy of twelve… He remembered her growing, taller and wider, through the years; her saw, now, her legs and arms getting longer, where his did not; and her hair lengthening too into thick, auburn curls that rather resembled her mother’s – then recalled with unease how, at the age of eight or nine, she chose to wear her hair in a plait, much like his mother’s. He could see her face growing and changing and becoming more and more beautiful, and her body changing too, as with so many other young girls of that age, and he remembered the juvenile feelings of excitement that this wrought upon him and felt these again with shame; and the years and years they spent with one another, playing and growing as the best of friends. His aunt Mari (her mother) was at times aloof and more reserved, with them both, so it seemed, but he learned quickly that this was just her way and couldn’t resent her of it. His own mother, Mabli, was infinitely more maternal and always made efforts to push the two children together: “Go off and play!” She would bellow from the kitchen, baking them welshcakes with fresh currants and jam. “Off with you now!” And away they would go. It was very much a house of women, while they hadn’t always lived together – not at first. Derwen’s father had left when she was born and, along with him, Dewi’s father also. Marc had left – so he’d been told – just before the boy was born – that there had only been a week or so between them… After a year or so of trying it alone, the two young mothers, with their two young children, moved back home to live with their father, Owain. And it was in this house where the two children now lived, sharing one room together, while their mother’s shared the other and their grandfather lived in the sitting-room below. Dewi, then, had never known his father and, as far as he knew, neither had his cousin Derwen known hers. They spoke little of them, fearing the hurt it might cause their mothers, but often, when alone, would create childish fantasies of who they had been and where they were now. Derwen, knowing her father to have been a miner, supposed he hadn’t travelled far, and might yet return, but Dewi’s imaginings were far more worldly, supposing his father to have become a seaman, travelling the oceans to the farthest corners of the world. He had, again, become mesmerised with these images – picturing great Pacific isles, with powdery sands – undiscovered worlds with terrifying beasts and amongst it all poor old Robinson Crusoe longing for his lost little boy, alone in the valleys. When he finally heard the sound of the bell being rung outside the door, he was awoken from his stupor.
Mr Morgan dismissed the class and, noticing Dewi to be the last out the door – despite his being seated second-nearest to it – called him back into the room.
“This, Dewi – ” pointing to the boy’s empty sheet of paper. “This simply will not do. You are at a significant disadvantage to the other boys in the class – you know that don’t you? And so, you must apply yourself all the more greatly to account for it. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Sir,” Dewi thought, for a moment, how much more personable was his master in such intimate and private moments, away from the many other students whom (he suspected) he held in lower regard, and so Dewi made an attempt to return this kindness. “I’m very sorry, Sir.” And he meant it.
Outside of the schoolhouse was a small green stretch of grass, surrounded on three sides by the terraced rows of houses that made up Edward Terrace. The gates of the schoolhouse creaked in their closing behind him and he could see his cousin awaiting him patiently while the many other children piled onto the grass, clambering over one another in a great tiny mass of cheers and shrieks and giggles. They had almost parted in two equal sides, the boys roaring and pushing on one, and the girls sat cross-legged, whispering on the other. Dewi and Derwen made their way through the fray and began their walk home, until they were eagerly seized by one or two of the boys and dragged by the hand into a cacophony of faces and voices which now surrounded them.
“Go on then, Dewi!”
“Tell us what he said!”
“Did he whack you with his stick?”
“No! He’d never do that – Dewi’s his favourite little pet!”
The many voices drowned one another and Dewi was pulled in more deeply, tossed in every direction amongst the swarming sea, one pulling at his arms, another trying to raise up his tucked-in shirt to see for any marks or signs of bruising. Derwen had been pushed aside and abandoned and the girls across the way looked at her from their seated place and giggled and whispered earnestly. Finally, Arthur Edwards appeared before Dewi’s frightened face and the rest of the boys gave way for him to address them.
“Tell me,” Arthur began, impersonating Mr Morgan’s stern, baritone voice. “Tell me. If a woman dressed like a man to seduce him – or her – or whoever – does this make that woman a whore in the eyes of our Lord and Saviour?”
“Yes!” The boys shouted as one, almost ravenous at the sound of such a dirty profanity being uttered so freely. “A whore!” The chorus rang out, repeating the naughty word.
“And if,” Arthur went on, pacing around the crowd as a worldly schoolmaster might. “Tell me. If a woman might lay with her sister’s husband! – ” The crowd jeered cruelly at this. “Then Leviticus 8:17:23 tells us – doesn’t it, children? – that such a one as she must be stoned unto death and hanged from the highest tree in the realm! We’nt it not so?” Arthur had – no doubt – improvised this little sermon in an attempt to rally his troops into a frenzy – for, as is known, the spectacle of humiliation is often far more tantalising when shared amongst so many witnesses – and he had been successful in his aims, as the many boys around him laughed now and jeered and hung upon his every word and movement as they had so recently hung upon Mr Morgan’s. All were pointing wildly at little Dewi Davies and twisted their faces to make them into grotesque monsters. “What say you, boy? Tell me. How should such a wench be punished justly?” Dewi – and certainly many of the other boys – had been quite unaware that Arthur was capable of such diction, such eloquence – but he had a penchant for torment, well known, and the spirit had gripped him so that, truly, he himself could little discern any meaning from his words – only the core testament was clear to him, and all who listened, and so, he dared himself to give up his false impressions and speak more plainly. “I heard a story,” Dewi himself had heard it once before, and knew what was coming – Arthur Edwards was not, by any stretch, the first to spout this particular tale amongst the village – “that your whore mother – and hers too!” Pointing to Derwen and dragging her also into the sea of faces too – “used to swap places and swap husbands! Every single night, before bed! And they never knew which of you was whose! That your mum is your mum and they gave up trying to figure it out! And that your two fake fathers – if they even were the only ones! – that they found out and that’s why they left you!”
“It’s true!” One of the faces agreed. “I heard it too!”
“And me! My dad knew ‘em both, and he told me it just like that! Just like that, Arthur! That’s just the way it was!”
Dafydd Mills is a Welsh writer of prose fiction; much of his work attempts to reflect that same society, from whence he was borne, and explore and celebrate the nation’s rich culture and traditions. He is currently in the process of re-drafting his first novel – an early draft of which makes up this published piece – and is hoping to find representation for the work in the future. More can be read at DafyddMills.wordpress.com
Photo Credit: Arianne Melton is a writer, artist, and educator in Portland, OR. She believes that people and things and moments all hold stories and she seeks to collect them, hold them, and share them. Arianne views writing and storytelling and art making as part of a large and complex ecosystem, and her work is reflective of perspective-taking from within a symbiotic relationship with the world around her. She is fascinated by the small details that can only be captured in just the right moment or with just the right frame to tell the story. These frames and moments can be fleeting and capturing them is like holding that exact place in time in her hands.
