Welsh dark myths and their demons are not dead in the past but alive, eager to be set free, in a time that runs parallel to ours.
Without knowing, Simon Wick's soul pulls to that surreal time and finds out he's an extraordinary creature ordained to waltz in and out of the reality flow for eternity
Outside in the cold, in rugged terrain, Simon Wick slept as usual on the outskirts of Harlech, his hometown.
"Freezing. I'm freezing," he mumbled to himself, rolling and cuddling up to a rock, behind a lonely shrub. He had cradled his face in the cushion of the almost frozen grass. His eyes were still shut, but he was shaking. The begrimed skin of his face, head and hands was already blue.
"Too cold to sleep," he mumbled again and woke up, stretching his arms and legs.
He sat on the grass and looked up to the sky as he rubbed his dirty hands together so as to keep them warm.
"Some weather, huh?" he said, scratching his hairless head. The sky was covered with grey clouds. "I'd better move." But a huge yawn broke his soliloquy for a moment, and then: "It's too cold here and I'm hungry. Yes, I'm hungry."
The long distance he walked daily from the outskirts to the town had always kept the cold at bay.
"Yes, a walk across the fields will do me good," he said and started to move.