Balorbane

Moorland Shadows & Gwen Trott

Moorland Shadows & Gwen Trott

At the break of day, the morning the air was cold, and the sun rose pale along the horizon. An easterly wind blew hard against the Manor House. Vale rose from a restless night's sleep, went to the window and peered out to see what nature had in store for the day. It was no longer raining, in its place, the puddles were now covered by ice and a hard crust lay upon the ground. The view from the window over looked a few small fields that stretched away toward the village. Cattle stood in groups, facing away from the wind. A dark object fluttered past the window and perched in a tree across the court. He took no notice of it, a raven’s a raven. He turned away from the window, went to the side board and washed in cold water that had been provided for him. Once again, he dressed in his riding gear, black boots, brown russet breaches, white ruffled shirt and leather jerkin. When dressed, he felt better and made his way down the stairs toward the wonderful smell of bacon. He had risen a little later than usual, but it did not seem to matter. “Good morning”, was met by all, as everyone sat around the table for their breakfast.

When this meal was over, Vale made ready to leave the Mede. As he did so, Basehart said, “I’ll send word to you as soon as the Constable returns from Exeter...then we’ll take some action”. “Alright, until then, we had better take note of anything that may happen”, said Vale. “Aye, right you are. What we need is witnesses. Sure you can’t stay for lunch”, said Basehart. “No, thank you. I best be on my way”. “Aye, the moor is none too friendly now...the weather, not to mention the rogues. I hope you don’t meet up with them. Do you wish for someone to ride along with you, John?”. There was laughter at this remark, “No, thank you, I’ll be fine. I’ll keep my horse pistol loaded and my wits about me”.

Now fully attired, he left the house and went to the stable, where the cob was patiently waiting for him. It was already harnessed. “Whoa boy”, said Vale, patting the neck of his steed. “Are you ready for a canter across the moor?”. The cob nuzzled his shoulder as though it understood him. Vale had said his farewells to the Basehart family previous to leaving the house. It was only Giles that waited for him outside by the mounting block.

“Godspeed John”, he said. The friendly gesture was returned as Vale urged the cob away from the courtyard onto the path that led to the moor.

It was still cold, but grey clouds were beginning to roll in from the west, the wind having changed direction since early morning. He hoped that it would not turn to rain again; it should not, because of the frosty air. He scanned the moor ahead, it looked cold and bleak. Black tors dotted the skyline like great monsters from the past. Long winding stone walls suggested the presence of man. The wind suddenly ceased, in it’s place a stillness, silence, eerie and uncanny, almost frightening. The frostiness disappeared to be replaced by low mists, like clouds. The horizon vanished from sight, swallowed up by a white foam that bounded along the valleys. The damp mist clung to all it touched with an icy wetness. The heaviness of the weather hung about him, blocking out the sun and the sky — another trick of the moors!

The cob walked steadily onward, it was not the first time it had been out in such awful weather. Horse and rider were now approaching the four-cross way. Tension coursed through Vale’s veins as he strained his ears for any unusual sounds. A sudden clatter of hooves, the crash of stone on stone, and there before him gliding through the mist, three moorland ponies, shaggy and wet, came into view. As fast as they appeared, they darted away; disappearing into the mist like ghosts or some unknown phantom. The cob, unafraid of his own kind, objected to the rash pulling of the bit caused by the fear of its rider. Vale’s right hand had frozen on the pistol, unable to move. When the ponies had vanished, he relaxed, breathing normally once more, at the same time feeling rather ashamed of himself.

A deathly silence surrounded him as he urged the cob slowly forward. To his left, a figure loomed out of the mist, he pulled at the reins once more, this time in control of himself and the horse. He levelled the pistol in the direction of the shrouded figure which disappeared in the mist. The cloudiness swirled about him then lifted, giving a clear view of the figure. Alas, it was only the statue of Hound’s Cross. A movement on the top of it revealed a black raven, which was just sat there, head to one side, carrion in its claws.

At this point, Vale was near to the Stickles path. The cob’s ears twitched in the direction of the pathway. For some reason, it stopped, Vale listened nervously. First an eerie quietness, then the clatter of hooves on loose stones and creaking leather drifted toward him. It sent a chill down his spine and he felt the tickle of goose bumps, which ended in a cold sweat. He gently patted the neck of the cob, which remained standing quietly. Voices drifted through the dampness, out of the shroud like mist. They were coarse, harsh voices. “Do you think Fry will miss these sheep, Ben?” “To bad for him if he does”, came the gruff reply.

Vale quietly dismounted and crouched behind a large boulder and peered down on the path below. The mist suddenly cleared, allowing a view of the last rider of the four descending the pathway to the Stickles farm. The mist rolled back again as quickly as it cleared and the clatter of hooves faded into the distance. With a sigh of relief, he waited a few moments, then remounted and urged the cob slowly onto the track again. The mist still hung about him as he passed the path leading to Hoggs Hollow, not a sound or sign of anyone.

The huge rocks came into view where he and Whiddon had sheltered the day before. The grey boulder seemed larger, just an illusion, he thought as he was about to pass. Just then, his attention was taken by someone or something darting through the dancing mist behind it. He was sure it was a person, someone small, slight of build. He headed the cob off the track toward the boulder. He felt nervously compelled to find out who it could be. They might need help on a day such as this. When he rounded the far side of the great boulder, he was surprised to find a shabbily dressed girl standing before him. She was dirty, and being wet made her appear tall and thin, almost like a shroud as the fading mist twisted about her frame. Her lean face showed a meanness in it, the likes of which he had not seen before. Her dark eyes were haunting and cruel in appearance. In the cold dancing mist, her whole being had the effect of horror and shame.

Vale spoke quickly and loudly to her, not wishing to show that he had been startled by her frightening appearance. “Why do you hide girl, do you need help?” “What are you following me for John Vale. I’ve just as much right here as you have. So get yourself going, before I get my mother to put a spell on you”.

With that, she screamed and waved her arms frantically above her head, running toward the cob as she did so and cursed him violently. Just then, at the same instance, she reached the cob, a black raven flew at the horse’s head, as though it would peck the eyes out of the terrified creature. The cob reared, it’s front legs thrashing the air as it did so, taking its rider by surprise, which set him off balance, and he fell from the horse, landing with a thud on the wet moorland sod. The cob regained itself clumsily, then stood looking at it’s master who was struggling to his feet. Vale stood up rubbing his head, the hideous laughter of the wretched girl pierced his ears, causing his disgust and shame to turn to anger. “Damn you girl”, he said, his face red with embarrassment. He bent down, picked up his hat and placed it on his aching head. His horse stood quietly as he remounted and, glaring at the girl, turned the animal away from her toward the track. The vile girl’s laughter still ringing in his ears as he rode away into the dampness of the fading mist. Nelly Trott was raising her daughter just like herself, he thought as he left the scene.

The rest of the journey presented no incident, and soon he rode into Withyford farm. His clothes were wet from the mist, moisture, and his fall, but he decided to keep his acquaintance with the girl to himself as it did not concern the family at the moment. When he entered the yard, Worthy came out of the barn and took the cob from him, asking how his ride had been. Vale answered with a nod and walked to the house. His explanation for his muddy attire was that the cob had slipped and stumbled in the mist, causing him to be thrown. Sarah showed concern about this, but he assured her that all was well and proceeded to ask how they had fared during his absence. He was told about their steer being stolen through the night. “Must have been about midnight”, said Morgan. “By the time we were up, they were gone”. Vale was puzzled by the theft, at midnight here, early morning at Fry’s. How could they do it so easily? Stealing a couple of sheep here and there was one thing, but a beast — one near ready for market — was another. He was angry about the whole affair, the Stickles must be stopped.

By this time, Gwen Trott had reached her cottage at Hoggs Hollow. She crossed the moors in the mist knowing each step and turn, bypassing each bog, the raven perched upon her thin shoulder. She chatted to it, as though it understood each word she said. The raven’s black eyes watching, always watching in deathly silence, just as the moor now rested in silence.

The Stickles penned their stolen sheep, slaughtered one and butchered it. The ponies were fed and watered, but not groomed. It was late afternoon and it was beginning to get dark. The four men went to the house, such as it was. The dying fire in the hearth was brought back to life, bringing a bit of warmth to the place. Stuart, who was always the cook, prepared a crude meal. Boiled mutton, some potatoes and stale bread, which they ate hungrily. Hilroy took some supper to his father, who lay sick in a dismal room above the kitchen. Downstairs, the Stickles drank and planned the next day. Evening passed into night, and finally they went to bed and fell asleep on mattresses filled with straw in cold rooms.

Outside, the blackness of night fell upon the moor as it lay in silence and moon - shadow. In the small yard in front of the Stickles house, Nelly and Gwen Trott danced to the tune of the shifting clouds and heaped curses upon the old man who lay in the cold of the upper room; their footprints leaving patterns in the mud.