Balorbane

Stolen Sheep

Stolen Sheep

Withyford Farm lay nestled against the moorland hills which harassed it on three sides. To the south, a handful of fields lent the farm a certain amount of tameness, but this was short-lived as it drifted off into moorland again. The farm itself was small and the Vales stock grazed upon the open moorland as was the custom. The house and buildings were built of granite with thatched roofs. From the outside, the buildings looked far from warm and cozy. The byres where the cattle and horses were housed were warm, heat generated by the livestock. The house itself was filled with warmth from great fire places which burnt both peat and logs. Most of the family life was spent in the large kitchen, where a huge table ran the length of the room with a bench set against the wall. On the other side, four chairs were placed while at the end of the table a larger chair with great arms seemed to overrule the rest of the furniture. A big window gave a view to the yard and the moor beyond. In the scullery, salted beef, pork and legs of mutton hung from large hooks set in the ceiling. To the Vale family, this was home and had been for several generations. It was late November 1829. Outside, a cold mist hung over the moor whilst inside the Vale family sat around a warm fire.

“Found another sheep dead with the eyes gone — up by the old oaks, Father”, said Morgan Vale for the sake of conversation. “Another?”, replied his father. “Been more than enough of late”. There was a pause as Vale filled his pipe and moved uneasily in his chair. Morgan put another cut of peat on the fire, flames curled and flickered around the new fuel. He stared at the flames, his father played with his pipe, his mother, Sarah, sat near the fire mending a pair of trousers. She sat in silence, deftly moving the needle around the torn parts, whilst Susan, his sister, sat in the corner and read a book by candlelight.

“The raven was in the old oak again, I’m sure it’s the same one every day”. His father did not reply. “Do you think some of our sheep have been stolen?”, he asked. “I wouldn’t want to say just now, we’ll see if any are missing when we bring them in this week. There’s always a few, some just die, they're old and weak. Some we never find. I don’t like to think of them being stolen. If there are some not accounted for, we had better keep it to ourselves.

It would be hard to prove that they were stolen”, said John Vale. “Jeremy Fry says he lost five last week. He also believes the Stickles stole them”, said Morgan. His father took a long puff on his pipe. “Jeremy Fry needs to be a lot more careful about what he says”. “Yes I know”, said Morgan, “most won’t say a word, even if they could prove theft for fear of what those boys might do to them. Most folk are afraid of them anyway”. “And you aren’t I suppose?”, said John.

There was silence again; both father and son stared into the fire. After a while, the conversation was renewed on a different subject until it was time for bed. Early to bed and early to rise was John Vale’s motto. With a candle in hand, they would retire for the night, filled with their own thoughts.

Outside, the windswept clouds sped across the sky, occasionally blocking out the brightness of the moon. Shadows moved across the face of the moor, dancing here and there, shedding light, casting darkness. Sheep lay huddled against the stone walls. Cattle stood, facing away from the chilling wind. A sudden squawk as a hen was snatched by a wandering fox. Silence again, except for the sound of cattle chewing their cud. It seemed like a passage of time was drifting across this lonely part of the moor.

The dark sky cleared just enough to let a stream of moonlight bathe the moorland below. The sounds of hooves carried in the wind. Four riders and six ponies trudged along a winding path, almost ghost-like. Two ponies were laden with hog-tied sheep. The Stickles were on the move once more, riding in silence, over a moorland track. The sound of voices would carry for miles in the night air. Natural sounds filtered over the damp grasses, hooves clicked on loose stones and leather creaked. The occasional bleating of sheep and the endless moan of the wind added to the chorus.

The cold mist vanished; the weather changed quickly upon the moor. In Nelly Trott’s cottage the fire died. Both women pulled what shabby blankets they had around themselves and tried to sleep. Far away, a dog howled, and an eerie moan shuddered through the haunted valleys.