Balorbane

The Words Of Willy Whiddon

The Words Of Willy Whiddon

In summer, the hour ride to the Mede was a pleasure, embracing nature’s fragrance to the rhythm of the horses' gait. Now it is November, the end of the month, cold and wet. By road, it was a gentler, smoother ride, but the moor land track reduced the travelling time by half an hour. Both the horse and the pony were used to this track and, unless the snow was really deep with drifts, it was quite passable.

For a time, they rode without any conversation, shielding their faces with scarves from the stinging bite of the northwest wind. They passed dull brown colourless gorse beside the rough track. Grey rocks loomed out of the ground, almost like stationary ghosts from some ancient history. Cattle, few in number, grazed the sparse grasses in small groups silently. They raised their shaggy heads, one after the other and stared at the two riders; curiosity satisfied, they returned to grazing or chewing their cud. On the high ground, the wind blew in gale force gusts at times. The ground was wet and soggy, hoof prints were clearly seen in the soft mud. As they descended the long winding slope toward the valley below, the sky moved in angry motions, grey clouds swirled and hid the pale sun, which had only appeared for a short time, from sight.

“I fear it shall rain again Willy”, said John. “Aye sir, it rained devilish hard when riding over to see you. The nor’wester makes it worse than it was before. See sir, it rains on the far side of the moor even now. Infernal rain, so cold it chills me to the bone”. With that, Willy bent his head to shield his face from the cold wind once more. “The rain cometh this way fast”, said John, but Willy did not hear him. Strange, determined lad he’s grown to be, thought Vale.

When they reached the bottom of a steep valley, it began to rain steadily and, as there was nowhere to shelter, they continued their journey in silence. Soon they were riding out of the valley toward some high ground and Whiddon heard Vale’s voice calling, so he looked to where John was pointing. “There’s a pile of rocks up ahead, we’ll shelter there for a bit”.

They were almost half way, huge boulders jutted out of the ground, shining black because of the rain. It would make a fair shelter if they stood on the leeward side of it. “Maybe it will ease off a bit in a while”, said Vale. All his companion said was “Aye”.

The cob and the pony hung their heads away from the fierce elements, letting their rumps take the full force of the weather. “Horses don’t like it any more than us”, said Willy. “Glad there isn’t any thunder and lightning. Hangalous old toad he is in thunder and lightning”. “You always ride him”, said John. “Aye sir, especially if it’s something important, or somewhere we have to go in good time. Only thing he is scared of is thunder and lightning, not a bit afraid of a gun shot or anything else, funny isn’t it”. “Aye, they have strange ways, just like people”. There was a pause for a moment as he drew his cloak tighter around himself.

“Come on, the rain has eased some”, he said. They remounted and set out once again. “Yes”, said Willy, “I would like to get to the Mede before old Nell’ comes foraging around with her damnable curses and all. A meddling old witch, that one be”. “I haven’t seen or heard of her of late”, said Vale. “I suppose she still lives at the tumbled down old cottage”. “That she does, and I hope she stays within fifty yards of it”, replied Whiddon. He tightened his grip on the reins. “Someone should hang the old witch! She’s always scaring folks half to death, she is. Her daughter is just like her, string them up to the gibbet I say. Infernal rains soaked my britches right through to my bones; almost seems like Nelly has put a curse on these here hills”. Willy could talk a fair piece once he started on something.

In the next valley, a little stream wound its way through boulders and bracken. Further on, it passed near the cottage where the two women lived and continued its way through rocks and sparse trees that grew there about. Everyone supposed the old woman lived there, because none was brave enough to find out for themselves. It appeared eerie from where they looked along the jagged path that led to the lonely abode, even though it was hard to see. Maybe that added to the eeriness of it. The dark overhanging sky, gave the place a haunting, frightening appearance. Nobody knew for certain how it came by the name ‘Hoggs Hollow’. The common version known by the local residents was 'Nelly Trott lives in a pig sty'.

They crossed the stream and passed the mysterious path that led to the Hollow. Having ridden to this point, they were halfway to their destination. Slowly, they approached the next landmark that caused fear for some. A stone cross rose out of the ground like a statue, its name was Hound’s Cross. It stood by a four-cross way in the track. In recent years the place had been more commonly known as 'Stickles Corners'. The track to the left led to the Stickles farm, to the right, the ancient track led to Jeremy Fry’s, known as Sheep’s Dyke.

On a clear day, one could see the rooftops of the Stickles place. It consisted of crude buildings in bad need of repair. The Stickles were a ruthless family. The father, named Rob, short for Robert or Robber, depending on whom one spoke too, was old and an invalid. His life had been hard, raising four sons by himself. His wife died at the birth of the youngest. No woman had ever stepped within the walls of the Stickles house since. It was unkempt, dirty and in desperate need of repair. His sons were in their twenties, not married and certainly not wanted by any of their neighbours. They could not scratch a living from the farm, it was too small, and the soil was poor. They spent their time terrorizing the countryside, stealing sheep and cattle. Nobody seemed to be able to prove that their stock was stolen by them. If they could, were not prepared to accuse them of it. Occasionally, travellers had been robbed or molested by them if they had the misfortune to meet with the rogues. The local inns were a favourite place for them to appear. People would leave the Inn if they should happen to show themselves, for their reputation after a few ales or cider was known far and wide. Today they were nowhere to be seen, so with an encouraging sound to their mounts, they rode on.

The wind diminished, and the rain stopped, enough to put Willy in an easier frame of mind, so he spoke up, his voice drifting across the moor. “Master Vale sir, did you hear the tale about the Stickles brothers from a few days ago?”. “No Willy, I didn’t”, said Vale. He was glad of a conversation, and he certainly wanted to hear about this. “Well, it’s like this here. It’s spread about that they made a call to the 'Bull and Cow' at Green Hays. As you know they're known to travel about armed and such. Well, this particular day they rode in and hitched their ponies out in the courtyard as though ready to get away fast-like. Then they strode into the inn.

On their entry the whole place went like the dead. They stepped to the bar, knocking over chairs and pushing people aside and ordered jugs of ale - without paying mind. Some folk, braver than most, stood around to see what would happen next, so to speak. I’ve a feeling a lot of them wished that they had gone home directly. It wasn’t long before the ale took effect and that meant they were ready to fight. A few minutes after that, three men were bleeding, some say from knife wounds. Two were unconscious, and one chap was shot in the leg, so I heard. After they finished knocking the folk about, they fetched up Joe Perkins the Inn Keeper, and hanged him up to the ceiling on those great hooks by his belt. After helping themselves to some more ale, they stepped outside, laughing as they went, mounted their ponies and away they went like winky. I heard some folk were hiding in the tallot and after they had gone, came down to see what had happened. Middling old stew there was about the whole affair I can tell you. It’s also said that they told everyone within hearing distance to keep their women folk under lock and key. What do you think should be done about the likes of them Master Vale sir?” There was silence for a few moments, as though Vale was deep in thought, then he said. “I’m not sure Willy, at the moment I’m not sure. I’ll have to look into it”.

By now they were near the edge of the moor that came to rest by the village of Rexford. The church steeple could be seen in the distance. A path turned sharply to the west and this they rode along, the pony gaining speed as it neared its home. “We’re nearly there, and I’m glad of it”, said John. The old manor house was a welcome sight when it came into view. “Aye sir, I’m glad to be home”, said Willy.

A few minutes later, they rode into the courtyard and even the cob and the pony relaxed from their arduous journey. Willy’s father Thomas, came to their aid and took the horses to the stable to be brushed down, fed and watered. Vale could see that Whiddon was glad that his son had arrived home safely.