In The Grip Of Old Winter Page 9

  In the gloom, the deer’s imprint and the ruffled snow lay too far back to be visible from the farmer’s gate.

  “It wasn’t thunder,” Peter said. “It was a black dog, it...”

  “A black dog?” The farmer’s face reddened. “How big were it?”

  “Massive. It killed a deer and carried it into the trees.”

  “Oh my...” The farmer strode down the lane, the gun level with his chest. “The barghest,” he muttered, “the barghest... I feared it when I heard... and the sheep twitchy too...” He spun round. “You saw it you say?”

  Peter flinched as the gun pointed at his stomach. “Yes.”

  The farmer hurried back. “Best get off the lane, quick now.” He indicated the yard with two sharp jabs of the gun. “Be getting with you.”

  Peter didn’t want to turn his back on the gun but, scared by the farmer’s reaction, he obeyed. As soon as he passed the gate, he faced him again. “What was it - that dog?”

  The spring-lever snapped with a clang as the farmer shut the gate. “The barghest - the black dog - it is...” and he gazed into the trees as if they might give him an answer. “It is old beyond years. Get inside now, out of this cold.”

  Peter, frightened, hesitated. “Doesn’t it... doesn’t it belong to someone?”

  The farmer stomped past him and made for the house. “Don’t be daft. You saw it you say? Who’d keep that? It’s not to be tamed - pray it never comes for you.”

  Peter followed. “Well, shouldn’t we phone the police or something?”

  The farmer rounded on him, though he kept the gun pointed to the ground. “It is not - natural. You cannot catch it. It lives - yet...” he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. “It is a monster.” He made for the green door at the side of the house. “It is this cold that’s brought it out.”

  The door opened before he reached it and a lady with grey hair stood in its frame and wiped her hands on a blue apron.

  “What’s happening, Samuel?” She spotted Peter. “Who’s this?”

  “Be the young lad come to stay up at Old Ma’s. There’s been an accident.” He called back over his shoulder. “What did you say your name be?”

  “Peter.”

  The woman placed her hands on her hips. “I hope you haven’t been scaring him with that gun? Old Ma will give me a right earful if she hears.” She stepped to one side as Samuel pushed past her into the house.

  The farmer grumbled. “Don’t be daft. There’re worse things abroad than young lads.”

  The woman beckoned Peter forward. “Come in out of the cold.”

  Peter hesitated. “My dad’s hurt. He’s bleeding. Old... grandma says can you drive the tractor to take him to hospital.”

  The woman’s fingertips brushed her cheek. “Oh dear. It’s bad you say?”

  Peter nodded.

  “Samuel,” she called into the house. “Can you get the tractor round to help?” Peter didn’t catch the words of Farmer Brunt’s distant reply.

  She placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Would you believe it, with the snow so bad and the telephone off, you can bet there’s going to be some calamity. Your poor dad and at Christmas too.” She wiped her hands on the apron. “I’m Sally, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

  They shook hands and then Sally peered over his shoulder towards the lane. “What was the old fool doing out with the gun?”

  “The...” Peter tried to remember the name Farmer Brunt called the dog. “The Bur.... there was a big black dog in the road. It killed a deer and ran off into the trees.”

  “Really?” Her forehead puckered and when she spoke the words came bright and quick. “Poor thing, it’s probably escaped from some farm. Must be starving in this cold.” She glanced into the house. “Samuel, you’ll take the tractor will you?”

  Farmer Brunt’s boots stomped on the wooden boards as he re-appeared. “Just fetchin’ supplies.”

  Sally laid a hand on his arm as he pushed past. “Peter says there’s a big dog on the loose.”

  Samuel held up a small brown box and gave it a shake so that the contents rattled. “Ammunition. Won’t be caught short, so don’t fret.”

  Sally laughed with a shrill anxious peal. “That’s all right then. I’m sure it won’t come to that. Will you be wanting some food to take?”

  Farmer Brunt crunched through the snow towards the tractor. “Don’t fuss. I’ll eat later.”

  “I’ve got sandwiches and hot chocolate,” said Peter.

  Sally squeezed his arm. “Have you? That’s good. He’ll be peckish in this cold.”

  Farmer Brunt said. “I’ll need help hitchin’ the trailer. I’ll take the low-sider. Feelin’ strong, young man?”

  Peter followed the farmer round the barn and the sheep inside must have heard their footsteps, for they bleated as if they expected something. The open trailer stood tipped up behind the barn. Snow, like a huge slab of white cake, filled the interior.

  Farmer Brunt released the pegs that held the boards in place on either side and let them drop. “Give us a hand to shift this snow.”

  Together, they pushed at the huge wedge and it slid off the trailer and broke apart as it landed in a misshapen mound.

  “Now then,” said the farmer. “You push from the back and I’ll pull from the front.” He reached up and took hold of a large steel ring that protruded from the end of a short shaft. With a grunt, he pulled the ring down and the trailer see-sawed into a horizontal position.

  Peter ran round to the rear, pressed his palms against the wooden board that secured the back and braced his body ready to push.

  ***

  “One, two, three,” grunted the farmer. The trailer shifted forwards a few inches and then rolled back. “One, two, three.” A bit further this time and it didn’t roll back so far. “Again.” This time it cleared the hummock of snow that covered its wheels and rolled forwards. “Good job,” congratulated the farmer. “Keep pushing.”

  They manoeuvred the trailer around the barn and into the yard. The sheep bleated even louder. Farmer Brunt swung the trailer, first one way and then the other, until the ring slotted over the large metal ball that jutted out from the back of the tractor.

  The farmer wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “Phew! That’s warmed us up.”

  Peter’s shins ached from pushing so hard.

  “Let’s get the boards up. You take that one.” The farmer pointed to the right-hand side. “Do one end first, then the other.”

  Peter swung the board up and fixed it into position with long square-shaped wooden pegs that dangled on short lengths of rope which he pushed into large screw eyes.

  “If you drop the board at the back,” instructed Farmer Brunt, “you can clamber up and ride on top.”

  “Do you want me to come?” asked Sally.

  “No.” The farmer climbed into the driver’s seat. “Stay in - and lock the door. The barn’s secure. I’ll do the feed when I’m back.” He propped the gun behind the seat.

  Peter sat at the front of the trailer with his back to the tractor. The trailers’ planks smelled of manure and stray wisps of dirty straw stuck out between the grooves.

  Sally wiped her hands on her apron, not to make them clean, Peter thought, more for something to do to relieve her worry. He guessed that she understood the significance of the black dog, but didn’t want to frighten him or upset her husband.

  First with a splutter and then with a roar, the tractor’s engine shuddered and a cloud of blue diesel smoke shot over Peter’s head. The trailer trembled as Farmer Brunt revved the engine.

  Sally ran up and shouted. “I do hope your dad mends fast. Hold on tight now.”

  With a jolt, the tractor started forward and Peter clung to the nearest board as Farmer Brunt turned out of the yard. Sally ran ahead and opened the gate. She waved as Peter rode past and then secured the gate and waved some more until the holly bush blocked her from view.

  Farmer Brunt shouted over his shoulder. “Keep an
eye out. Yell if you spots something.”

  The trailer jolted Peter up and down as they increased speed. The tractor’s wheels churned up the snow and left deep imprints. He had to guess the place where he’d seen the dog, for even the blood didn’t show after the tractor passed. The engine’s roar made his ears buzz and obliterated the chance of hearing anything else.

  He peered left and right into the trees, anxious about what he might see, but even more afraid of being caught unawares. The trailer’s erratic lurches made it difficult to focus and his eyes watered as he tried to concentrate. The steep banks slid past on either side and the engine’s roar took on a deeper note that thumped like some gigantic heart as it echoed off the trees.

  The gloomy shadows slipped around the undergrowth as they drove past. He imagined eyes peering from behind bushes or from holes burrowed into the ground. Almina might be watching. Suppose the black dog stalked them and approached each corner after the tractor passed? Might it attack? Farmer Brunt feared it, but why? What happened before that the farmer needed his gun?

  He wiped his eyes dry; silly to be frightened of what might be, for nothing appeared to justify his fear.

  With a sudden swerve to the right which rolled Peter from one side of the trailer to the other, they left the lane and climbed the track towards the house.

  They cleared the tree line when the farmer slowed the tractor and stopped. Peter knelt up to look. Granddad hurried towards them. His hot breath steamed in clouds and when he reached them he leaned against the tractor’s big back wheel to recover.

  Farmer Brunt called from the cab. “What’s up, Old Pa?”

  “It’s - phew!” He pointed to Peter. “The carrier - he’s been here. I think - I think he’s taken Almina.” He braced his back against the wheel and nodded in the direction of the charred branch. “I saw him grab her. She cried out and then - and then she wasn’t there anymore.” He faced Peter. “You’ll have to go - I’m needed.”

  “The carrier?” Farmer Brunt replied. “Winter snow’s brought him out too?”

  Granddad glanced from the farmer to Peter and then back again. “What...?”

  The farmer jerked his head in the direction of the lane. “The barghest is abroad. Young lad come upon it - I heard thunder at the farm - leastways that’s what I hoped.”

  Granddad swallowed and opened his mouth as if he meant to ask something, then decided not to and faced Peter. “Can you try and find Almina?”

  Peter stood and his legs wobbled after being bumped about from the ride. He climbed down and hitched his backpack over his shoulders.

  Granddad joined him at the back of the trailer. “We have to get your dad to hospital. I fancy the women will go with him and I’ll stay here. If you just find Almina and see what’s happened, don’t put yourself in danger, and then come and tell me.”

  The farmer called down. “Where you sending him? Can he use a gun?”

  “Not far,” replied granddad. “Just around the house.”

  Farmer Brunt muttered. “Don’t want to be taking no risks. An old winter’s gripped us this year, that’s for sure.”

  Peter’s stomach tightened. He wanted to avoid Almina and the carrier and now he had to look for them. It didn’t make sense and if he found them, what then? If they saw him, they’d grab him. He ran his thumb around the edge of the seal-amulet in his anorak pocket. Bear told him to keep it, but he didn’t stand a chance if they both attacked.

  “We have to get on with helping your dad to hospital,” said granddad.

  Peter ran towards the trees. He’d hidden from Tobias and managed to escape from Almina. He’d slipped past the barghest, though he’d wanted to turn and run. It didn’t always take courage to be brave. A wary approach to avoid obvious danger worked just as well - like at school, when he kept out of the way of the boys he didn’t like. An easy solution, once you knew how. The same rules applied now.

  He stepped off the track. Bare twigs rustled and scratched as he pushed past. In the distance, Farmer Brunt revved the tractor as he started up to the house.

  Peter reached the charred branch and just before he touched it, he said, “Leonor.”

  Light and dark flashed and he shut his eyes. A sound, that he hadn’t noticed before, like a fierce wind that blew far away, whistled a high keen note. It trailed away into sudden silence and he opened his eyes.

  Grey daylight, the soundless fall of snowflakes and through the trees, the manor. He crouched, alert and searched for any sign of Almina or the carrier. No broken twigs or patches of disturbed snow to indicate a struggle or that either of them had been here.

  He peered up at the tower. Tobias leaned out as if he searched for something below. The rhythmic thud-thud, thud-thud, of a horse’s hooves carried through the trees and Oswald, draped in a thick fur cloak, appeared from around the side of the manor astride a large chestnut-coloured horse.

  He glanced up and raised his hand and Tobias waved back, though neither of them spoke. With a flick of his heels, Oswald ordered the horse into a trot and guided it onto the track.

  Peter swallowed - should he follow Oswald or creep into the manor? He remembered Oswald’s promise to Leonor to visit the outlaw’s camp. The manor might be entered at any time, but he’d never know the whereabouts of Oswald’s destination if he didn’t follow now.

  Tobias watched Oswald from the tower and then resumed his guard and began to pace.

  Peter darted out from where he crouched and pursued Oswald as close as he dared. The track dipped, just as it did in Peter’s time, between tree-lined banks. The lane cut across Oswald’s path and when he reached it, Oswald guided the horse to the left.

  The lane followed the same route that he had just walked in his time so many centuries later, though churned mud, frozen hard by the cold, made progress along this route more difficult than the tarred way he’d walked to reach Farmer Brunt’s.

  The horse stepped with care through the stiff rutted mud and Oswald didn’t demand a brisker pace so Peter kept an even distance between them, ready to dive into cover if Oswald glanced back.

  Third time today, Peter thought, I’ve travelled this route. The track’s twists and turns and the regular pace set by Oswald’s horse, lulled and relaxed Peter until his attention focused in an absent-minded way on the ground at his feet. Almina and the carrier wouldn’t dare attack with the Eorl so close.

  After a while, he glanced up and with a shock lurched to a stop. Oswald stood in the lane beside his horse.

  Peter darted behind the nearest tree, held his breath and peered around the trunk. Had he been spotted, or heard? No concern or alarm crossed Oswald’s face and with sudden speed, the Eorl stepped into the trees upon the left-hand bank and the horse trotted after.

  ***

  Oswald and the horse disappeared. No twigs snapped or bushes rustled as Peter imagined they must if the Eorl and the horse climbed the bank. This silence wasn’t right.

  He crept out of hiding and, ready to dart into cover again, hurried to where Oswald dismounted.

  The bank’s steep incline made a quick climb to the top impossible, yet to vanish like magic appeared to be the only, if implausible, explanation.

  The waxy leaves of some evergreen bush flourished along this part of the lane. Though dense, the leaves didn’t grow from a tangle of twigs, but from long stems that, near their bases, thickened into branches. Clusters of these branches gave the impression of one big bush, yet plenty of space separated each stem and a way through proved easy. The stems sprang back as he passed and the leaves hid him from anyone who might be watching on the lane.

  Another surprise came from the downward slant of the ground. He expected a hard climb, not a gradual descent. The air, trapped under the leaves and rich with earth-scent, warmed his cheeks.

  Very little light filtered through the leaves and as he went in deeper, it darkened. Then his hands brushed against cold earth which stretched for as wide and as high as he was able to reach. He shuffled to the left and
then to the right, but this earth wall blocked his way.

  He pulled off his backpack and reached inside for the torch. With his hand cupped over the lens to stop the spill, he switched it on and released his fingers a bit at a time until the beam gave just enough light.

  A wall of earth proved correct, though as he opened his hand to release more light, he saw, further to his right, a darker shadow that might be the opening to a cleft or a cave.

  He stepped with care to make as little noise as possible. This darker shadow widened and he aimed the torch at his feet as he peered around its nearest edge.

  Not a cave, but a ravine with vertical sides and in the distance a thin line of grey daylight. He switched off the torch, laid it on top of the sandwiches and hoisted the backpack onto his shoulders.

  He crept towards the light and his hand brushed against the earth on the left-hand side. Twice he stepped into the middle of the ravine and stretched his arms wide, but his fingertips failed to touch both sides at the same time.

  Impossible to see this secret way from the lane, even in winter, for tree roots and bushes grew across the gap high above. Is this where Farmer Brunt’s farm stood in his time? It might be close, but he didn’t think he’d followed Oswald far enough.

  As he approached the ravine’s opening, he turned sideways and walked slower. Distant voices carried into the enclosed space, though he didn’t make out the words. He dropped down onto all fours and crawled. A bush, that grew low to the ground, spread across the gap ahead and he crept up behind it and peered round.

  In a clearing surrounded by trees, many men worked. Some, huddled in groups, attended to their weapons. Others scraped at leather hides or fashioned them with long dark knives. Leather armour, thought Peter. A large black pot, that steamed, hung suspended over glowing embers.