[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
seeming to be blanketed and robbed of their venom by the fog. 'Come to take
that rabbit away, have you?'
The man turned slowly, his aquiline face a mask of predatory anger. Showing no
surprise, the deep-set eyes hooded and fixed steadily on Peter. In the grev
light the lone hair anH
flowing beard seemed pure white, an aged reincarnation of ancient evil rising
up out of the ashes to reclaim its domain of past centuries. A druid priest
returned from the dead.
'I happen to be looking for some stray ewes.' A cultured, dominant voice that
brooked no interference. 'A task which I am perfectly entitled to carry out.'
'You're trespassing. Apart from that it's sheer bloody bad manners to go
tramping about on somebody else's land without so much as a by-your-leave. You
know where I live, you could have called at the house first.'
*I saw no reason to disturb you about something you probably wouldn't
understand.' Ruskin's eyes narrowed. 'Up here we have an unwritten law that if
your stock go missing you go and look for them. Nobody is going to change a
way of life that has gone on for centuries. Certainly not an outsider!'
But Peter wasn't listening. His eyes were seeking out the big centre stone,
which Janie maintained had been used as a sacrificial altar by the ancient
druids, anticipating his revulsion, preparing himself for the sight of that
slaughtered rabbit again, mutilated still further by the raven's pre-dations.
But the dead animal was no longer there; even the lengths of string were gone.
Page 47
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Just patches of dried blood remained, which the elements would erase slowly,
nature's method of destroying the evidence.
The rabbit had disappeared just as the cat had done. Only to be returned
later? It might be foxes, of course. This time the victim had been within
vulpine reach. Only Peter knew the culprit wasn't a fox. His gaze returned to
Ruskin, instinctively searching his waterproof clothing for some tell-tale
bulge that might reveal a small rabbit carcase stuffed hastily into a pocket.
But there was none. Not even a bloodstain or a loose tuft of grey fur adhering
to the damp material.
'I rang you last night.' Peter's voice vibrated with his rising anger, his
frustration at finding no evidence of the farmer's involvement in the recent
happenings.
'Did you? Why?' Abruptly he half-turned away, with an I've-got-things-to-do
shrug of his broad shoulders.
'My son was missing.'
'I wouldn't know anything about that. I dropped him off at your place, as a
favour for Malcolm Hughes.'
'We found him here:, his pet rabbit had been tied to that stone and mutilated.
Just like our cat was the other day.'
'Strange things happen in these hills.' Ruskin's expression was impassive. 'We
locals have learned to accept them, not to ask questions.'
'Well I always ask questions.' Peter took a step forward, his hands clenched.
'And another thing, Mr Ruskin -1 take great exception 'to all that rubbish
about druids and spooks and the like which you tried to frighten my son with.'
Tin only telling your boy what every other child in the village knows.'
Ruskin's tone maintained its unemotional level; Christ, didn't this guy ever
get angry? So bloody sure of himself, dominant, talking down to you. 'The
other kids aren't scared, they just keep well away from Hodre, and that way
they know they'll be all right.'
'Well I don't believe that crap and I'm not keeping away. You won't drive me
from Hodre, Ruskin!'
'Me?'
'You or anybody else. I'm staying put, and if there's any more funny business
somebody might get hurt!'
'Is that some kind of a threat, Mr Fogg?' Twin red spots appeared on Tim
Ruskin's cheeks and began to blotch and spread. His lower lip appeared to
tremble slightly but it was difficult to be sure because his beard screened
most of it.
'Depends how you take it. I'm looking for anybody on this place without
permission from now onwards.'
'I've still got to find my ewes. I can't have 'em lost up here at this time of
the year. As you'll find out, blizzards can come without any warning and
before you know it your house is buried up to the chimneys.'
'OK, go and look for your sheep.' And you won't scare me with snow talk,
either. 'But next time I'd appreciate a call before you come walking over
Hodre ground.'
Tim Ruskin turned away without another word and set off uphill away from the
circle, his heavy working boots powdering ash in his wake. Peter watched him
until he was lost in the fog. He had an uncomfortable feeling that this was an
encounter which he had lost. No way would Ruskin come and ask permission to
enter Hodre's meagre acreage. Day or night he would come, a feudal baron who
was not to be denied access to that which he already considered to be his.
Peter managed to settle to an hour or two of work later that afternoon,
forcing himself to hammer the words out of the typewriter. He consoled himself
that this was only the first draft; an awful lot might be changed in the
second.
It was almost dusk when he happened to glance out of the window. The shadowy
panoramic landscape was silhouetted clearly against the skyline. The fog had
Page 48
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
lifted, the low cloud formations moved on elsewhere.
Something on the horizon attracted his attention, dots that moved, stopped,
moved on again. He squinted as he tried to identify them. There were dozens of
them, whatever they were; too big for sheep, too small for cattle. And
suddenly he knew, and the realisation made him catch his breath. Deer; a herd
two or three times the size of the one that had wandered on to Hodre
previously!
The big buck leader was recognisable by his aloofness from the rest of the
animals, and an alertness that was visible even at a distance of almost a
mile. They were edgy; that was why they kept on the move. Probably they had
lain up in the big forest all day and now with the approach of nightfall they
had come out to feed, regal beasts which from time immemorial had played the
role of the hunted.
Then the dusk deepened and Peter could see them no more, but he knew they were
out there, fighting to survive. Why did they come to Hodre with the approach
of winter when the valleys offered warmth and shelter? Perhaps there was a
greater degree of safety in these wild hills and mountains, places to hide,
refuge from the lowland hunters. He had read an article in one of the daily
newspapers some months ago about how widespread deer-poaching had become in
some parts of Britain. No longer was the poacher the romantic village Robin
Hood who set forth on moonlit nights content to bag a joint of venison for the
larder. Romanticism had escalated into big business. Gangs armed with shotguns
and crossbows hunted in the lights of vehicles, heedless of the cruelty
involved. Wounded deer escaped, limping away into thick cover to die a
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]