AlsobyMichaelMorpurgoArthur:HighKingofBritainEscapefromShangri-LaFriendorFoeFromHereaboutHillTheGhostofGraniaO’MalleyKensuke’sKingdomKingoftheCloudForestsLittleFoxesLongWayHomeMrNobody’sEyesMyFriendWalterTheNineLivesof

MontezumaTheSandmanandtheTurtlesTheSleepingSwordTwistofGoldWaitingforAnyaWarHorseTheWarofJenkins’EarWhytheWhalesCame

ForyoungerreadersAnimalTalesConkerMairi’sMermaid

TheMarbleCrusherOnAngelWingsTheBestChristmasPresentintheWorld

MICHAELMORPURGO

FirstpublishedinGreatBritainin1982

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ForTedandCarol

INTRODUCTION

ONE OF THE LASTPLACES YOU COME TObefore Cornwall disappearsintotheAtlanticOceanisthetiny churchtown of Zennor.Since the beginning of time,strangeandmysteriousthingshave happened here. Thereare stories from the past of

mermaids and spriggans andknockers and witches. Thestories in this book howeverdo not come from the past.Theyhaveallhappenedinmylifetime.The ‘Eagle’s Nest’ of the

title is the great outcrop ofrockthatdominatesthefieldsand farmsteads below. Fromhereyoucanseethecoastlineall the way from St Ives toPendeenLighthouse.YoucanseethechurchtownofZennor

itself below the high moor,and you can feel that hereanything is possible, perhapsevenprobable.Before you begin ‘The

Giant’s Necklace’ I wouldaskyou to read thestories inthe order in which you findthem. You will understandwhywhen you have finishedthebook.

M.M.Zennor1982

CONTENTS

TheGiant’sNecklace

TheWhiteHorseofZennor

‘GonetoSea’

MilkfortheCat

MadMissMarney

THEGIANT’SNECKLACE

So, a mining story tostart with. For manyyears I used to goevery summer toZennor.IreadCornish

legends, researchedtheoftentragichistoryof tin mining inPenrith, wandered thewild moors aboveZennor Churchtown. Iwrote a book of fiveshort stories calledThe White Horse ofZennor. This is the

first.

The necklace stretched fromone end of the kitchen tabletotheother,aroundthesugarbowl at the far end andbackagain, stopping only a fewinches short of the toaster.Thediscoveryonthebeachofalengthofabandonedfishinglinedrapedwithseaweedhadfirst suggested the idea to

Cherry; andeverydayof theholiday since then had beenspent in one single-mindedpursuit, the creation of anecklace of glistening pinkcowrie shells.Shehad swornto herself and to everyoneelse that the necklace wouldnot be complete until itreachedthetoaster;andwhenCherry vowed she would dosomething,sheinvariablydidit.Cherrywastheyoungestin

a family of older brothers,fourofthem,whohadteasedher relentlessly since the dayshe was born, eleven yearsbefore. She referred to themas ‘the four mistakes’, for itwas a family joke that eachson had been an attempt toproduce a daughter. To theirhuge delight Cherry reactedpassionately to any slight orinsult whether intended ornot. Their particular targetswere her size, which was

diminutive compared withtheirs, and her dark flashingeyes that could wither withone scornful look, her‘zapping’look,theycalledit.Although the teasing wasinterminable it was rarelyhurtful,norwasitintendedtobe, for her brothers adoredher;andsheknewit.Cherrywasporingoverher

necklace, still inherdressinggown.Breakfasthadjustbeencleared away and she was

alone with her mother. Shefingered the shells lightly,turning them gently until theentire necklace lay flat withtheroundedpinkoftheshellsall uppermost.Then shebentdownandbreathedoneachofthem in turn, polishing themcarefullywithanapkin.‘There’s still the sea in

them,’ she said to no one inparticular. ‘You can stillsmell it, and I washed themandwashedthem,youknow.’

‘You’ve only got today,Cherry,’ said her mothercomingover to the table andputting an arm round her.‘Just today, that’s all. We’reoff back home tomorrowmorning first thing. Whydon’tyoucall it aday,dear?You’vebeenatiteveryday–you must be tired of it bynow. There’s no need to goon, you know. We all thinkit’s a finenecklace andquitelongenough.It’slongenough

surely?’Cherry shook her head

slowly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Onlythat little bit left to do andthenit’llbefinished.’‘But they’ll take hours to

collect,dear,’hermothersaidweakly, recognising and atthe same time respecting herdaughter’spersistence.‘Only a few hours,’ said

Cherry, bending over, herbrows furrowing critically assheinspectedaflawinoneof

hershells,‘that’sallit’lltake.D’you know, there are fivethousand, three hundred andtwenty-five shells in mynecklace already? I countedthem,soIknow.’‘Isn’t that enough,

Cherry?’ her mother saiddesperately.‘No,’ said Cherry. ‘I said

I’dreachthetoaster,andI’mgoingtoreachthetoaster.’Hermotherturnedawayto

continuethedrying-up.

‘Well,Ican’tspendalldayon the beach today, Cherry,’she said. ‘If you haven’tfinishedbythetimewecomeaway, I’ll have to leave youthere. We’ve got to pack upand tidy the house – there’llbenotimeinthemorning.’‘I’ll be all right,’ said

Cherry, cocking her head ononesidetoviewthenecklacefrom a different angle.‘There’s never been anecklace like this before, not

in all the world. I’m suretherehasn’t.’Andthen,‘Youcanleavemethere,Mum,andI’ll walk back. It’s only amileorsoalongthecliffpathand half a mile back acrossthefields.I’vedoneitbeforeonmyown.It’snotfar.’Therewasa thunderingon

the stairs and a sudden rudeinvasion of the kitchen.Cherry was surrounded byher four brothers who leantover the table in mock

appreciationofhernecklace.‘Ooh,pretty.’‘Do they come in other

colours? I mean, pink’s notmycolour.’‘Who’s it for? An

elephant?’‘It’s for a giant,’ said

Cherry. ‘It’s a giant’snecklace,andit’sstillnotbigenough.’It was the perfect answer,

an answer she knew wouldsend her brothers into fits of

laughter. She loved to makethem laugh at her and coulddo it at thedropof ahat.Ofcourse she no more believedingiants thantheydid,but ifittickledthempinktobelieveshe did, then why notpretend?She turned on them, fists

flailingandchasedthembackupthestairs,hereyesburningwith simulated fury. ‘Just’cos you don’t believe inanything ’cept motorbikes

and football and all thatrubbish,just’cosyou’regreatbig, fat, ignorant pigs . . .’She hurled insults up thestairs, and the worse theinsultthemoretheylovedit.

BoatCovejustbelowZennorHeadwasthebeachtheyhadfound and occupied. Everyyear for as long as Cherrycould remember they hadrented the same granite

cottage,setbackinthefieldsbelow the Eagle’s Nest andevery year they came to thesame beach because no oneelse did. In two weeks notanother soul had ventureddown the winding trackthrough thebrackenfromthecoastal path. It was a longclimbdownandaverymuchlonger one up. The beachitselfwasalmosthiddenfromthe path that ran along theclifftopahundredfeetabove.

Itwasprivateandperfectandtheirs. The boys swam inamongsttherocks,divingandsnorkelling for hours on end.Hermotherand fatherwouldsit side by side on stripeydeck chairs. She would readendlesslyandhewouldclosehis eyes against the sun anddreamforhoursonend.Cherry moved away from

themandclamberedover therocks to a narrow strip ofsand in the cove beyond the

rocks,andhereitwasthatshemined for the cowrie shells.In the gritty sand under thecliff face she had found aparticularly rich deposit. Shewas looking for pink cowrieshells of a uniform length,colour and shape – that waswhat took the time.Occasionally the boys wouldswimaroundtherocksandinto her little beach, emergingfrom the sea all goggled andflipperedtomockher.Butas

she paid them little attentionthey soon tired and wentaway again. She knew timewas running short. This washer very last chance to findenoughshellstocompletethegiant’snecklace,andithadtobedone.The sea was calmer that

daythanshehadeverseenit.The heat beat down from awindless,cloudlesssky;eventhe gulls and kittiwakesseemed tobe silencedby the

sun. Cherry searched on,stopping only for a picniclunchofpastiesandtomatoeswith the family beforereturning at once to hershells.In the end the heat proved

toomuch forhermother andfather, who left the beachearlier than usual in mid-afternoon to begin to tidy upthe cottage. The boys soonfollowed because they hadtired of finding miniature

crabsandseaweed insteadofthe sunken wrecks andtreasure they had beenseeking. So, by tea-timeCherry was left on her ownon the beach with strictinstructions to keep her haton,not tobathealoneand tobebackwellbeforedark.Shehad calculated she neededone hundred and fifty morecowrie shells and so far shehad only found eighty. Shewould be back, she insisted,

when she had finishedcollecting enough shells andnotbefore.Had she not been so

immersed in her search,sifting the shells through herfingers, she would havenoticedthedarkgreybankofcloud rolling in from theAtlantic. She would havenoticed the white horsesgathering out at sea and thetidemoving remorselessly into cover the rocks between

herandBoatCove.Whentheclouds cut off the warmthfromthesunaseveningcameon and the sea turned grey,she shivered with cold andputonhersweaterandjeans.Shedidlookupthenandsawtheangrysea,butshesawnothreatinthatanddidnotlookback over her shoulder toBoat Cove. She was awarethat timewas running out soshewent down on her kneesagain and dug feverishly in

the sand. She had to collectthirtymoreshells.Itwasthebalefulsoundof

thefoghornsomewhereoutatsea beyond Gunnards Headthat at last forced Cherry totake some account of theincomingtide.Shelookedforthe rocks she would have toclamber over to reach BoatCove again and the windingtrack that would take her upto the cliff path and safety,but they were gone. Where

they should have been, thesea was already driving inagainstthecliffface.Shewascut off. In a confusion ofwonder and fear she lookedout to sea at the heavingocean thatmoved in towardsher, seeing it now as awrithing grey monsterbreathingitsfuryontherockswitheverypoundingwave.Still Cherry did not forget

hershells,butwrappingtheminside her towel she tucked

them into her sweater andwaded out through the surftowards the rocks. If shetimed it right, she reasoned,shecouldscramblebackoverthemandintotheCoveasthesurf retreated. She reachedthe first of the rockswithouttoo much difficulty; the seahere seemed to be protectedfrom the force of the oceanby the rocks further out.Holding fast to the first rockshecame toandwith thesea

up around her waist, shewaited for the next incomingwave to break and retreat.The wave was unexpectedlyimpotent and fell limply onthe rocks around her. Sheknew her moment had comeand took it. She was not toknowthatpilingupfaroutatseawas the first of the giantstorm waves that hadgathered several hundredmiles out in the Atlantic,bringing with it all the

momentum and violence ofthedeepocean.The rocks were slippery

underfootandmorethanonceCherry slipped down intoseething white rock poolswhereshehadplayedsooftenwhen the tide was out. Butshestruggledonuntil,finally,shehadclimbedhighenoughtobeabletoseethethinstripof sand thatwas all thatwasleftofBoatCove.Itwasonlya few yards away, so close.

Until now she had beencryinginvoluntarily;butnow,as she recognised the littlepath up through the bracken,herheartwasliftedwithhopeand anticipation. She knewthat the worst was over, thatif the sea would only holdback she would reach thesanctuaryoftheCove.She turned and looked

behind her to see how farawaythenextwavewas,justto reassure herself that she

had enough time. But thegreat surge of green waterwas on her before she couldregistereitherdisappointmentor fear. Shewas hurled backagainst the rock below herand covered at once by thesea.She was conscious as she

went down that she wasdrowning, but she stillclutchedhershellsagainstherchest and hoped she hadenough of them at last to

finish the giant’s necklace.Thosewere her last thoughtsbeforetheseatookheraway.

Cherry layonhersidewherethe tide had lifted her andcougheduntilher lungswereclear. She woke as the seacame in once again andfrothed around her legs. Sherolledonherback,feelingthesaltsprayonherfaceandsawthat it was night. The sky

above her was dashed withstars and the moon rodethroughtheclouds.She scrambled to her feet,

one hand still holding herprecious shells close to her.Instinctivelyshebackedawayfrom the sea and lookedaround her. With growingdismay she saw that she hadbeen thrown back on thewrong side of the rocks, thatshe was not in Boat Cove.The tide had left only a few

feetofsandandrockbetweenher and the cliff face. Therewasnowaybackthroughtheseatosafety.She turned round to face

thecliffthatsherealisednowwould be her last hope, forshe remembered that thislittle beach vanishedcompletelyathightide.Ifshestayed where she was shewould surely be swept awayagainandthistimeshemightnot be so fortunate. But the

cold seemed to have calmedher and she reasoned moredeliberately now, wonderingwhy she had not triedclimbingthecliffbefore.Shehad hurried into her firstattempt at escape and it hadvery nearly cost her her life.Shewouldwaitthistimeuntiltheseaforcedherupthecliff.Perhaps the tide would notcomeinthatfar.Perhapstheywould be looking for her bynow.Itwasdark.Surelythey

would be searching. Surelytheymustfindhersoon.Afterall,theyknewwhereshewas.Yes, she thought,best just towaitandhope.She settled down on a

ledge of rock that was thefirst step up on to the cliffface,drewherkneesuptoherchintokeepoutthechill,andwaited. She watched as thesea crept ever closer; eachwave lashing her with sprayand eating away gradually at

the beach. She closed hereyes and prayed, hopingagainst hope that when sheopenedthemtheseawouldberetreating. But her prayerswentunansweredand theseacame in to cover the beach.Onceortwiceshethoughtsheheardvoicesaboveheronthecliffpath,butwhenshecalledout no one came. Shecontinued to shout for helpeveryfewminutes,forgettingit was futile against the

continuous roar and hiss ofthewaves.Apair of raucouswhite gulls flew down fromthe cliffs to investigate herand she called to them forhelp,buttheydidnotseemtounderstandandwheeledawayintothenight.Cherry stayed sitting on

her rock until the wavesthreatenedtodislodgeherandthenreluctantlyshebeganherclimb.Shewouldgoasfarassheneededtoandnofurther.

Shehadscannedthefirstfewfeetaboveforfootholdsanditdidlookquiteasimpleclimbto begin with, and so itproved. But her hands werenumbed with cold and herlegsbegantotremblewiththestrain almost at once. Shecould see that the ledge shehadnowreachedwasthelastdeep one visible on the cliffface. The shells in hersweater were restricting herfreedomofmovement so she

decidedshewouldleavethemthere. Wrapped tight in thetowel they would be quitesafe. She took the soakingbundleoutofhersweaterandplaceditcarefullyagainsttherockfaceontheledgebesideher, pushing it in as far as itwould go. ‘I’ll be back foryou,’shesaid,andreachedupfor the next lip of rock. Justbelow her the sea crashedagainst the cliff as if itwanted to suck her from the

rock faceandclaimheronceagain.Cherrydeterminednotto look down but toconcentrateontheclimb.At first, she imagined that

theglowaboveherwasfroma torch. She shouted andscreameduntil shewasweakfrom the effort of it. Butalthough no answering callcamefromthenight,thelightremainedpaleandbeckoning,wider than that of a torch.With renewed hope Cherry

foundenoughstrengthtoinchherwayupthecliff,untilshereached the entrance to anarrow cave. It was filledwitha flickeringyellowlightlike that of a candle shakenby the wind. She hauledherself up into the mouth ofthe cave and sat downexhausted, looking backdown at the furious seafrothing beneath her. Shelaughedaloudintriumph.Shewas safe!She had defied the

sea andwon! Her one regretwasthatshehadhadtoleavehercowrieshellsbehind.Shewould fetch them tomorrowafter the tide had gone downagain.For the first time now she

began to think of her familyand howworried theywouldbe,butthethoughtofwalkingin through the front door alldripping and dramatic madeher almost choke withexcitement.

As she reached forward tobrush a sharp stone from thesole of her foot, Cherrynoticed that the narrowentrance to thecavewashalfsealedin.Sheranherfingersoverthestonesandcementtomake sure, for the light waspoor. It was at that momentthat she recognised exactlywhere she was. She recallednow the giant fledglingcuckoo one of her brothershad spotted being fed by a

tiny rock pipit earlier in theholidays, how they hadquarrelledoverthebinocularsand how, when she hadfinally usurped them andmade her escape across therocks, she had found thecuckoo perched at theentrance to a narrow cavesome way up the cliff facefromthebeach.She had asked about the

man-made walling, and herfatherhad toldherof theold

tin mines whose lodes andadits criss-crossed the entirecoastal area around Zennor.Thisone,hesaid,mighthavebeen the mine they calledWheel North Grylls, and hethought the adit must havebeenwalleduptopreventtheseas from entering the minein a storm. It was said therehad been an accident in themineonlyafewyearsafteritwas opened over a hundredyears before, and that the

mine had had to close soonafter when the mine ownersranoutofmoneytomakethenecessary repairs. The entirestory came back to her now,and she wondered where thecuckoo was and whether therock pipit had died with theeffortofkeepingthefledglingalive.Tinmines,shethought,lead to the surface, and theway home. That thought andher natural inquisitivenessabout the source of light

persuadedher toher feetandintothetunnel.The adit became narrower

and lower as she creptforward,sothatshehadtogodownonherhandsandknees,sometimes flat on herstomach. Although she wasout of the wind now, itseemed colder. She felt shewasmovingdownwardsforaminute or two, for the bloodwas coming to her head andherweightwasheavyonher

hands. Then, quite suddenly,she found the groundlevellingout and sawa largetunnel ahead of her. Therewasnodoubtastowhichwayshe should turn, for onewaythetunnelwasblack,andtheother way was lighted withcandles that lined the lodewall as far as she could see.She called out, ‘Anyonethere? Anyone there?’ Shepausedtolistenforthereply;but all she could hear now

was the muffled roar of thesea and the continuousechoingofdrippingwater.The tunnel widened now

andshefoundshecouldwalkupright again; but her feethurt against the stone and soshemovedslowly,feelingherway gently with each foot.She had gone only a shortdistance when she heard thetapping for the first time,distinctandrhythmic,asoundthat was instantly

recognisableashammering.Itbecame sharper andnoticeably more metallic asshemovedupthetunnel.Shecouldhearthedistantmurmurof voices and the sound offallingstone.Evenbeforeshecame out of the tunnel andinto the vast cave she knewshe had happened upon aworkingmine.The cave was dark in all

but one corner and here shecouldseetwomenbendingto

their work, their backstowardsher.Oneofthemwasinspecting the rock faceclosely whilst the otherswung his hammer withcontrolled power, pausingonlytospitonhishandsfromtime to time. They woreround hats with turned upbrims that served also ascandlesticks, for a lightedcandlewas fixed toeach, thelight dancing with theshadowsalongthecavewalls

astheyworked.Cherry watched for some

moments until she made upher mind what to do. Shelongedtorushuptothemandtell of her escape and to askthem to take her to thesurface,butacertainshynessovercame her and she heldback.Herchance to interruptcame when they sat downagainst the rock face andopened their canteens. Shewas in the shadows and they

stillcouldnotseeher.‘Tealookscoldagain,’one

of them said gruffly. ‘’Tisalways cold. I’m sure shemakesitwi’coldwater.’‘Oh stop your moaning,

Father,’ said the other, ayounger voice, Cherry felt.‘Shedoesherbest.She’sfivelittle ones to look after andpreciouslittletodoiton.Shedoes her best. You mustn’tkeep on at her so. It upsetsher.Shedoesherbest.’

‘So she does, lad, so shedoes. And so for that matterdo I, but that don’t stop hermoaning at me and it’ll notstopmemoaningather.Ifwedidn’t moan at each other,lad,we’dhaveprecious littleelsetotalkabout,andthat’safact.Sheexpectsofitme,lad,andIexpectsitofher.’‘Excuse me,’ Cherry said

tentatively. She felt she hadeavesdropped for longenough.Sheapproachedthem

slowly. ‘Excuseme, but I’vegot a bit lost. I climbed thecliff, you see, ’cos Iwas cutoff from the Cove. I wastrying to get back, but Icouldn’t and I saw this lightandsoIclimbedup.Iwanttoget home and I wondered ifyoucouldhelpmeget to thetop?’‘Top?’ said the older one,

peering into the dark. ‘Comecloser, lad,wherewecanseeyou.’

‘She’s not a lad, Father.Are you blind? Can you notsee ’tis a filly. ’Tis a youngfilly,allwetthroughfromthesea. Come,’ the young mansaid, standing up andbeckoning Cherry in. ‘Don’tbe afeared, little girl, weshan’t harm you. Come on,youcanhavesomeofmyteaifyoulike.’They spoke their words in

a manner Cherry had neverheard before. It was not the

usual Cornish burr, butheavier and rougher in tone,more old-fashionedsomehow. There were somanyquestionsinhermind.‘But I thought the mine

was closed a hundred yearsago,’ she said nervously.‘That’s what I was told,anyway.’‘Well, you was told

wrong,’ said the old man,whomCherrycouldseemoreclearlynowunderhiscandle.

His eyes were white and setfar back in his head,unnaturally so, she thought,and his lips and mouthseemed a vivid red in thecandlelight.‘Closed, closed indeed,

does it look closed to you?D’you think we’re diggingfor worms? Over fourthousand tonsof tin lastyearand nine thousand of copperore, and you ask is themineclosed?Over twenty fathoms

belowtheseathisminegoes.We’ll dig rightoutunder theocean, halfway to ’Mericaafore we close down thismine.’He spoke passionately

now, almost angrily, so thatCherry felt she had offendedhim.‘Hush, Father,’ said the

young man taking off hisjacket andwrapping it roundCherry’s shoulders. ‘Shedoesn’twanttohearallabout

that. She’s cold and wet.Can’t you see? Now let’smakealittlefiretowarmherthrough. She’s shivered rightthrough to her bones. Youcanseesheis.’‘Theyall are,’ said theold

tinner pulling himself to hisfeet. ‘They all are.’ And heshuffled past her into thedark.‘I’llfetchthewood,’hemuttered, and then added,‘forallthegoodit’lldo.’‘What does he mean?’

Cherryaskedtheyoungman,for whom she felt an instantliking.‘Whatdidhemeanbythat?’‘Ohpayhimnoheed,little

girl,’ he said. ‘He’s an oldman now and tired of themine.We’re both tired of it,butwe’reproudofitsee,andwe’ve nowhere else to go,nothingelsetodo.’He had a kind voice that

was reassuring toCherry.Heseemedsomehowtoknowthe

questions she wanted to ask,for he answered them nowwithouthereverasking.‘Sitdownbymewhileyou

listen, girl,’ he said. ‘Fatherwillmakeafiretowarmyouand I shall tell you how wecome to be here. You won’tbeafearednow,willyou?’Cherry looked up into his

facewhichwasyounger thanshe had expected from hisvoice; but like his father’s,theeyesseemedsadanddeep

set, yet they smiled at hergentlyandshesmiledback.‘That’s my girl. It was a

new mine this, promisingeveryonesaid.ThebesttininCornwall and that means thebest tin in theworld. 1865 itstarted up and they werelooking for tinners, and soFather found a cottage downbyTrevealandcametoworkhere. I was already fourteen,so I joined him down themine. We prospered and the

mineprospered, tostartwith.Motherandthelittlechildrenhadfullbelliesandtherewastalk of sinking a fresh shaft.Times were good andpromisedtobebetter.’Cherrysattransfixedasthe

storyofthedisasterunfolded.Sheheardhowtheyhadbeentrapped by a fall of rock,about how they had workedtopullthemaway,butbehindevery rock was another rockand another rock. She heard

how they had never evenheard any sound of rescue.Theyhaddied,hesaid,intwodaysorsobecausetheairwasbad and because there wastoolittleofit.‘Father has never accepted

it; he still thinks he’s alive,thathegoeshome toMotherand the little children eachevening. But he’s dead, justlike me. I can’t tell himthough, for he’d notunderstand and it would

break his heart if he everknew.’‘So you aren’t real. I’m

just imaging all this. You’rejustadream.’‘No dream, my girl,’ said

the young man laughing outloud. ‘No more’n we’reimagining you. We’re realright enough, butwe’re deadand have been for a hundredyears and more. Ghosts,spirits,that’swhatlivingfolkcall us. Come to think of it,

that’swhatIcalleduswhenIwasalive.’Cherry was on her feet

suddenlyandbackingaway.‘No need to be afeared,

little girl,’ said the youngman holding out his handtowardsher.‘Wewon’tharmyou. No one can harm you,not now. Look, he’s startedthe fire already. Come overand warm yourself. Come,it’ll be all right, girl. We’lllook after you. We’ll help

you.’‘But I want to go home,’

Cherrysaid,feelingthepanicrising tohervoiceand tryingto control it. ‘I know you’rekind, but Iwant to gohome.My mother will be worriedabout me. They’ll be outlooking for me. Your lightsaved my life and I want tothankyou.ButImustgoelsethey’llworrythemselvessick,Iknowtheywill.’‘You going back home?’

the young man asked, andthen he nodded. ‘I s’poseyou’llwanttoseeyourfamilyagain.’‘CourseIam,’saidCherry

perplexed by the question.‘CourseIdo.’‘’Tisapity,’hesaidsadly.

‘Everyonepassesthroughandnoonestays.Theyallwanttogo home, but then so do I.You’llwantme toguideyoutothesurfaceIs’pose.’‘I’m not the first then?’

Cherry said. ‘There’s beenothersclimbupintothemineto escape from the sea?You’vesavedlotsofpeople.’‘A few,’ said the tinner

nodding.‘Afew.’‘You’re a kind person,’

Cherry said, warming to thesadness in the young man’svoice.‘Ineverthoughtghostswouldbekind.’‘We’re just people, people

who’ve passed on,’ repliedthe young man, taking her

elbow and leading hertowardsthefire.‘There’snicepeople and there’s nastypeople.It’sthesameifyou’realive or if you’re dead.You’re a nice person, I cantell that, even though Ihaven’t known you for long.I’msadbecauseIshouldliketo be alive again with myfriends and go rabbiting orblackberrying up by thechapel near Treveal like Iused to. The sun always

seemed to be shining then.AfterithappenedIusedtogoup to the surface and moveamongst the people in thevillage. I went often to seemy family, but if I spoke tothem they never seemed tohear me, and of course theycan’t see you. You can seethem,but theycan’t seeyou.That’s the worst of it. So Idon’tgoupmuchnow,justtocollectwoodforthefireandabit of food now and then. I

staydownherewithFatherinthe mine and we work awayday after day. From time totimesomeonelikeyoucomesup the tunnel from the seaand lightens our darkness. Ishallbesadwhenyougo.’The oldmanwas hunched

over the fire rubbing hishands and holding them outovertheheat.‘Notoftenwehaveafire,’

he said, his voice morespritelynow.‘Onlyonspecial

occasions. Birthdays, ofcourse,wealwayshaveafireon birthdays back at thecottage. Martha’s next. Youdon’t know her; she’s myonly daughter – she’ll beeight on September 10th.She’sbeenpoorly,youknow– her lungs, that’s what thedoctor said.’ He sigheddeeply. ‘’Tis dreadful dampin the cottage. ’Tiswell nighimpossible to keep it out.’Therewasatremorintheold

man’svoicethatbetrayedhisemotion. He looked up atCherryandshecould see thetearsinhiseyes.‘Shelooksabit like you,my dear, raven-haired and as pretty as apicture;butnotsotall,notsotall. Come closer, my dear,you’llbewarmerthatway.’Cherry sat with them by

the fire till it died away tonothing.She longed togo, togethomeamongst the living,but the oldman talked on of

hisfamilyandtheirlittleone-roomedcottagewitha laddertothebedroomwheretheyallhuddled together forwarmth,of his friends that used tomeet in the Tinners’ Armsevery evening. There weretales of wrecking andsmuggling, and all the whiletheyoungmansatsilent,untiltherewasalullinthestory.‘Father,’ he said. ‘I think

our little friendwould like togohomenow.ShallItakeher

up as I usually do?’ The oldman nodded and waved hishandindismissal.‘Come back and see us

sometime, if you’ve a mindto,’ he said, and then put hisfaceinhishands.‘Goodbye,’ said Cherry.

‘Thank you for the fire andforhelpingme.Iwon’tforgetyou.’ But the old man neverreplied.The journey through the

mine was long and difficult.

She held fast to the youngtinner’swaist as theywalkedsilently through the darktunnels, stopping every nowand then toclimba ladder tothe Iode above until finallythey could look up the shaftabove them and see thedaylight.‘It’sdawn,’saidtheyoung

man,lookingup.‘I’ll be back in time for

breakfast,’saidCherrysettingherfootontheladder.

‘You’llrememberme?’theyoung tinner asked, andCherry nodded, unable tospeak through her tears. Shefelt a strange affinity withhim and his father. ‘And ifyou should ever need me,come back again. You mayneedmeandIshallbehere.Igonowhereelse.’‘Thank you,’ said Cherry.

‘I won’t forget. I doubtanyoneisgoingtobelievemewhen I tell them about you.

Noonebelievesinghosts,notupthere.’‘I doubt it too. Be happy,

little friend,’he said.Andhewas gone, back into thetunnel. Cherry waited untilthe light from the candle inhishathadvanishedandthenturned eagerly to the ladderand began to climb uptowardsthelight.She found herself in a

placesheknewwell,highonthe moor by Zennor Quoit.

Shestoodbytheruinedmineworkingsandlookeddownatthe sleeping village shroudedinmist,andthecalmblueseabeyond. The storm hadpassedandtherewasscarcelyabreathofwindevenon themoor. It was only tenminutes’ walk down throughthe bracken, across the roadbytheEagle’sNestanddownthe farm track to the cottagewhere her family would bewaiting.Shebegantorun,but

the clothes were still heavyand wet and she was soonreducedtoafastwalk.Allthewhile she was determiningwhere she would begin herstory, wondering how muchthey would believe. At thetopofthelaneshestoppedtoconsider how best to makeherentrance.Shouldsheringthebellandbefoundstandingthere,orshouldshejustwalkin and surprise them there atbreakfast? She longed to see

the joyon their faces, to feelthe warmth of their armsround her and to bask onceagainintheiraffection.Shesawasshecameround

thecornerbythecottagethatthere was a long blue LandRover parked in the lane,bristling with aerials.‘Coastguard’shereadon theside. As she came down thesteps she noticed that thebackdoorof the cottagewasopen and she could hear

voicesinside.Shestoleinontiptoe.Thekitchenwasfullofuniformed men drinking tea,and around the table sat herfamily, dejection and despairetched on every face. Theyhadn’t seen her yet. One ofthe uniformed men had putdown his cup and wasspeaking. His voice was lowandhushed.‘You’re sure the towel is

hers,nodoubtsaboutit?’Cherry’smother shookher

head.‘It’s her towel,’ she said

quietly, ‘and they are hershells. She must have putthem up there, must havebeenthelastthingshedid.’Cherry saw her shells

spreadouton theopen towelandstifledashoutofjoy.‘Wehave to say,’ hewent

on. ‘We have to say then,most regrettably, that thechances of finding yourdaughter alive now are very

slim. It seems shemust havetried to climb the cliff toescape the heavy seas andfallen in. We’ve scoured thecliff top for miles in bothdirections and covered theentire beach, and there’s nosign of her. She must havebeen washed out to sea. Wemust conclude that she ismissing.Wehavetopresumethatsheisdrowned.’Cherry could listen no

longerbutburstintotheroom

shouting.‘I’m home, I’m home.

Lookatme,I’mnotdrownedatall.I’mhere!I’mhome!’The tears were running

downherface.But no one in the room

even turned to look in herdirection. Her brothers criedopenly,oneofthemclutchingthegiant’snecklace.‘But it’s me,’ she shouted

again. ‘Me, can’t you see?It’s me and I’ve come back.

I’mallright.Lookatme.’Butnoonedid,andnoone

heard.The giant’s necklace lay

spreadoutonthetable.‘So she’ll never finish it

after all,’ said her mothersoftly. ‘Poor Cherry. PoordearCherry.’And in that one moment

Cherry knew and understoodthat she was right, that shewould never finish hernecklace, that she belonged

no longerwith the living buthadpassedonbeyond.

THEWHITEHORSEOFZENNOR

THE FAMILY HADFARMED THE LAND INTHEFoageValleyatZennorfor over five hundred years.They had been there it wassaid ever since MiguelVeluna first crawled ashore

half-drowned at PorthzennorCove from the wreck of hisgalleon off Gunnards Head.As soon as he could makehimself understood, so thestory goes, he married thefarmer’s daughter who hadjust nursed him back to life;andwithhercamethefarminthe fertile valley that runsdownfromthenorthcoast tothesouthwiththehighmoorsrisingoneitherside.Throughthe generations the Velunas

prospered, sowing their cornalongtheshelteredfieldsandgrazing their hardy cattle onthe moors above. Theybecame tough andcircumspect, as are all thefarmerswhose roots lie deepin the rocks and soil ofPenwith, the last bastion ofland against the mightyAtlanticthatseekswitheverystormtosubduethepeninsulaand to rejoin the Channel afew shortmiles to the south.

Over thecenturies thefamilyhad survived famine anddisease, invasion anddepression; but now theVelunas were staring ruin inthefaceand thereseemednowayforwardforthem.FarmerVeluna had been a

joyfulsoulallhis life,amanof laughter, who rode highthrough the fields on histractor, forever singing hisheart out, in a perpetualcelebration that he belonged

wherehewas.His joy in lifewas infectious so that hespread around him aconvivial sense of securityandhappiness.Inbusinesshewas always fair although hewas thought to beovergenerous at times, nothardenoughamanaccordingto some of the more craggymoorlandfarmers.Butnoonein the parish was betterrespected and liked thanFarmer Veluna so that when

he married lovely MollyParson from Morvah andproduced a daughter and ason within two years,everyone thought it was nomorethanhedeserved.Whenhe built a new milkingparlour some of his friendsshook their heads andwondered, for no one couldrecall a milking herd on theland before; but they knewFarmer Veluna to be level-headed and hardworking.No

one doubted that if anyonecouldmakeitworkhecould,and certainly everyonewished him well in his newventure.For several years the milk

flowed and the profits came.HebuiltupthefinestherdofGuernsey cows for milesaroundandtherewastalkthathewasdoing sowell that hemight take on more land.Then,within six shortweekshewasaruinedman.Firstthe

corn harvest failedcompletely, a summer stormlashing through the valleybreakingtheripenedcornandflattening it to the ground.The storm was followed byweeksofheavydrizzlesothatnot even the straw could besalvaged. But the cowswerestill milking and the regularmilkchequewasalwaysthereevery month to see themthrough. Farmer Veluna wasdisappointed by the setback

butburnedoffthestrawwhenhecouldandbegantoploughagain.Hewasstillsingingonhistractor.Then came the annual

Ministry check forbrucellosis,* the outcome ofwhich had never worriedFarmer Veluna. It wasroutine,nomorethanthat,sothatwhenthetwovetsarrivedat his front door some dayslateritneverevenoccurredtohimthattheyhadcomeabout

the brucellosis test. The vetsknewhimwellandlikedhimfor hewas good to his stockand paid his bills, so theybroke the news to him asgently as they could. FarmerVelunastoodinthedoorway,his heart heavy withforeboding as they began totellhimtheworst.‘Therecanbenomistake?’

he said. ‘You’re sure there’snomistake?’Butheknewheneednothaveasked.

‘It’s brucellosis, Farmer,no doubt about it; rightthrough the herd. I’m sorry,butyouknowwhathas tobedone,’ said one of the vets,puttingahandonhisshoulderto comfort him. ‘It has to bedone today. The Ministrymenareontheirway.We’vecometohelp.’FarmerVelunanoddedslowlyandtheywentinsidetogether.That afternoon his entire

herd of golden Guernseys

was driven into the yardbelow the dairy and killed.Every cow and calf on thefarm, even one born thatsame morning, wasslaughtered; and the milkingparlourstoodsilent fromthatdayon.In theweeks that followed

the disaster every tractor andsaleable machine had to besold for therewas the familyto feed as well as the otherstock,andanoverdraftat the

bank thatFarmerVelunahadto honour. It was not muchmoneytofindeachmonthbutwith little coming in, it soonbecameapparentthatthepigshadtobesold,thenthegeeseandfinallythebelovedhorse.All that was left were a fewhens and a shed full ofredundantrustingmachinery.Each evening the family

would sit around the kitchentable and talk over thepossibilities, but as the

situation worsened thechildren noticed that it wastheirmotherwhoemergedthestronger. The light had goneout of their father’s eye, hisentire demeanour wasclouded over with despair.Even his jaunty, lurrupingwalk had slowed, and hemoved aimlessly around thefarmnowas if inadaze.Heseemed scarcelyevenwillingor able to consider anysuggestionsforthefuture.His

wife, Molly, managed topersuade him to go to thebank to ask for an extensionof the loan, and for a newloantofinancenewstockandseed; but times were hardeven for thebanks andwhenboth were refused he lapsedinto a profound depressionthat pervaded every room inthehouse.Friends and neighbours

camewith offers of help buthe thanked them kindly for

their generosity and refusedthempolitelyastheyknewhewould,forhewasaboveallaproud man from a proudfamilyandnotaccustomedtoaccepting charity fromanyone, however dire thenecessity.Desperately Molly urged

himon, trying to releasehimfromtheprisonofhisdespair,believing inherheart thathehad it in him to recover andknowing that without him

they were lost. The twochildren meanwhile soughttheir own consolation andrelief up on the high moorstheyknewandlovedsowell.They would leave the houseand farm behind them, andclimb up to the great granitecheesewring rocks above thevillage where the wind blewin so fiercely from the seathat they could lean into itwitharmsoutstretchedandbeheld and buffeted like kites.

Theywouldleapfromrocktorock like mountain goats,play endless hide-and-seekand tramp together over theboggy moors, all the whiletryingtoforgetthethreatthathung over them.Theirwalkswouldendoftenon the sameloganstoneabovetheEagle’sNest, agiant slabof roundedgraniteasfinelybalancedasapair of scales on the rockbelow,sothatiftheystoodonoppositeendstheycouldrock

itupanddownlikeaseesaw.Here theywere sitting one

early autumn evening withthesunsetting fire to theseabeyond Zennor when theysaw their father and motherclimbing up through thebracken towards them.Unusually,theywereholdinghands and that signified toboth children that a decisionmight have been reached.They instinctively sensedwhat the decision was and

dreadedit.Anniedecidedshewouldforestallthem.‘You needn’t tell us,’

Annie said to them as theyclimbeduptositdownbesidethe children on the loganstone. ‘We know already.There’s no other way isthere?’‘What do you know,

Annie?’ said FarmerVeluna,the first words either of thechildren had heard him utterformorethanaweek.

‘That we’re going to sellthe farm,’ she said softly,almost as if shedidnotwishtohearit.‘We’regoingtosellthe farm and move away,aren’twe?’‘I won’t go,’ said Arthur,

shrugging off his mother’sarm.‘Iwon’t.Iwasbornhereand I’m going to stay here.No one is going tomakememove.’He spoke with grim

resolve.

At nine, he was a yearyounger thanhis sisterbutatthat moment he seemedsuddenly a great deal older.He was already as tall asAnnie, and even as an infantothers had recognised in himthatstrongVelunaspirit.‘We shall have to sell,

Arthur,’ said his father.‘We’ve no alternative. Youneedmoneytorunafarmandwe haven’t got any. It’s thatsimple. Everything we had

was in the cows and nowthey’regone.I’mnotgoingtoargue about it; there’s nopoint. We shall have to sellup and buy a smaller farmelsewhere. That’s all there istoit.There’sotherfarmsandthere’sotherplaces.’‘Not like this one,’Arthur

said and turned to his father,tearsfillinghiseyes.‘There’sno place like this place andyou know it. So don’tpretend. You told me often

enough, father; you told menever to give up and nowyou’re giving up yourself.’Farmer Veluna looked awayunable to give his son anyanswer that would convinceevenhimself.‘That’s unkind, Arthur,’

saidhismother.‘Youmustn’tbe unkind to your father, notnow.He’s done all he can –you know he has. It’ll be allright. It’ll be the same. Weshall go on farming, but in a

smallerway,that’sall.It’sallyour fathercando;youmustseethatArthur.’Annie turned to her father

andputherarmsaroundhimasmuchtocomfortherselfasto comfort him. It seemed todoneither.Farmer stroked his

daughter’shairgently.‘We shall be all right,

Annie,’ he said. ‘I promiseyou that. Don’t worry, I’mnot a man to break my

promises. You know that,don’tyou?’Annie nodded into his

chest,fightingbackhertears.‘We’ll see you back at

home, children,’ Molly said.‘Don’t be long now. It getscold up here when the sun’sgone.’The two children sat side

by side and watched theirparents move slowly backdown the hill towards thefarm. They were so alike to

look at that many peopleconsidered them to be twins.Both had their parents’ darkshining hair and their skinstayed dark even in thewinter.Theyhad few friendsbesides each other for therewere not many children oftheirownageonother farmsroundabout,andso theyhadspent much of their lifetogether, and by now sensedeachother’smoodintuitively.‘Annie,’Arthursaidfinally

when he hadwiped the tearsaway from his cheeks. ‘Icouldn’t live anywhere else,couldyou?Wehavetofindawaytostayhere,becauseI’mnot going. I don’t care whatfathersays,I’mnotgoing.’But Annie was not

listening to her brother, forshehadbeendistractedsomemomentsbeforebythesoundofadistantvoicefrombehindher, perhaps from thedirection of the Quoit. She

had thought it might be thewind at first, moaningthrough the stones. She puther hand on her brother’sarm.‘Listen,’ she said.And the

voice was still there, clearlydiscernible now that Arthurhad stopped talking. It wasmore distinct now, andalthough they could as yetmake out no words, theycould tell that someone wascalling out for help. They

leapt from the logan stoneand ran down the track intotheheatherandbrackenofthehighmoor, homing in all thewhileontheplaintivecrythatcame to them ever moreurgently from across themoor. They could hear nowthatitcamefromtheruinsoftheoldcount-house,andtheyslowed to a walk as theyapproached, suddenlyuncertainofthemselves.‘Helpme,pleasehelpme,’

clearly aman’s voice, amaninpain;andnolongerashoutintothewilderness,butapleadirectedtothem.‘Can you see anyone?’

Annie said, clutchingArthur’sarminfright.‘I’m down here, over here

in the ruins. Oh for pity’ssake, come quickly.’ Thechildren climbed slowlydown into the ruin itself,Annie still holding on to herbrother,andatlasttheyfound

what they had been lookingfor.Lying in the corner of the

ruined old count-house,propped up against a granitepillarwasanoldman,butnoordinary man; for he wassmaller even than any dwarfbut unlike a dwarf hisfeatures were in perfectproportiontohissize.Hewasroughly clothed in heavytweed trousers and a blackmoleskin jacket.Hehadwild

whitehairandeyesasblueasthesea.Helaywithonekneeclasped to his chest and thechildren saw that clinginggrotesquely tohis footwas arustygintrap.‘A Knocker,’ Annie

whispered, and she steppedback in alarm, draggingArthur back with her; butArthurwrenchedhimselffreeandstoodhisground.‘I know that,’Arthur said,

speaking loudly for he felt it

wasrudetowhisper.‘There’snothing wrong withKnockers. They won’t hurtyou,’lessyouhurtthem.Isn’tthatright,sir?’‘Quiteright,youngfellow,’

saidtheoldmancrisply,‘andanyway since I’m pinionedhere with this confoundedtrap, there’s not too muchdangerofmyhurtingyoumygirl,nowisthere?’Annie shook her head

vigorously but was not

convinced.‘And since you’re here I

wonder,woulditbetoomuchtroubletoaskyoutohelpmeout of this thing? I wouldhavedoneitmyselfifIcould,butI’maweebitlittletopullthespringbackandifImove,my leg burns like hell fire.Confounded farmers,’ hewent on, wincing in pain,‘they’re still trapping youknow,butit’snotasbadasitwas.Intheolddaysmyfather

toldme thewholemoorwaslittered with them – rabbittraps,birdtraps,foxtraps,allsorts.You couldn’t go out atdark you know for fear ofputting your foot in it, so tospeak. This is an old one,been here for years I shouldthink,butthere’sstillsomeofthem at it. I’ve seem them. Iknoweverythingthatgoeson.Confoundedfarmers.’‘I’m a farmer’s son,’ said

Arthurdefensively,crouching

down to examine the trap,‘and my father wouldn’t usegin traps. He says they’recruelandanyway they’renotallowedanymore.’‘Quite right,’ the Knocker

said,straighteningouthislegfor Arthur. ‘I know yourfather. He’s a good man.Knowyoutwoaswell–seenyou often enough springingaround out on those rocks.Didn’tknowIwaswatching,didyou?’Courseit’sashame

about your farm, but that’slife.Swingsandroundabouts,upsanddowns.Ithappens.’‘You’vewatched us?’ said

Annie who had plucked upenough courage at last tocomecloser.‘You’veseenusupthere?’‘Course I have,’ said the

Knocker.‘Weknoweveryoneformilesaround. It’sour jobto know what’s going on;that’s what we’re here for.Now look, children, can we

continue this discussion afteryou’ve set me free, if youdon’t mind. My leg’sthrobbing and I’ll bleed todeath if you don’t help meoutofthissoon.’Rust had stiffened the

spring so it took Arthur andAnnie some time to priseopen the jaws of the trap farenough for the Knocker towithdraw his boot. He fellback to the ground in a faintasthebootcameclear.Bythe

time he came to, someminutes later, he found thechildren had taken his bootoff and were kneeling overhim bathing his anklewith awet handkerchief. He liftedhimself onto his elbows andsmiledupatthem.‘Thatwaskindofyou,’he

said. ‘I’m surprised youdidn’trunaway;mostpeoplewouldhaveyouknow.Ithinkyou must know about us.Someone must’ve told you.

Butyoudidn’tknowwebled,didyou?’Arthur shook his head.

‘No, but everyone’s heardaboutyou,’hesaid,‘althoughnoone reallybelieves inyouanymore.But ever sincemymother told us all aboutKnockers and little peopleand all that, I’ve alwaysthought that if youwere truethenyou’dliveuphereonthemoor or maybe down themines. There’s nowhere else

foryou,isthere?’‘Istilldon’t thinkIshould

reallybelieve it,’ saidAnnie,tying the handkerchief in atight knot, ‘if I wasn’ttouching you, I’m sure Iwouldn’t.’‘The legwill be fine now,

right as rain, good as new,’saidtheKnocker.His pale face was deeply

linedwith age and therewasa kindness and a wisdom inhisfacethatboththechildren

trustedinstinctively.‘Thankyou,’hesaidasthe

children helped him to hisfeet.He shook them each

solemnlybythehand.‘Thank you both very

kindly. Idon’t thinkIshouldhave survived a frostyautumnnightouthereon themoor. I’m old you see andevenKnockersdiewhentheygetoldyouknow.It’ssoniceto find people who’ll talk to

us. So many people just runaway and it’s such a pity,because there’snothing tobefrightenedof.’Hehobbledunaidedaround

theruinedcount-housetestinghislegbeforereturningtothechildren.‘No broken bones I think.

All’s well that ends well, astheysay.’‘Will you be all right

now?’ Arthur asked. ‘Weought to be getting back

home now. Father said weshould be off the moor bydark.’‘Quite right. Wise man,

your father,’ the littleKnocker said, brushing offhis moleskin jacket andpulling it down straight.‘After all, you never knowwhoyoumightbumpintouphere. The place is full ofspriggans and pixies andnasty wee little folk andeven,’ he whispered low,

‘even the odd Knocker ortwo.’ And the three laughedtogether as old friendsmightdo over a confidential joke.‘Butbeforeyougo, children,Ihavetothankyouproperly.One good turn deservesanother,titfortat,youscratchmy back, I’ll scratch yours,andsoon.Iwanteachofyoutocloseyoureyesandtellmeyour one dearest wish. Youhave to saywhatyou’dmostlikeinalltheworld.Askand

you shall have it. Annie,you’refirst.Comeonnow.’Anniedidnothavetothink

forlong.‘A horse,’ she said, her

eyessqueezedtightshut.‘Wehadtosellourhorseyousee,because father needed themoney for the farm. I’vealways wanted a great whitehorse.’‘Keep your eyes closed,’

saidtheKnocker.‘Keepthemclosedbothofyouanddon’t

open them until I tell you.Now you Arthur. What is itthat you’d most want in alltheworld?’‘Iwant to stayhereon the

farm,’ said Arthur slowly. ‘Iwant my father to be happyagainandtogosingingonhistractor. I want the animalsback and the farm workingagainlikeitusedto.’‘That’salotofwants,’said

theKnocker. ‘Let’s seewhatwecandonow.’

Hechuckledaloud,andhisvoice seemedmore animatednow.‘You know, children, I

haven’t had the chance todothis for donkey’s years. I’mso excited, I feel like a littleKnocker all over again. Youwished for the horse, Annie;and youwished for the farmback as it was, Arthur. Howyou do it is up to you, butyou’ll find enough seed corninthebarnwhenyougetback

home and you can use thehorseasyouwish.Butafterayear and a day you mustbring the horse back here tomeandleavetwelvesacksofgood seed corn back in yourbarn to repay me. Do youunderstand? Remember, bebackherebyduskayearandadayfromnow.’‘We’ll be here,’ said

Arthur.‘Promise?’ said the

Knocker.

‘We promise,’ they saidsolemnly.‘You should be able to

manage everything by thattime with luck, and I’ll seeyouhave enoughof that.Allrightchildren,openyoureyesnow.’In place of the little

Knocker stood a giant of ahorse,toweringabovethem,abrilliant white from mane totail. He looked down at thechildren almost causally,

swished his tail, shook hishead with impatience andthen sprang out over theruinedwallandontotheopenmoorbeyondwherehe stoodwaitinginthebrackenforthescrambling children to catchhimup.Arthurhadneverbeenfond

of horses. They seemed tohim to be unpredictablecreatures and he had alwayssteered clear of them.Anyway,asabuddingfarmer

hehadnouseforanyanimalthat was not productive. ButAnniehadenoughconfidenceand experience for both ofthem and she caught himgently by the mane andstroked his nose, speakingsoftly to him all the while.Within a few minutes theywere both mounted on thegreat white horse and weretrottingdownthehillsideandinto the farmyard where thechickensscatteredinpanicat

their approach. The noisebrought Farmer Veluna andMollyrunningoutofthebackdoor where they were facedwith the terrifying spectacleof their twochildrenperchedprecariouslyuponamassivewhite stallion of at leastseventeenhands, that snortedinexcitement,tossingitsheadandpawingtheyard,sendingsparks flying along thecobblesintothedark.Arthur told their story

breathlessly. With theevidence of the horse beforetheir eyes and the obvioussincerity inArthur’s voice, itwasdifficult forhis fatherormother to harbour any doubtbut that the storywas indeedtrue. Certainly they knewArthur had awild and fertileimagination and wasimpetuous enough at timesbutwithAnniesittingastridethe horse in front of him,laughing aloud with delight

and adding her own detailsfrom time to time, bothFarmer andMollywere verysooncompletelyconvinced.‘Look in thebarn,Father,’

Arthur proclaimed withabsolute confidence. ‘Thelittle man said there’d beenough seed corn in there tomakeastart.Wecansavethefarm,Father, Iknowwecan.The seed will be there, I’msure of it. Have a look,Father.’

FarmerVelunacrossed theyard on his own and openedwide the great barn doors.They saw the light go on,bathing the yard in a yellowglow,andtheyheardawhoopof joy before Farmer Velunacame running out again. Hewas laughing as he used tolaugh.‘Well I’ll eat my hat,’ he

said, and stuffed the peak ofhis flat cap into his mouth.Annie and Arthur knew then

they had found their fatheragain. ‘We have a horse andwe have the seed,’ FarmerVeluna said. ‘There’s all myfather’s old horsedrawnequipment in the old cartshed, and I think I knowwhereIcanfindhisoldsetofharness. It’s up in the attic,isn’titMolly?’Buthedidnotwaitforareply.‘Itmaybeabit small for this giant of ahorse,butit’llstretch.It’llfit– it’sgot to fit. ’Course, I’ve

never worked a horse, butfatherdidand Iwatchedhimyears ago and followed himoftenenoughinthefields.I’llpickitup;itshouldn’tbetoodifficult.We’veachance,’hesaid. ‘We’ve a chance,children,asportingchance.’And from that moment on

there was no more talk ofsellingup.

Ploughing started the

following morning just afterdawn. The ground was justdryenough, theearth turningcleanly from the shares. Thehorse proved tireless in thefields. They had sold everybaleofhaysohehadtopickenough sustenance from thecold wet autumn grass; butthatseemed tobeenoughforhim, for the horse ploughedon that day well into theevening, and came back formore the next day and the

nextandthenext.It was clear at the outset

thatthehorsehadanuncannyinstinctfortheland.Heknewhowtighttoturn,whatspeedto gowithout ever having tobetold.Whenhisfathertired,Arthurcouldwalkbehindtheploughandsimplyfollowthehorse down the furrows andaroundtheheadlandsuntilthejobwasdone. Ifhe stumbledand fell in the furrows,asheoften did, the horse would

waitforhimtoregainhisfeetbefore leaning again into hisharness, taking the strainandploddingoffdownthefield.Within threeweeks all the

corn fields along the valleywereploughed,harrowedanddrilled with barley. Wordspread quickly around theparish that Farmer Velunawas laughing again and theycame visiting once more tostandatthegatewithhimandadmire his miraculous

workhorse.‘No diesel, nothing to go

wrong; he’ll plough thesteepest land on the farm,’Farmer would say withexpansivepride. ‘Built like atankbutgentleasalamb.Seefor yourself. Arthur canmanage him on his own andhe’s only nine you know.Haveyouever seenanythinglikeit?’‘Where the devil did you

get him from?’ they would

ask because they had heardallkindsofrumours.Andhewouldtellthemthe

story of the little Knockerman on the moor who hadcome to their rescue, but noone believed him. Thefarmers amongst themlaughed knowingly at thestoryandtoldFarmerVelunatopulltheotherone;buttheydid not press him for theyknew well enough that afarmerwillneverdisclosethe

source of his good fortune.Butathometheirwivesknewbetter and the story of theamazing white horse ofZennorspreadalongthecoastlike thistledown in the wind.But in spite of theirscepticism all their friendsweredelighted to seeFarmerVelunahisoldselfagain,andthey determined to help himsucceed. So one winter’snight in the Tinners’ Armstheygottogetherandworked

out how theymight help theFarmer back on his feetwhetherhewanted theirhelpor not. They knew he wasproud, as they were, so thatany help had to be bothanonymousandunreturnable.SoitwasthatonChristmas

morningwhenFarmerVelunaandhisfamilyreturnedhomeafterchurch, theyfound theiryard filled with millinganimals, three sows and aboar,halfadozengeese,five

cows with suckling calvesandatleasttwenty-fiveewes.Puzzled and not a littlesuspicious, Farmer Velunaphoned all around the parishto find out who owned thewandering animals that hadconvergedonhisyard,butnooneseemedtoknowanythingabout them and no oneclaimed them. He was aboutto contact the police inPenzance when Arthur andAnnie came running into the

kitchen, their voices shrillwithexcitement.‘Thebarn,’Annieshouted.

‘It’s full, full of hay andstraw.’‘And there’s feed,’ Arthur

said. ‘Sacks and sacks of it,enough to lastus through thewinter.’‘It’s that Knocker again,’

Farmer Veluna said, and thechildren believed him; butMolly, with a woman’sintuition,knewbetterbutsaid

nothing.The winter was long and

hard that year, but with thesoundsofthefarmallaroundthem again and the wintercornshootingupgreeninthefields,Farmer andhis familyweremore than content. Thewhitehorsewinteredout inashelteredfieldbehind theoldgranary. He grew a longwhite shaggy coat so that heseemed even more vast thanever. Whenever he was not

needed hauling the dung cartor carrying hay bales out tothe cattle on the farm,Anniewould ride him out over themoor and down through thefieldstothecliffs.Hewasofcourse far too big for her tocontrol,butshehadnofearofhorses and found that nocontrol was needed anyway.Agentlewordinhisear,apatof encouragement on hisgreat arching neck and hewould instantly do what she

wanted. ItwasnotobedienceandAnnie recognised that; itwas simply that the horsewished to please her. Hewouldgolikethewind,jumpany ditch or fence he wasasked toandseemedassure-footed on the hills as a goat.But it was on one of theserides that Annie firstdiscovered that he had aninclination to make his waytowards the cliffs, and oncetherehewould stand looking

out to the open sea, earspricked to the cry of thewheeling gulls and thethunderofthesurfagainstthecliffs. He was alwaysreluctant to turn away forhome, calling out at the lastoverhisshoulderandturningback his ears as if expectingsomekindofreply.AfterjustsucharideAnnie

finally decided upon a namefor the horse. No nameseemed to have suited until

now. ‘He’ll be calledPegasus,’ she declared, andno-one argued for she hadbecome vehementlypossessive, scolding bothArthur and her father if theyworked him too hard on thefarmordidnotlookafterhimas well as she thought theyshould have done. Shegroomed him regularly everymorning and picked out hisfeet.Sheitwaswhotowelledhim down after work and

rubbed in the soothing saltedwater so that the harnesswould not make him sore.She was passionately proudof him and would ride tallthrough the villagewhen sherode out with the hunt,soakingintheadmirationandenvy of both riders andspectators alike. There wasnot a horse in the parish totouch him and even otherhorses seemed to sense it,moving nervously away

whenever he approached.There were some whodoubted that any horse couldjumpjustaswellashecouldplough, but when theywitnessed his performance inthe chase any doubtsvanished at once. Whereothers pulled aside to find alower hedge or a narrowerditch, Pegasus sailed overwith apparent ease. He out-pacedeveryhorseinthefieldandAnnie used nowhip and

no spur, for none wereneeded. He was, she saidglowinglywhenshegotbackhome, as strong as anytractor, as bold as a hunter,and as fast as a racehorse.Pegasus had become a localcelebrityandAnniebaskedinhisreflectedglory.With the springdryingout

the land Pegasus turnedcarthorseoncemoreandwashitched up for the springploughing. Farmer Veluna

had enough seed for twosmall fields of oats andPegasuswenttoitwithawill;butbothArthurandhisfathernow noticed that the horsewouldpause, earspricked, attheendof the furrownearestto the sea; and it was quiteapparent that the furrowsgoing down the hill towardsthecliffsinthedistanceweresometimes ploughed morequickly and therefore lessdeeply than the furrows

leading back to thefarmhouse.‘Most horses speed up on

the way back home; that’swhat I thought,’ said FarmerVeluna. ‘Can’t understand it,doesn’tmakesense.’‘But you can’t expect him

to behave like an ordinaryhorse, father,’ said Arthur,‘’cos he isn’t an ordinaryhorse.Justlookathimfather,he’d plough this field all onhisownifyoulethim.Goon

Father,tryit,lethimdoit.’FarmerVelunaletgoofthe

ploughmoretopleasehissonthan anything else andallowedthehorsetomoveonalone. As they watched inamazement the ploughremainedstraightasanarrow,and inch perfect in depth.Pegasus turned slowly andcameback towards them, hisline immaculate and parallel.Arthur and his father pickedthe stones out of the furrows

aseveningfellwhilePegasusploughed up and down thefielduntilthelastfurrowwascomplete.Thentheyranoverthefieldtowardshimtoguidehim round theheadlands,butPegasus had already turnedand was making the firstcircuit of the field. At thatmoment both Arthur and hisfatherfinallyunderstoodwhatAnniealreadyknew,that thiswas a miraculous creaturethat needed no help from

themorfromanyone.Annie fitted in her rides

whenever she thoughtPegasus was rested enoughafter his work, but as theblackthorn withered and thefuchsia began to bud in theearly summer, Pegasus wasmore and more occupied onthe farm.At the end of Junehe cut a fine crop of sweetmeadow hay, turned it andbaledit.Hetookcartloadsoffarmyardmanureoutintothe

fields for spreading. He cutthistles and docks andbracken in the steeper fieldsupnearthemoor.Hitchedupwith a great chain he pulledhugegranite rocksoutof thegroundanddraggedthemintothehedgerows.Intheblazingheat of high summer hehauled the water tanks outontothefurthestfieldsandinAugustharvested thecornhehaddrilledtheautumnbefore.Thebarleycropwassorich

that summer that FarmerVeluna was able to sell somuchtothemerchantsthathecould buy in more sucklingcows and calves, as well ashisfirsttenmilkingcows,thebeginnings of his new dairyherd. As autumn began themilkingparlourthrobbedintolifeoncemore,buthehadnotforgottentokeepbacktwelvesacks of seed corn that heowedtothelittleKnocker.The sows had farrowed

well and there were alreadyfat pigs to sell; and some ofthe lambs were already bigenough to go tomarket. Thehens were laying well, evenin the heat and the goslingswould be ready forChristmas.Butinspiteoftherecovery

andallitmeanttothefamily,the mood of the farmhousewasfarfromhappy,forasthesummernights shortenedandthe blackberries ripened in

the hedgerows, they knewthat their year with Pegasuswasalmostover.Anniespentall her time now with him,taking himout every day forlong rides down to the cliffswhere she knew he loved tobe. Until dusk each eveningshe would sit astride him,gazing with him out to sea,before turning him away andwalking slowly up TrevailValley, through Wicca Farmand back home over the

moor.When the time came that

September evening, a yearand a day from the firstmeeting with the Knocker,Annie and Arthur led thehorsebyhislongwhitemaneup onto the high moors.Arthurwanted tocomforthissister for he could feel thegrief she was suffering. Hesaidnothingbutputhishandintohersandclasped it tight.As they neared the

cheesewringrocksandmovedoutalongthetrackacrossthemoor towards the ruinedcount house, Pegasus liftedhis head and whinniedexcitedly. There was a newspringinhisstepandhisearstwitched back and forth asthey approached the count-house. Annie let go of hismane and whispered softly.‘Off you go, Pegasus,’ shesaid.Pegasuslookeddownather as if reassuring himself

thatshemeantwhatshesaid,and then trottedout aheadofthemanddownintotheruinsuntilhewashiddenfromtheirview. The children followedhim, clambering laboriouslyoverthewalls.Astheydroppeddowninto

thecounthousetheysawthatthehorsewasgoneandinhisplace was the little oldKnocker,whowavedtothemcheerily. ‘Good as yourword,’hesaid.

‘Sowereyou,’Arthursaid.‘Father isahappymanagainand it won’t be long beforewe’ll be milking fifty cowslike we were before. Fathersayswe’llbeable toaffordatractorsoon.’‘Where’s he gone?’ Annie

askedinavoiceascomposedas her tears would allow.‘Where’sPegasusgone?’‘Out there,’ said the

Knocker pointing out to sea.‘Lookout there.Canyousee

the white horses playing,d’you see their wavingmanes? Can you hear themcalling?Don’tbesad,Annie,’he said kindly. ‘He loves itout there with his friends. Ayearonthelandwasayearofexile for him. But you wereso good to him, Annie, andfor that reason he’ll comeback toyou thisonenight ineveryyear.That’sapromise.Be here up on themoor andhe’ll come every year for as

longasyouwanthimto.’And he does come, one

autumnnightineveryyearastheoldKnockerpromised.Soif you happen to be walkinguptowardsZennorQuoitonemoon-bright autumn nightwith themists hovering overthevalleyandtheseashiningbelowtheEagle’sNest,andifyou hear the pounding ofhoof beats and see a whitehorse come out of the moonand thunder over the moor,

you will know that it isAnnie, Annie and the whitehorseofZennor.

*ahighlycontagiousdiseasethatkillscalvesbeforetheyareborn.

‘GONETOSEA’

WILLIAM TREGERTHENHAD THE LOOK OF Achildwhocarriedallthepainof the world on his hunchedshoulders. But he had notalways been like this. He isrememberedbyhismotherasthe happy, chortling child ofhisinfancy,contenttobaskin

his mother’s warmth andsecure in the knowledge thatthe world was made just forhim. But with the ability towalk came the slowunderstanding thathewalkeddifferently from others andthat thiswas to sethimapartfrom everyone he loved. Hefound he could not run withhis brothers through thehighhay fields, chasing afterrabbits; that he could notclamber with them down the

rocks to the sea but had towait at the top of the cliffsand watch them hop-scotching over the bouldersand leaping inandoutof therockpoolsbelow.He was the youngest of

four brothers born onto afarm that hung precariouslyalongtheruggedcliffsbelowthe Eagle’s Nest. The fewsmallsquarefields thatmadeupthefarmwerespread,likea green patchwork between

thegranitefarmhouseandthegrey-grim sea, merging intogorse and bracken as theyneared the cliff top. For awholechild itwasaparadiseofadventureandmystery,forthe land was riddled withdeserted tin miners’ cottagesand empty, ivy-clad chapelsthathadoncebeenfilledwithboisterous hymns andsonorous prayer. There weredeserted wheel houses thatloomed out of the mist, and

dark, dank caves that mustsurely have been used bywreckers and smugglers.Perhapstheystillwere.But William was not a

wholechild;his leftfootwasturned inwards and twisted.He shuffled along behind hisolder brothers in a desperateattempttostaywiththemandtobepartof theirworld.Hisbrotherswerenothard-souledchildren, but were merelywrapped in their own

fantasies. They were piratesand smugglers and revenuemen, and the shadowingpresence of William wasbeginningalreadytoencroachon their freedom ofmovement.Ashegrewolderhewasleftfurtherandfurtherbehind and they began toignore him, and then to treathim as if he were not there.Finally, when William wasjust about school age, theyrejected him outright for the

first time. ‘Go home toMother,’ they said. ‘She’lllookafteryou.’Williamdidnotcry,forby

now it came as no shock tohim. He had already beenaccustomed to the asideremarks, theaccusing fingersin the village and theassiduously averted eyes.Even his own father, withwhom he had romped andgambolled as an infant, wasbecoming estranged and

wouldleavehimbehindmoreand more when he went outon the farm. There werefewer rides on the tractorthese days, fewer invitationsto ride up in front of himonhis great shining horse.William knew that he hadbecome a nuisance.What hecould not know was that aninevitableguilthadsouredhisfatherwhofoundhecouldnolongerevenlookonhisson’sstumbling gait without a

shudderofshame.Hewasnotacruelmanbynature,buthedid not want to have to bereminded continually of hisown inadequacy as a fatherandasaman.Only his mother stood by

him and William loved herfor it. With her he couldforget his hideous foot thatwould never straighten andthat caused him to lurchwhenever he moved. Theytalked of the countries over

the sea’s end, beyond wherethe sky fell like a curtain onthe horizon. From her helearned about the wild birdsand the flowers. Togetherthey would lie hidden in thebrackenwatchingthefoxesatplayandcountingthesealsasthey bobbed up and down atsea.Itwasrareenoughforhismother to leave her kitchenbut whenever she could shewould take William outthrough the fields and

clamber up onto a graniterock that rose from the soilbelow like an iceberg. Fromhere they could look up toZennorQuoitabovethemandacross the fields towards thesea.Here shewould tell himall the stories of Zennor.Sitting beside her, his kneesdrawn up under his chin, hewould bury himself in themysteries of this wild place.He heard of mermaids, ofwitches, of legends as old as

the rock itself and just asenduring. The bond betweenmother and son grew strongduringtheseyears;shewouldbetherebyhissidewhereverhewent.ShebecamethesolepropofWilliam’slife,hislastlink with happiness; and forhis mother her last little sonkept her soul singing in themidstofanendlessdrudgery.For William Tregerthen,

school was a nightmare ofmisery.Withinhis firstweek

he was dubbed ‘LimpingBilly’. His brothers, whomight have afforded someprotection, avoided him andleft him to the mercy of themob.Williamdidnothatehistormentors anymore than hehatedwaspsinSeptember;hejust wished they would goaway. But they did not.‘LimpingBilly’wasasourceof infinite amusement thatfew could resist. Even thechildren William felt might

havebeenfriendstohimwereseduced into collaboration.Whenever they were tired offootballoroftagorskipping,there was always ‘LimpingBilly’ sitting by himself ontheplaygroundwallunderthefuchsiahedge.Williamwouldsee them coming and screwuphiscourage,turningonhisthin smile of resignation thathe hoped might soften theirhearts.Hecontinued tosmilethrough the taunting and the

teasing, through the limpingcompetitions that they forcedhim to judge. He would nodappreciatively at theirattempts to mimic theHunchback of Notre Dame,andconcealhisdreadandhishumiliationwhentheyinvitedhim to do better. He trainedhimself to laugh with themback at himself; it was hiswayofridingthepunches.His teachers were worse,

cloakingtheirrevulsionunder

a veneer of pity. To beginwith they over-burdened himwith a false sweetness andpaidhimfartoomuchlovingattention;andthenbecausehefound the words difficult tospellandhishandwritingwasuneven and awkward, theybegantoassume,asmanydo,that one unnatural limbsomehow infects the wholeand turns a cripple into anidiot. Very soon he wasdismissed by his teachers as

unteachable and ignoredthereafter.It did not help either that

William was singularly un-childlike in his appearance.He had none of the cherubicinnocence of a child; therewas no charm about him, noredeeming feature. He wassmallforhisage;buthisfacecarried already the mark ofyears.Hiseyesweredarkanddeep-set,hisfeaturespinchedandsallow.Hewalkedwitha

stoop, dragging his footbehind him like a leadenweight. Theworld had takenhim and shrivelled him upalready. He lookedpermanently gaunt andhungryashesatstaringoutofthe classroomwindow at theheavingseabeyondthefields.Areclusewasbeingborn.On his way back from

school that last summer,William tried to avoid theroad as much as possible.

Meetings always becameconfrontations,and therewasnever anyonewhowanted towalk home with him. Hehimself wanted less and lessto bewith people.Once intothe fields and out of sight ofthe roadhewouldbreak intoa staggering, ugly run,swingingouthistwistedfoot,straining to throw it forwardas far as it would go. Hewouldtimehimselfacrossthefield that ran down from the

roadtothehaybarn,andthenthrow himself at last facedown and exhausted into thesweetwarmthofnewhay.Hehad done this for a fewdaysalready and, according to hiscounting, his time wasimprovingwitheachrun.Butashelaytherenowpantinginthe hay he heard someoneclapping high up in thehaystack behind him. He satup quickly and lookedaround. It was a face he

knew, as familiar to him astherocksinthefieldsaroundthe farm, an old face full ofdeeply etched crevasses andraised veins, unshaven andred with drink. EveryonearoundthevillageknewSam,or ‘Sam theSoak’ as hewascalled,butno-oneknewmuchabouthim.Helivedaloneinacottage in thechurchtownupbehind the Tinners’ Arms,cycling every day into St.Ives where he kept a small

fishingboatandafewlobsterpots. He was a fair-weatherfisherman,witha ramshackleboat that only went to seawhen the weather was setfair.Whenever therewerenofish or no lobsters to befound, or when the weatherwas blowing up, he wouldstay on shore and drink. Itwasrumouredtherehadbeensomegreat tragedyinhis lifebefore he came to live atZennor,butheneverspokeof

itsono-oneknewforcertain.‘A fine run, Billy,’ said

Sam; his drooping eyessmiled gently. There was nosarcasm in his voice butrather a kind sincerity thatWilliamwarmedtoinstantly.‘Better’n yesterday

anyway,’Williamsaid.‘You should swim, dear

lad,’ Sam sat up and shookthe hay out of his hair. Heclambereddownthehaystacktowards William, talking as

hecame. ‘If Ihada foot likethat, dear lad, I’d swim.You’d be fine in the water,swim like the seals Ishouldn’twonder.’Hesmiledawkwardly and ruffledWilliam’s hair. ‘Got a lot todo.Hopeyoudidn’tmindmysleeping awhile in your hay.Your fathermakesgoodhay,I’vealwayssaid that.Well, Ican’tstandherechattingwithyou,got a lot todo.And,bythe by dear lad, I shouldn’t

like you to think that I wasdrunk.’Helookedharddownat William and tweaked hisear. ‘You’re too young toknowbutthere’sworsethingscan happen to a man than atwistedfoot,Billy,dearlad.Idrink enough, but it’s justenough and no more. Nowyou do as I say, goswimming.Onceinthewateryou’ll be the equal ofanyone.’‘But I can’t swim,’ said

William. ‘My brothers canbut I never learnt to. It’sdifficult for me to get downontherocks.’‘Dear lad,’ said Sam,

brushingoffhis coat. ‘If youcan runwith a foot like that,then you can most certainlyswim. Mark my words, dearlad; I may look like an oldsoak–Iknowwhat theycallme–butdrinkinmoderationinspires greatwisdom.Do asIsay,getdowntotheseaand

swim.’

***

Williamwentdowntotheseain secret that afternoonbecause he knew his motherwould worry. Worse thanthat,shemighttrytostophimfrom going if she thought itwasdangerous.Shewasbusyin the kitchen so he saidsimply that he would makehisownwayacrossthefields

to their rock and watch thekestrel theyhadseen thedaybefore floating on the warmair high above the bracken.He had been to the seashorebefore of course, but alwaysaccompanied by his motherwhohadhelpedhimdownthecliffpathtothebeachbelow.Swimming in the sea was

forbidden. It was a familyedict,andoneobservedbyallthe farming families around,whoserespectandfearofthe

sea had been inculcated intothem for generations. ‘Theseaisforfish,’hisfatherhadwarned them often enough.‘Swim in the rock pools allyou want, but don’t goswimminginthesea.’With his brothers and his

fathermakinghayinthehighfield by the chapel Williamknew therewas little enoughchance of his beingdiscovered. He did indeedpauseforarestontherockto

lookskywardsforthekestrel,and this somehow eased hisconscience. Certainly therewas a great deal he had nottold his mother, but he hadnever deliberately deceivedher before this. He felthowever such a strongcompulsion to follow Sam’sadvice that he soon left therockbehindhimandmadeforthe cliff path. He was nowfurther from home than hehad ever been on his own

before.Thecliffpathwastortuous,

difficultenoughforanyonetonegotiatewith twogoodfeet,but William managed wellenough using a stick as acrutch to help him over thestreams that tumbled downfern-green gorges to the seabelow.At timeshehadtogodown on all fours to be surehe would not slip. As heclambered up along the pathto the first headland, he

turnedandlookedbackalongthe coast towards ZennorHead, breathing in the windfrom the sea. A suddenwildfeeling of exuberance andelationcameoverhimsothathefeltsomehowliberatedandat one with the world. Hecupped his hands to hismouthandshoutedtoatankerthat was cruising motionlessfarouttosea:‘I’m Limping Billy

Tregerthen,’ he bellowed,

‘and I’m going to swim. I’mgoing to swim in the sea. Icanseeyoubutyoucan’tseeme. Look out fish, here Icome. Look out seals, here Icome. I’m Limping BillyTregerthen and I’m going toswim.’SoWilliamcameat last to

TrevailCliffswheretherocksstepoutintotheseabutevenat low tidenever so far as tojoin the island. The islandwhere the seals come lies

some way off the shore, ablackbastionagainst the sea,warning it that it must notcomeanyfurther.Cormorantsand shags perched on theisland like sinister sentriesandbelowthemWilliamsawthe seals basking in the sunon the rocks. The path downto the beachwas treacherousandWilliamknew it.For thefirst time he had to manageon his own, so he sat downand bumped his way down

thetracktothebeach.He went first to the place

his brothers had learnt toswim, a great green bowl ofsea water left behind in therocks by the tide. As heclambered laboriously overthe limpet-covered rockstowards the pool, heremembered how he had satalone high on the cliff topabove and watched hisbrothersandhisfatherdivingand splashing in the pool

below,andhowhishearthadfilledwith envy and longing.‘You sit there, with yourMother,’ his father had said.‘It’s too dangerous for yououtthereonthoserocks.Toodangerous.’‘And here I am,’ said

William aloud as he steppedgingerly forward onto thenext rock, reaching for ahandhold to support himself.‘HereIam,leapingfromrockto rock like a goat. If only

theycouldseemenow.’Hehauledhimselfupover

the last lip of rock and thereat last was the pool downbelow him, with the sealapping in gently at one end.Here for the first timeWilliam began to befrightened.Untilthismomenthe had not fully understoodthestephewasabouttotake.It was as if he had wokensuddenly from a dream: themeetingwithSaminthehay-

barn, his triumphant walkalong the cliff path, and thelong rock climb to the pool.Butnowashelookedaroundhim he saw he wassurrounded entirely by seaand stranded on the rocks agreat distance out from thebeach. He began to doubt ifhe could ever get back; andhad it not been for the sealWilliamwouldmostcertainlyhave turned and gone backhome.

The seal surfaced silentlyinto the pool from nowhere.William crouched downslowlysoasnottoalarmhimand watched. He had neverbeen this close to a seal. Hehad seen them often enoughlyingouton the rockson theisland like great greycucumbers and had spottedtheir shining heads floatingoutatsea.Butnowhewassoclose he could see that theseal was looking directly at

him out of sad, soulful eyes.He had never noticed beforethat seals had whiskers.Williamwatched for a whileand then spoke. It seemedrudenotto.‘You’re in my pool,’ he

said. ‘I don’t mind really,thoughIwasgoingtohaveaswim. Tell you the truth, Iwas having second thoughtsanyway,about theswimmingImean. It’s all right foryou,you’rebornto it. Imeanyou

don’t find getting around onland that easy, do you?WellnordoI.Andthat’swhySamtold me to go and learn toswim, said I’d swim like aseal one day. But I’m a bitfrightened, see. I don’t knowifIcan,notwithmyfoot.’The seal had vanished as

hewas speaking, soWilliamlowered himself carefullystepbystepdowntowardstheedge of the pool. The waterwas clear to the bottom, but

therewasnosignoftheseal.Williamfounditreassuringtobe able to see the bottom, agreat slab of rock that fellaway towards the opening tothe sea. He could see nowwhy his brothers had comehere to learn, for one end ofthepoolwas shallowenoughtopaddlewhilsttheotherwasso deep that the bottom wasscarcelyvisible.William undressed quickly

and stepped into the pool,

feeling for the rocks belowwithhistoes.Hedrewbackatthe first touch because thewater stung him with cold,but soon he had both feet inthewater.Helookeddowntobe sure of his footing,watching his feet moveforward slowly out into thepool until hewaswaist-high.Thecoldhadtakenthebreathfrom his body and he wastempted to turn around atonce and get out. But he

steeled himself, raised hishandsabovehishead,suckedin his breath and inched hiswayforward.Hisfeetseemedsuddenlystrangetohim,apartfrom him almost and hewriggled his toes to be surethattheywerestillattachedtohim. It was then that henoticed that they hadchanged. They had turnedwhite, dead white; and asWilliam gazed down he sawthat his left foot was no

longer twisted. For the firsttime inhis lifehis feet stoodparallel. He was about tobenddowntotrytotouchhisfeet, for he knew his eyesmustsurelybedeceivinghim,when the seal reappearedonly a few feet away in themiddleofthepool.Thistimethesealgazedathimonlyforafewbriefmomentsandthenbegan a series of wateracrobatics that soon hadWilliam laughing and

clapping with joy. Hewoulddive,rollandtwist,disappearfor a few seconds and thenmaterialise somewhere else.He circled William, turningover on his back and rolling,powering his way to the endof the pool before floppingover on his front and aimingstraight for William like atorpedo, just under thesurface. It was a display ofcomic elegance, of easypower.But toWilliamitwas

more than this, it became aninvitation he found he couldnotrefuse.The seal had settled again

in the centre of the pool, hisgreat wide eyes beckoning.William never even waitedforthewatertostopchurningbutlaunchedhimselfoutintothewater.Hesankofcourse,but he had not expected notto. He kicked out with hislegs and failed his armswildly in a supreme effort to

regain the surface. He hadsense enough to keep hismouth closed but his eyeswere wide open and he sawthroughthegreenthatthesealwas swimming alongsidehim, close enough to touch.Williamknewthathewasnotdrowning,thatthesealwouldnot let him drown; and withthat confidence his arms andlegs began to move moreeasily through the water. Afew rhythmic strokes up

towards the light and hefound the air his lungs hadbeencravingfor.Butthesealwas nowhere to be seen.William struck out across tothe rocks on the far side ofthe pool quite confident thatthe seal was still close by.Swimming came to Williamthat day as it does to a dog.He found in that oneafternoon the confidence tomaster the water. The sealhowever never reappeared,

butWilliamswamonnowbyhimselfuntilthewaterchilledhis bones, seekingeverywhere for the seal andcallingforhim.Hethoughtofventuring out into the openoceanbut thoughtbetterof itwhen he saw the swelloutside the pool. He vowedhe would come again, everyday,untilhefoundhisseal.William lay on the rocks

above the pool, his eyesclosedagainsttheglareofthe

eveningsunoffthewater,hisheart still beating fast fromthe exertion of his swim.Helay like this, turning fromtime to timeuntilhewasdryall over. Occasionally hewould laugh out loud injoyouscelebrationofthefirsttriumphofhislife.Outontheseal island the cormorantsand shags were startled andlifted off the rocks to makeforthefishinggroundsouttosea, and the colony of seals

wasgatheringasitalwaysdideachevening.AsWilliammade his way

back along the cliff path andup across the fields towardshome he could hear behindhimthesofthootingsoundofthe seals as they welcomedeachnewarrivalontherocks.His foot was indeed stilltwisted, but he walked erectnow,thestoopgonefromhisshoulders and there was anewlightnessinhisstep.

He broke the news to hisfamilyatsupperthatevening,droppedit likeabombandithad just the effect he hadexpectedandhopedfor.Theystopped eating and therewasa long heavy silence whilstthey looked at each other instunnedamazement.‘Whatdidyousay,Billy?’

saidhisfathersternly,puttingdownhisknifeandfork.‘I’ve been swimming with

a seal,’ William said,’ and I

learnt to swim just like Samsaid. I climbed down to therocksandIswaminthepoolwith the seal. I know wemustn’t swim in the sea butthepool’sallrightisn’tit?’‘By yourself, Billy?’ said

his mother, who had turnedquite pale. ‘You shouldn’thave, you know, not byyourself. I could have gonewithyou.’‘It was all right, Mother,’

William smiled up at her.

‘The seal looked after me. Icouldn’t have drowned, notwithhimthere.’Up to that point it had all

beenpredictable,butthenhisbrothers began to laugh,splutteringaboutwhatagoodtale itwasandhow theyhadactually believed him for amoment; and when Williaminsisted that he could swimnow, and that the seal hadhelpedhim,hisfatherlosthispatience. ‘It’s bad enough

your going off on your ownwithout telling your mother,but thenyoucomebackwitha fantastic story like thatandexpect me to believe it. I’mnot stupid lad. I know youcan’t climb over those rockswith a foot like that; and asforswimmingandseals,wellit’sanicestory,butastory’sastory,solet’shearnomoreofit.’‘But he was only

exaggerating, dear,’ said

William’smother. ‘Hedidn’tmean...’‘I know what he meant,’

saidhisfather.‘Andit’syourfault, like as not, telling himall these wild stories andputting strange ideas in hishead.’William looked at his

mother in total disbelief,numbed by the realisationthatshetoodoubtedhim.Shesmiledsympatheticallyathimand came over to stroke his

head.‘He’s just exaggerating a

bit, aren’t you Billy?’ shesaidgently.But William pulled away

fromherembrace,hurtbyherlackoffaith.‘I don’t care if you don’t

believeme,’hesaid,hiseyesfilling with tears. ‘I knowwhathappened. I can swim Itell you, and one day I’llswim away from here andnevercomeback. Ihateyou,

Ihateyouall.’His defiancewas punished

immediately.Hewas sent uptohis roomandashepassedhis father’s chair he wascuffed roundlyon theear forgoodmeasure. That evening,as he lay on his bed in hispyjamas listening to theremorseless ker-thump, ker-thumpofthehaybaleroutsidein the fields, William madeuphismindtoleavehome.His mother came up with

some cocoa later on as shealways did, but he pretendedto be asleep, even when sheleant over and kissed himgentlyontheforehead.‘Don’t be unhappy, Billy,’

she said. ‘I believe you, Ireallydo.’He was tempted at that

moment to wake and to callthe whole plan off, butresentment was still burningtoo strongly inside him.Whenitmatteredshehadnot

believed him, and even nowhe knew she was merelytrying to console him. Therecould be no going back. Helay still and tried to containthetearsinsidehiseyes.Every afternoon after

school that week Williamwentbackdowntothebeachto swim.One of his brothersmusthavesaidsomethingforword had gone round atschool that ‘Limping Billy’claimed that he had been

swimmingwith the seals.Heendured the barbed ridiculemore patiently than everbecauseheknewthatitwouldsoon be over and he wouldneveragainhavetofacetheirquipsandjibes,theircrookedsmiles.The sea was the haven he

longed for each day. Thefamily were far too busymaking hay to notice wherehe was and he was never tospeak of it again to any of

them.Tostartwithhekepttothe green pool in the rocks.Every afternoon his sealwould be there waiting forhim and the lesson wouldbegin.Helearnttorollinthewater like a seal and to divedeepexploring thebottomofthe pool for over a minutebefore surfacing for air. Theseal teased him in thewater,enticing him to chase,allowing William to comejust soclosebeforewhisking

away out of reach again. Helearnt to lie on the water torest as if he were on a bed,confidentthathisbodywouldalways float, that the waterwould always hold it up.Each day brought him newtechnique and new power inhis legs and arms. Graduallythe seal would let him comecloseruntiloneafternoonjustbefore he left the poolWilliam reached out slowlyand stroked the seal on his

side. It was gesture of loveandthanks.Thesealmadenoimmediate attempt to moveawaybutturnedslowlyinthewater and let out a curiousgroan of acceptance beforediving away out of the pooland into the open sea.As hewatched him swim away,William was sure at last ofhisplaceintheworld.Withtheseastillcalmnext

day William left thesanctuary of the pool and

swamoutintotheswelloftheoceanwiththesealalongsidehim.There towelcome themastheynearedtheislandwerethe bobbing heads of theentiresealcolony.Whentheyswam too fast for him itseemed the easiest, mostnatural thing in the world tothrow his arms around theseal and hold on, riding himover the waves out towardsthe island.Once there he layout on the rocks with them

and was minutely inspectedby each member of thecolony. They came one byone and lay beside him,eyeing him wistfully beforelumbering off to make roomfor the next. Each of themwasdifferentandhefoundhecouldtellatoncetheoldfromthe young and the femalefrom the male. Later, sittingcross-leggedontherocksandsurrounded entirely by theinquisitive seals, William

tasted raw fish for the firsttime, pulling away the fleshwith his teeth as if he hadbeen doing it all his life. Hebegan tomurmur seal noisesin an attempt to thank themfor their gift and theyrespondedwithgreathootsofexcitement and affection. Bythetimehewasescortedbackto the safety of the shore hecouldnolongerdoubtthathewasoneofthem.

***

Thenotepadheleftbehindonhis bed the next afternoonread simply: ‘Gone to sea,where I belong.’ His motherfound it that evening whenshecameinfromthefieldsatdusk.TheCoastguardandthevillagerswerealertedandthesearch began. They searchedthe cliffs and the sea shorefrom Zennor Head to WiccaPoolandbeyond,butinvain.

An air-sea rescue helicopterflew lowover the coast untilthe darkness drove it away.ButthefamilyreturnedtothesearchatfirstlightanditwasWilliam’s father who foundthe bundle of clothes hiddenin the rocks below TrevailCliffs. The pain was deepenoughalready,sohedecidedto tell no one of hisdiscovery, but buried themhimself in a corner of thecornfield below the chapel.

He wept as he did so, asmuch out of remorse as forhisson’slostlife.Someweekslatertheyheld

a memorial service in thechurch,attendedbyeveryonein the village except Samwhomnoonehad seen sinceWilliam’sdisappearance.TheParochial Church Councilwas inspired to offer a spaceon the church wall for amemorial tablet for William,and theyoffered to finance it

themselves. It should be leftto the family they said, toworditastheywished.

Months later Sam washauling inhisnetsoffWiccaPool. The fishing had beenpoorandheexpectedhisnetsto be empty once again. Butas he began hauling it wasclearhehadstruckitrichandhis heart rose in anticipationofa full catchat last. It took

allhisstrengthtopullthenetup through the water. Hisarms ached as he strained tofind the reserves he wouldneed to haul it in. He hadstoppedhaulingforamomenttoregainhisstrength,hisfeetbracedonthedeckagainstthepitch and toss of the boat,whenheheardavoicebehindhim.‘Sam,’itsaid,quietly.He turned instantly, achill

offearcreepinguphisspine.

It was William Tregerthen,his head and shouldersshowing above the gunwaleoftheboat.‘Billy?’ said Sam. ‘Billy

Tregerthen? Is it you, dearlad?Areyoureal,Billy?Isitreally you?’ William smiledat him to reassure him. ‘I’venothadadrinksince thedayyou died, Billy, honest Ihaven’t. Toldmyself I neverwouldagain,notafterwhat Idid to you.’ He screwed up

his eyes. ‘No,’ he said, ‘Imust be dreaming. You’redead and drowned. I knowyouare.’‘I’m not dead and I’m not

drowned,Sam,’Williamsaid.‘I’m living with the sealswhere I belong. You wereright, Sam, right all along. Ican swim like a seal, and Ilive like a seal. You can’tlimpinthewater,Sam.’‘Are you really alive, dear

lad?’saidSam.‘Afterallthis

time? You weren’t drownedliketheysaid?’‘I’malive,Sam,andIwant

you to let your nets down,’Williamsaid.‘There’soneofmy seals caught up in it andthere’snofishthereIpromiseyou. Let them down, Sam,please,beforeyouhurthim.’Sam let the nets go gently

hand over hand until theweightwasgone.‘Thank you Sam,’ said

William.‘You’reakindman,

the only kind man I’ve everknown. Will you dosomething more for me?’Sam nodded, quite unable tospeak any more. ‘Will youtellmymotherthatI’mhappyand well, that all her storieswere true, and that she mustnever be sad. Tell her all iswellwithme.Promise?’‘Course,’ Sam whispered.

‘CourseIwill,dearlad.’Andthenassuddenlyashe

had appeared, William was

gone. Sam called out to himagain and again. He wantedconfirmation,hewantedtobesure his eyes had not beendeceiving him. But the seaaroundhimwasemptyandheneversawhimagain.William’s mother was

feeding the hens as she didevery morning after the menhad left the house. She sawSam coming down the lanetowardsthehouseandturnedaway. It would be more

sympathy and she had hadenoughof that sinceWilliamdied.ButSamcalledafterherandsoshehadtoturntofacehim.Theyspoke together foronlyafewminutes,Samwithhis hands on her shoulders,beforetheypartedleavingheralone again with her hensclucking impatiently aroundherfeet.IfSamhadturnedashe walked away he wouldhave seen that she wassmilingthroughhertears.

The inscription on thetabletinthechurchreads:

WILLIAMTREGERTHENAGED10

Gonetosea,wherehebelongs

MILKFORTHECAT

OLDMANBARBERYHADBEENFARMING below theEagle’sNestatTremeddaforas long as anyone in Zennorparish could remember. Thewind and the years hadgnarled his leathery face andbent his bones; but his sharpblue eyes, although watery

with age, remained brightwith joy until the end. Hediedaseverymanshoulddie–inhissleep.Heleftnomarkin the world except his son,and the farm at Tremeddawhich he had not altered insixtyyears.During the twilight of his

life no one could understandhow he remained so smilingandcontented,whensofarasanyoneelsecouldseehislifewas and had been one long

round of hard labour on thelandandofwretched tragedyathome.Hehadmarriedverylateinlifeandhisyoungwifehaddiedinchildbirthleavinghim,alreadyanoldman,withanonlysontobringup.He was the wise old man

of the village, and whenasked, as he often was, howhe stayed so cheerful, hiseyes would smile and hewouldsay:‘Thesecretistobeintune

withtheland,tobeinrhythmwith the seasons, to risewiththesunandtogotobedasitsets. The land is like a god,’he would say, wagging hiscrooked finger. ‘Love theland and it will love you inreturn.’Thomas was still young

when the old man died. Forsome years already he hadworkedonthelandalongsidehis father, but always underhis father’s direction. There

was a small herd of sundrymilking cows still milked byhandintheoldparlourbelowthehouse.Thesucklingcowsand bullocks wintered out inamongst the rocks and thedead bracken. The dozensows were still housed in apiggery that was so ancientthat it looked as if it hadsprung from the ground amillenniumbefore.They hadnearly a hundred lambingeweseachyearandcountless

bedraggled hens and muddyducks that wandered at willand laid whenever andwherever they found itconvenient.Afewfieldswereput to oats and barley, andtherewasalwaysonefieldofpotatoes. They had themachinery they needed forploughingandharvesting,butalwaysfourth-handandrusty.‘Workable’, his father calledit. He would allow noweedkiller and no pesticides

to be sprayed on his land –his father referred to themas‘damnedblasphemies’.Thomas had often pleaded

with his old father tomodernise, but the old manwould always point out thatthey hadmoney in the bank,didn’t they, and that the landlookedwell,didn’tit?‘Putallyour eggs in one basketThomas,’hewould say, ‘andthen tell mewhat happens ifyou drop the basket.’ There

was no arguing with him,Thomasknewthatandwasagentle enough person not towant to hurt an old man bypersisting.‘You’ll have your time,

Thomas,’ he had whisperedurgently the day before hedied, ‘and when it comesyou’ll dowhat youmust do:but I warn you Thomas, donot hurry the land, do notupset the balance. Andremember the story;

remember to leave out thebowlofmilkeachnightaswehave always done, and toleavetheonerowofpotatoesinthegroundeveryyear.Myfather made them a promiseand I’ve kept to it, and youmust keep to it. Promise methatmuch.’To others it might have

soundedliketheramblingsofadyingoldman,butThomashad grown up with the storyand knew how important it

wastohisfather.‘IpromiseFather,’hesaid.

‘Of course I’ll keep thepromise.’But thepromisewasmade

only to comfort his father.Oncemade, itwas forgotten.IneverythingbutthisThomasrespected the wisdom of hisfather, although he may notalwayshaveagreedwithhim.He had been brought up

with the story that had firstfascinated him and then

stretched his credulity as agrowing child, but that hadbecome quite ridiculous tohimnowthathewasagrownman. The farm, so his fathersaid, was inhabited by afamilyof strange little folk–his father called them ‘mylittlefriends’.Hehimselfhadnever seen one of them buthisfatherbeforehimhadseenand spoken to them, indeedhe had made a solemnbargain with them. On their

part the little folk wouldguard the farm and all theanimals, keeping them freefrom disease andmisfortune;and on his part the farmerwould treat the landwith thelove and respect it deserved;and to seal the bargain thefamilywouldsupplythelittlefolk with milk and potatoesfor ever and ever.Accordingly, each eveningafter milking, for over ahundredyearsnowabowlof

freshwarmmilkhadbeenputout on the rock in themeadow below the cowshed.And eachyear a long lineofpotatoes was left in theground after harvest, andwhen itwasploughedup thenextspringtherewasneverapotatotobefound.As a child Thomas loved

the story and longed for hisfather to set himonhis kneebythestoveandtellittohimagainandagain;andwhenhe

grew up he heard of othersimilar legends of strangelittle people on other farmsand up on the moors by theQuoit–butby this time theywere mere legends to beenjoyed, but not to bebelieved. He had long sincestoppedlyinglowinthegrassto ambush one of the littlefolk.Henolongerputhisearto the rocks to listen in ontheirconversations.Sowithhisfatherdeadand

buried,Thomasnowbegantomake changes at TremeddaFarm. With the money socarefully saved up over theyears byhis father hebuilt amagnificent herring-bonemilking parlour and installeda huge silver bulk tank. Hetrebledthesizeofthemilkingherd in the first year andworkedlikeaslavetohimselfto finance the modernisationof the piggery and thebuildingofacoveredyardfor

the bullocks and sucklingcows.Hebulldozedawaythehedgerows, the boulders andthe giant fuchsias to enlargethe fields so he could farmmoreefficiently.Hebegantospray the encroachingbracken instead of burning itashisfatherhaddone.Within a few short years

thefarmwastransformedoutof all recognition. His hardwork and his success wereadmiredalloverPenwith;and

hesoonfoundhimselfawifeand brought her back to livewith him at Tremedda. Sheloved the peace of the placeandthefeelingofbeingattheend of the earth, and theywere happy. Thomas wantedhis first child to be a boy sothathecouldtakeonthefarmafter him, and sure enoughthe boy came, healthy andstrong. The world seemedtruly to have become hisoyster,but inall that timehe

hadnotonceputoutthebowlofmilkandhenolongerevengrew a field of potatoes. Itwas not economic to growjust a few potatoes, andanywayheneededallthelandto supply the barley and thestrawheneededforthecows.So there was no room anymoreforpotatoes,butevenifhe had grown potatoes hecertainly would never haveleft themtorot in thegroundfor the sake of a ridiculous

legend.One summer evening

Thomas finished the milkingas usual and drove the cowsout into the fields. He stoodfor a moment in hiswaterproof apron surveyingthe cows as they meanderedout towards the sunset thathad turned thestill sea intoalake of red gold. He was acompletely happy andfulfilledmanat thatmoment,proudofhissmartblack-and-

white milkers. With a senseof deep satisfaction hesurveyed his land thatstretched from the moor tothe sea and back along thefieldstowardsthevillage,andthen feeling considerablyproprietary he undid hisapronandmadehiswaybacktothemilkingparlour.Had he not held on to the

handleofthedairydoorasheopened it he would certainlyhave fallen over in

astonishment, for seatedcross-legged on his silverbulk tank was a littlewrinkled old man, with fly-awaygreyhairandwidewildeyesandtwitchingeyebrows.‘Good evening, Thomas

Barbery,’ he said in astrangely youthful voice thatwasaskindashissmile.Thomas was not one to

doubt the evidence of hiseyes, nor was he by natureeither fearful or nervous; but

he was now shocked into astateofsuchdisbelief thathecould find no words toanswer the apparition on thebulktank.‘I see you’ve lost your

tongue.ThomasBarbery,’thelittle old man went on, stillsmiling. ‘Iwon’tharmyou–we’renot like that,notatall,not at all. You see, Thomas,we’re here to help you –wealways have been only youdidn’twant to believe it. All

we want from you is a littleconsideration and kindness,so that we can live happilyalongsideeachother.’‘Who are you?’ Thomas

asked, finally finding thenerve to speakout. ‘Whoareyou and what do you wantfromme?’‘Questions must have

answers,’ said the old manspringing down lightly fromthe bulk tank to the groundand wiping his hands on the

backofhissergetrousers.Hewould not stop smiling.‘Perhaps I should introducemyself – it’s only polite. Iknew your grandfather andyour grandfather knewme. Iknew your father and yourfatherknewme,even thoughhe never met me. But I’mquite sure he told you aboutus, and about our littlearrangement. Yes, I can seehe did, and I can see youdidn’t believe him, did you?

We’re the little people – Ibelieve you call us knockersorpixiesorboggarts,orwhathaveyou.Allwedoistolookafterthecountryside,tomakesure that farms are properlycaredforandthattheanimalsare happy. In return all weask is a bowl of milk eacheveningandalineofpotatoeseachyear–welovepotatoes.You may not have seen usbeforebutweliveherejustasyou do and we need food.

Thomas Barbery, you’vegiven us no milk and nopotatoes since the day yourgood father died.Andwe’vebeenwatchingyou,watchingyou tearing the heart out ofthe farm with all your newbuildings and yourbulldozers,punishingthelandand sucking it dry. We cantake just so much ThomasBarbery, but when we sawthat you were beginning topoison the countryside with

allyourinsecticidesandyourpesticides, and spraying theland with your weedkillers,well thatwas the final straw.You have broken the ancientagreement between yourgrandfather and the littlepeople and I’ve come to askyou,tobegyoutomendyourways before it is too late. Infuture Thomas Barbery, youmust take from the landonlyas much as you put in. Youmust love the land. It’swhat

your father taught you.Fromnowonyoumust restoreourdaily bowl of milk from thedairyandourlineofpotatoes–it’snotmuchtoaskisit?’During this speech which

was delivered with greatpassion and with expansivegestures, Thomas hadregained his composure.Perhaps it was because hecould now look downon thelittleoldmanwhostoodafterall no higher than his knees,

or perhaps it was thepermanent, gentle smile onhis wizened face thatreassured Thomas and gavehim the confidence to speakoutboldly.There was anger and

resentmentinhisvoice.‘You may have frightened

my grandfather into thisagreement,’ he said, ‘butyou’ll not frighten me. I ammaster ofmy own land. It ismyland.Noone,noonetells

mehowtorunmyownfarm.It ismineandIshalldowithit as I wish. As for themilkand potatoes – you can singforthem,foryou’llhavenoneofmine.’‘Ohdear,ohdear,ohdear,’

said the old man, walkingslowly towards the door,shaking his head all thewhile. ‘Youdon’tunderstanddo you, do you ThomasBarbery?Thelandbelongstonoone.Nottoyouandnotto

me. We borrow it for alifetime–that’sall–andthenwe hand it on to those whocomeafterus.’He turned and faced

Thomasandlookedhardintohiseyes.‘I don’twish toharmyou,

youmust believe that.But ifyou will not keep to ourancient agreement, then weon our part will no longerprotect your farm and youranimals, and you’ll be on

yourown.’‘Go away old man,’

Thomas shouted, pointing tothe door and advancingtowards him. ‘I don’t needyou. Go home and tell yourlittle friends that there’s noplace here for redundantknockers.’‘That’s a pity, Thomas

Barbery,’ said the little oldman, pulling up the collar ofhis tattered jacket, his facewreathed in the same kindly

smile. ‘A terriblepity. I’llbeback.’And he went out into the

eveninglight.‘Getting colder; autumn’s

on the way again,’ he saidalmost to himself. ‘GoodbyeThomasBarbery.’Andhewasgone.

Of course Thomas neverspoke of this meeting toanyone for fear of being

ridiculed; he even kept it asecretfromhiswife,andaftera few weeks had gone hebarely believed his ownmemory of it. He was soonwrappedupagaininthedailyroutine of work on the farmand had little time to reflecton thisstrangeencounter.Hemadeaconsciousefforttootoforget the incident, for deepdown it troubled him greatlyand he did notwant to thinkofit.

The autumn fog camerolling in now each eveningto blot out the sun, and theheatherandthebrackenfadedonthemooraboveTremedda.The sea turned winter greybeyond the ploughed fields,and thewindwhippedacrossthe fields from the open seabringing with it the firststorms of winter. The cowswere driven into their winterquarters in the yard behindthe parlour. They would not

see the grass again untilspring.Quite soon after the first

frost it became apparent toThomas that the milk yieldwas falling. Of course it fellanyway in thewintermonthsbut it was falling unusuallyfast.Heputthisdownatfirstto the driving rain and thecold, and to the poor qualityof the hay he had cut thatsummer. But no matter howmuch sugar-beet and barley

he fed to his cows tocompensate,hecouldnotstopthe slide. Cows were dryingoff before their time, andeventhoseinthefullflushofmilk seemed to carry halfempty udders. Each eveningthemilklevelinthebulktankwasfallingperceptiblylower,and at last Thomasacknowledged tohimself thathe had a problem. He calledout thevet timeafter time toexaminethecows,butthevet

shook his head and whistledthrough his teeth declaringhimself perplexed. All hecould do was to prescribe adose of minerals andvitamins.Itseemedforatimethatthismightwork,butverysoonthelevelinthetankfellyetagain.Sick with anxiety, for the

milk was his main winterincome from the farm,Thomaslayawakeeachnightand worried. One wet

NovembernightThomaswaslyinginbedintheearlyhourslistening to the rain againstthe window pane when itcame to him that there couldbeafoxprowlingintheyard,frightening the cows, orperhaps even it was rats thatwere upsetting them. Hethrewonhisoldraincoatandwentoutintothewetblackofthe night. He took his gunwith him just in case. As heopenedtheyardgateheheard

quite clearly the sound ofsucking,andthatwasstrangefor the suckling cows werehoused a long way away inthenewshedsbythecoveredyard.Evensoheimaginedatfirst that the wind must becarrying thesoundacross thefieldsfromthecoveredyard–that was the only reasonableexplanation.Itwasonlywhenhe shone his torch along thelong line of cubicles that hediscovered the cause of the

suckingsound,foreverycowin theherdwas suckinghardon her own udder. He ranalong the shed shouting atthem to stop, but they paidhimnoattention.‘It’s no use, Thomas

Barbery,’ said a soft voicebehind him, a voice herecognised only too well.‘Oncethey’vetasteditit’sthedeviltostopthemyouknow.Takes them back to theircalfhoodIsuppose.’

Of course Thomas knewbefore he turned around towhomthevoicebelonged,buthe shone his torch in thedirection of the voice just tobe sure. The little old manstood watching him, leaningonhiselbowagainsttheyardwall.‘A pity, Thomas Barbery,

whataterriblepity,butthesethingshappeninfarmingyouknow.’And he turned around and

vanishedintothenightbeforeThomas had recoveredsufficiently to raise his gun,or even to think about doingso.Gales came in January as

they always did, howling infrom the Atlantic, andseeking in their fury to tearevery building from itsfoundations. The great haybarnbehind thecoveredyardthat had stood the test for ahundred years and more,

shook and rattled until thenewcorrugatedironroofflewoff one night bit by bit andclattered down into the yard.The storm lasted for forty-eight hours so there was nopossibility of saving the hay.Thomasandhiswife tried invain tohaul agreat tarpaulinover the exposed stack, buttheforceofthewindwhippedit from their hands and theysoon had to give up theunequalstruggle.Bythetime

the rain subsided and thewind blew itself out, everybale of hay and straw in thestackwassaturated.Thomasstoodinthewreck

of his barn and would havewept likea child,but agreatanger raged in his heart andheldbackhistears.‘A pity, ThomasBarbery,’

came a sympathetic voicefromhighup in thehaystackabove him. ‘A terrible pity,but these things happen in

farmingyouknow.’In his fury Thomas bent

and picked up a stone andsent if flying up towards thelittle old man, but he hadvanished.‘Go to the devil,’ he

shouted.‘Iknowwhatyou’reuptoandI’llnevergivein.Iwon’tbelieveinfairystories.’Someof thehayandstraw

wasretrievable,buteventhatnever lost the smell of dampandthemildewsetintospoil

all but a few hundred bales.Sotherewasanewrooftobepaid for and ten thousandbalesofhayandstrawtobuyin,enoughtofeedandbedthestock through to the end ofthewinter.Andstillthecowswere sucking themselves astheylayinthecubicles.When the ewes began to

lamb in February and therewere twins and even tripletsborn daily out in the highfields by the cliffs, Thomas’

spiritsrosewithafreshhope.The spring came back in hisstep and he was, his wifenoticed, his old self onceagain. The perpetual glowerand heavy silence she hadknowninthelastfewmonthsdisappeared.Dayafterdayhewould come back into thehouse for breakfast, his faceredfromthebitingwind,andreporttriumphantlythatmoredoubles and triples had beenborn over night and that all

the lambs were strong andhealthy.ThissuccessenabledThomas to shake off theproblemsof themilkingherdand the hay barn. It was theheaviest crop of lambs everbred on the farm – a rewardhethoughtforhisnewpolicyof breeding only from themost commercial breeds oflowland sheep. The successhowever was to proveshortlived.Lambing was almost over

and they were into a mildspell at the endof themonthwhen the deadly white-scourstruck the flock.One by onethelambsweakenedandwentoff their legs, and nowwhenhe came back for hisbreakfast each morning hecarriedatleastonedeadlambin each hand. In desperationhe brought the whole flockinsidetokeepaclosereyeonthemandinjectedeverylamb,but this seemed merely to

accelerate the spread of thedisease. Within a week helostoverfiftylambsbeforehetook his vet’s advice andmovedthesheepoutontothehills again. Then just assuddenly as it had begun thediseasevanished.Hewasburying the lastof

the dead lambs in the softhillside under Tregarthencottages when he felt apresence behind him, andthere, sitting up on an ivy

covered rock, was the littleoldman.Sadnesswasetchedonhisfaceandthesmilethatwasalwaystherewasasmileofsympathy.‘A pity, ThomasBarbery,’

he said shaking his head. ‘Aterrible pity, but these thingshappen in farming youknow.’He hopped down from the

rockandwalkedtowardshim.‘ThomasBarbery,’hesaid,

‘wewanttohelpyou.You’ve

only to ask us. Please let ushelpyou.’But Thomas could not

bringhimselftoreply.Hefeltdejectedanddemoralised,buthispriderefusedtoallowhimto speak. He ignored hisvisitorandbentonceagaintodig the shallow graves,reflecting grimly on hisgrowing catalogue ofmisfortune.Thomas had a particular

pride in his calves, but shut

up as theywere allwinter inthe sheds and the coveredyard, they began to developringworm. The great crustygrowths crowded their facesand ran down their necks. Itspread from one to the otheruntil every beast in thecovered yard was infected.Onceagainthevetwascalledin to treat them, but with nosuccess,andmuchagainsthisown better judgementThomas called in an old

farmer friend of his father’sfrom Morvah to charm thering-worm away. But neithermagic nor medicine had anyeffect. In the market hisfarmer friends, who lovedalways to find fault, pointedout that his sheds probablyneeded a good cleaning out,and one or two mentionedthat cattle were alwayshealthieriftheywinteredout.The tidal wave of misery

was gatheringmomentum by

the week. A farrowing sowlayonherlitterandsquashedhalfof them,abullockbrokeintothegranaryonenightandgorged itself to death oncattlenuts, and in themuggyMarch mists Thomas lostthree calves with viralpneumonia. Then the hensbeganquiteunaccountably tocannibalise their own eggs.And still the cows were notmilking as they should andthe hay and straw had to be

paid for as well as the barnroof, and all his calves werecovered in ringworm. Thenthere were the dead lambs –hecouldnotforgetthelambs.Thomas always hayed up

his suckling cows in thecovered yard last thing atnight after the milking. Hehad finished and wasspreading straw behind themfor their bedding when heheard a cough.He thought itwas a cow at first, butwhen

helookeduphesawitwasnocow.‘A pity Thomas, a terrible

pity.’The little old man was

sittingcross-leggeduponthehayrackandsmilinggentlyashealwaysdid. Itwasnot thesmile of triumph – evenThomascouldseethat.The tone of his voice was

gentle,notgloating.‘These things happen in

farming you know. It’s not

yourfault–noneofitisyourfault. None of it is our faulteither–wedon’tmake thesethings happen. We are nothappythatyouareunhappy–believe me Thomas. Let ushelpyou,Thomas, letus talklike friends. We have to befriends sooner or later. Thestoryyourfathertoldyouwastrue,Thomas.Whyshouldhetell you a lie? Was he afoolishman?Washeastupidfarmer?Washeabadfather?

Let’s strike a bargain andwe’llallgotoworkandhelpput things to rights again.We’llworktogether,justlikeI did with your father andwith his father before him.WhatdoyousayThomas?’But Thomas said nothing.

He simply strode out of thebuildingandbangedthesteeldoors closed behind him.Hewas consumed with such adeep sense of hurt andhumiliation that he could not

evenbringhimself to lookatthelittleoldmanashepassedhim.As his farming fortunes

deteriorated, his unhappinessspilledoverathome.Hewassharp now with his wifewhere before he had beengentle and kind, and he hadno time for his toddling sonwhowouldcooplaintivelyathis brooding father to try togethimtoplayasheusedto.Any wandering sheep or

cattle were a cause forunreasoning dispute with hisfarming friends andneighbours who scarcelyrecognisedhim thesedaysastheThomasBarberytheyhadknown since schooldays.Sympathy or kindness ontheir part seemed to arouseonly a sullen resentment sothatastimepassedtherewerevery few offers of help. Noonecouldreachhim,notevenhis wife, who lived her life

nowinperpetualdreadofhisblackmoods.Theprospectofruin had settled on him andcast a shadow not only overhim but over everyone whoknewhimandlovedhim.There is no mains water

serving the farms that runalongtheclifftopsatZennor.Tremedda farm, like theothers,isfedbyaspringthatbubbles up into a leat belowthe Eagle’s Nest. There hadalways been more than

enough water for the farmand for the house. No-onecould ever remember thewater at Tremedda runningdry. Even in drought yearswhenthereisnowaterleftinthe reservoirs and the wellsrun dry all overPenwith, theleat below the Eagle’s Nestflows strong and plentifully,and the troughs in the fieldsarealways full.Sowhenonemorning in early spring thewater to the drinking-troughs

in the cowyard suddenlystopped and the taps in thehouse randry,Thomascouldonlyimaginethattherewasablockage in the pipe.But tryashedid tounblock it,notadribble of water trickled outof the pipe. With increasinganxiety he climbed up therocksthroughthegorsetotheleatonthehillsideandfounditempty.Thomas sat down on a

great flat slab of granite,

numb with despair, andlooked out over his farm.Withoutwater therecouldbeno farm – he knew thatwellenough. He could hear thethunderoftheseaagainstthecliffs and the urgent mooingof his thirsty cattle. The firstcuckoo called out from thewoodsby theoldchapel ruinand he noticed that thedaffodils that filled thegarden of the ruined cottagenearby were in full flower.

That,heremembered,washisfavourite playing place as achild.Thefarmlayspreadoutbelow him.He could see hiswife picking daffodils in thegarden,andhissonpedallingfrantically round the sandpiton his tricycle. Thomas hadnotcriedsincehewasachild,but tears came now to hiseyes as he watched them.And then the cuckoo calledagain, a clear recurring callfrom the ruined cottage this

time, a clearer call, moreinsistent.‘You’re right,’ he said

aloud, wiping his eyes withthe back of his hand andgetting to his feet. ‘I havebeen a cuckoo, a rightcuckoo, and there’s only oneway I know to put thingsright.’Aftermilking that evening

Thomas washed out hisfather’soldwhitebowlwhichhe had kept in the corner of

the dairy, and dipped it intotheswirlingmilk in the tank.Hewalked out over the fieldtowards the great rock in themeadow and set the bowldown in the centre of itbefore turning away andgoing back into the dairy tofetch the sack of potatoes hehad brought down from thehouse.Asheopenedthedoorhe was half expecting thelittleoldmantobethere,andindeed hewas, sitting on the

silver tank, his little legscrossed as Thomas had firstseen him all those monthsbefore. They looked at eachother for a moment beforeThomasspoke.‘Ineedyourhelp,’hesaid.

‘I’veputyourmilkoutontherock, and I’ll let you havethesepotatoestobegoingonwith. There’ll be a row foryou and yours next year, Ipromise,andeveryyearafterthat.’

The little old man’s smilewidened and he chuckledwith delight, holding out hishand toThomas,who took itgratefully and helped him totheground.‘Thank you Thomas

Barbery,’ said the little oldman. ‘I knew we would befriendsoneday.Fromnowonwe will see to it that yourfarm and your familyprospers.Comeonnow,’andhe reached up and took

Thomas’s hand, ‘I’vesomethingtoshowyou.’HeledThomasbythehand

out into the meadow andstood for a moment lookingaroundhim.‘Itisbeautiful,’hesaid.‘Is

there any place morebeautifulonalltheearth?’‘No,’ saidThomas. ‘Come

to think of it, I shouldn’tthinkthereis.’‘Watch this, Thomas

Barbery,’ the littleman said,

and he clapped his handsloudly three times. Fromundereveryrockonthefarmit seemed, from the daffodilcottage and from the ruinedchapelbeyondcameanarmyof little men and littlewomen,runningandjumpingand capering until theygathered in a circle aroundthe rock where they joinedhands and danced together.‘Yousee,’saidthelittleman.‘There’sa lotofus,andnow

we’re back at work we’llsoonhaveyourfarmworkingjustasitusedto.We’llhaveaword with your cows rightaway and they’ll stop theirnonsense–youcanbesureofthat. You’ll never see usagainThomas,notifyoulovethe land and are true to us,butyou’llalwaysknowwe’rethere. And after you’re gonewe will look after your son,and his son after him whenthey take on the farm at

Tremedda.’Inthemonthsandtheyears

thatfollowedthefarmthrivedas it had never done before,andThomaswasahappymanagain. Every evening sincethatterribledaywhentheleatbelow the Eagle’s Nestunaccountably dried up, heput out the bowl ofmilk forthe little people and healways grew a line ofpotatoes and left them in thelandforhislittlefriends.

When some time later hissonaskedhimwhyheleftoutabowlofmilkeverynightonthegreatrockinthemeadowbelowthemilkingparlour,hereplied,‘It’s for the cat. It’s milk

forthecat.’‘Butwe haven’t got a cat,

Father,’saidthelittleboy.‘I know,’ said Thomas,

‘but for the moment let’spretend we have. Whenyou’reabitolderI’lltellyou

astory,atruestory;andthenyou’llknowwhy.ButI’mnotgoing to tell you just yetbecause you’d believe me,andifyoubelieveitnowyouwon’tbelieve it laterwhen itreallymatters.’‘I don’t understand,

Father,’saidthelittleboy.‘You will, my lad,’ said

Thomas, and smiled tohimself.‘Youwill.’

MADMISSMARNEY

THEREISALOSTHOUSEHIGH UP ON THE moorabove Zennor churchtownwhere no one comes and noonegoes.Noroadleadsuptoit, and even the peat-blacktrackpassesbythefrontgate

as if itmight be afraid to goany closer. It looks as if noone lives there fornocurtainever shivers and no smokebreathes out of the chimney.Butsomeonedoeslivethere.Mad Miss Marney has

livedonherownupthereforasmanylongyearsasanyonecanremember.Inallthattimethe only people she has everspokentoaretheshopkeepersin Penzance where she goesjust a few times a year for

provisions. On these rareappearances she is always asource of great interest andspeculation for she goesdressed in a coat made fromcorn-sacks and tied aroundthe waist with binder-cord.She talks to herselfincessantly and cackleswhenevershelaughs.Allthismay well be why she isknown as ‘Mad MissMarney’. Most people try toavoid her for she is

disturbingly strange to lookat,but for thosewhodo takethe time to speak to her shealwayshasatoothysmileandan infectious laugh thatoftenbreaks into a high-pitchedcackle.To the children she is of

course awitch.Anybentoldlady who lives on her own,carries a knobbly walkingstick and cackles when shelaughshas tobeawitch.ButMadMissMarney is awitch

mostly because the childrenhave all been told to stayaway from her by parentswho themselves believe thatthere must be more to MadMiss Marney than meets theeye.One of these children was

Kate Trelochie who unlikemost children had no fear ofthe dark or of witches or ofanythingmuch,but likemostchildren she was insatiablyinquisitive. She lived at

Wicca Farm under theshadow of the Eagle’s Nest.Shewasanonlychildwhoseparentsweresoyokedtotheirfarmandsoconsumedbytheworkof it that theyhad littletime or energy to spare fortheirchild.Soshegrewupawild, independent soulwandering the fields and thecliffs with her friends, butalways reserving the highmoorby theEagle’sNest forherself alone. The moor

suited her for she was acreature of impulsivemoods,at one moment unable tocontain her exhilaration andat the next so full ofdespondency and gloom thatshe could scarcely speak toanyone.Ever since shecouldremember she had beendrawn to the sighing mistsand the whisperingwilderness of the moor;everythingfromthecollapsedthree-legged Quoit, that last

sadreminderofsomeancientchieftain’s earthly sway, tothegreatgranite cheesewringrocks thatoverlookedZennoritself – everything was herown private sanctuary, herkingdom.She loved to be alone up

there, to roam free over herkingdom with the windtearing at her hair. Sheresented any intrusion – theyhad no right to be there, itwas her place. Leaving the

hoof-markedtrackbehindhershewouldhurdle through therough heather and clamberover the rocks until her legswould carry her no further.Then shewould lie down onthe soft spongy grass undertheleeofagreatboulderandclose her eyes and listen tothesecretsoundsofthemoorthat spoke only to her – thedistantcryofthegullsatsea,thebarkofawanderingvixenandthemewingofthepairof

buzzards that circled aboveher.There was a part of Kate

Trelochie that was indeedromanticanddreamy,buttheother part was fiercelypractical. She came to thehigh moor by the Eagle’sNestforaspecificpurposeaswell, to hunt and capturespecimens for her collection.When she had first comehomesomeyearsbeforewithaslow-wormwrappedaround

her wrist, her mother hadscreamed hysterically andbanishedall‘creepy-crawlies’from the house. But Katewanted her slow-worm to bewarm, and so she kept itsecretly down at the bottomof her bed. Other creaturessoonjoineditinherbedroom:lizards, frogs, toadsandevena grass snake. But when thegrass snakeescaped fromhisbox and ate the frogs, shefinally decided that her

bedroom was not the placeforhercollection.Soshetookover the disused greenhouseat the bottom of the gardenand set up her ‘creepy-crawly’collectionandopenedit up to her friends – for aprice.Itwastwopenceavisitand an extra penny if youwanted to handle the grasssnake. She made enoughmoney from the proceeds tobuy the nails and the woodand the glass she needed to

repair the cages and thegreenhouse itself. And shewould keep her regularcustomers happy by bringingback new exhibits from herexpeditions on the moor –anything from a mammothstag beetle to a baby rabbit.The greenhouse came to beknown to all the otherchildren as Kate Trelochie’sZoo.Hermotherandfatherwere

quite happy about it for it

kept her busy and out ofmischief, or so they thought.Anyway they admired theentrepreneurinher,settingupon her own like that. Theyhad only one repeatedwarning, that she was neverto go near the lost house onthe moor and she was nevertotalktoMadMissMarney.‘She’s a strange one,’

Kate’s mother always said.‘Just like her mother was,from what they say. And of

course you never know withpeoplelikethat.Itrunsinthefamily.Youneverknow.Justkeep away from her, that’sall.’Kate had always been

intrigued by the lost houseandshelongedtocatchjustaglimpse of Mad MissMarney. Every time shepassed the house she wouldpause and look for signs oflife, but the place alwayslooked deserted and empty.

She thought often enoughaboutclimbingoverthefenceandsnoopingaroundthebackof thehouse,butshe thoughtthat thatwouldbewrong–itwas private after all. Whatshe neededwas an excuse togoandknockonthedoor;sowhen just such a chancepresented itself, she took iteagerly.She had spent a long

summer’s afternoon on themoor trying to catch lizards

as they basked on the rocks,but with no success for theywere always too quick forher.Soshewasdown-heartedand crosswith herself as shebegan the long walk homedown across the moor. Shewas crossing the track justbelow the lost house whenshe noticed something shinyon the dry black soil of thetrack.Asshelookeditmovedandflappedtolife.Shefrozewhere she stood and then

creptcloser.Whetheritwasarookoracroworaravenshewasnotsure;butitwaslyingon its side and tryingdesperately to move awayfrom her using its wings aslegs. But the effort of it wastoomuchandthebirdkeeledoverandlaystill.Itstruggledonly feebly asKatepicked itupandcradledittoherchest.Angryblackeyesglaredupather as she stroked theglistening featherson the top

of its head. She stood for amoment wondering what sheshould do; and then she feltthebloodstickyonherhand.Mad Miss Marney’s housewasclosebyandshehadtheperfectreasontoknockonthedoor – she knew she had tofind help if the bird was tolive.The door of the house

openedbeforeshehadtimetoknockandstandinginfrontofher was Mad Miss Marney,

andatonceKateregrettedherboldness for Miss Marneylooked anything but pleasedtoseeher.‘What do you want?’ she

said in a rasping voice. ‘I’vehad children up here beforecomingknockingonmydoorand running away before Ievengetthere.ButIsawyoucoming up the path, so youhaven’tgot time to run,haveyou?Whatd’youwant?’Takenaback,Kateheldout

the bird almost in self-defence.‘I found this,’ she said.

‘AndIdon’tknowwhattodobecause it’s bleeding. I thinkit’sbeenshotorsomething.Itcan hardly move, but Ithoughtyoumightbeable tohelp.SorryifIbotheredyou.’She was a tiny bent old

lady, hardly taller than Kateherself. She leant heavily onher stick and Kate noticedthather finger jointswereall

swollenandtwisted.Herhair,a whispy silvery-white waspulled up in a bun on herheadand the skinaroundherlipswaspuckeredwithage.‘People are always

shooting,’ saidMissMarney.‘The things people do for abit of fun. Don’t understandpeople. Never have done.Comeoninchild.Bringitin,bring it in. Don’t just standthere. I’m not about to turnyouintogingerbread.Iwould

butIdon’tlikeit–can’ttakesweetthingsanymore.’Kate followed her into the

house, looking around her asshe went. There were bookseverywhere. The very wallsseemedtobemadeofbooks.They stood now in thekitchen, and here too therewere books instead of platesontheWelshdresser.‘Well,whatdidyouexpect

child, cauldrons and blackcats, pointed hats and

broomsticks?’‘NoMissMarney,honest,’

Kate lied, and then shechanged the subject quickly.‘It’s bigger than I thought itwould be inside, the house Imean.AndI’veneverseensomanybooksinallmylife.’Miss Marney put the bird

down on its back on thekitchen table. She spread thewingsopen.‘It’soneofmyravens,’she

said, almost in a whisper.

There was a tremor in hervoice. ‘Jasper I think it is.Yes it is Jasper, full ofgunshot–pooroldthing.’‘Jasper?’Katesaid.‘I give them all names,’

Miss Marney said, walkingslowly past her to put thekettleonthestove.Sherolledback her sleeves andwashedher hands carefully. ‘Everybird, every creature on themoor. They are all myfriends. I know every one of

them – even the ones youtakeaway.’‘You’ve seen me?’ Kate

wasangryatthethoughtofit.‘You’vebeenwatchingme?’Miss Marney smiled for

the first time – she had veryfewteeth.‘An old lady can look out

of her window, can’t she?’she said. ‘Course I’ve beenwatchingyou,beenwatchingyou for years. After all youcome up here more than

anyone else and you alwayshave a good look at myhouse,don’tyou?’‘But I don’t hurt them,’

Kate protested. ‘I don’t hurtthe animals, I just keep themathomeand lookafter them.They’reformycollection,formy zoo that I’ve got in mygreenhouse. D’you mind,MissMarney?’‘No, not if you look after

them,’MissMarney said. ‘IsJasper for your collection as

well, or did you justwant toget a look inside the houseand see if theoldwitch is asmadaseveryonesays?’Katewasnotquickenough

to deny it. Miss Marneyalwaysseemedtobeonestepahead of her and Kate wasnotusedtothat.‘I’lllookafterJasper,’said

Miss Marney. ‘He’ll be finewithme.Youcancomebacktomorrow to pick him up ifhe’s well enough and then

you can look after him untilhegetsbetter.Wouldyouliketodothat?It’llbeamonthortwo before he’s fit to flyagain. But you must let himgo when he’s better. Hewon’twanttobeshutupinacagefortherestofhislife.’‘Do you think he’ll live?’

Kate asked. ‘He looks soweak,andhemusthavelostalotofblood.’‘Ohhe’ll live,child,’Miss

Marney said bustling her

towardsthedoor.‘Jasperwilllive. I have my ways youknow. There’s not a lot Ican’tcureifIputmymindtoit.NowoffyougoKate,andcomebacktomorrow.’‘Buthowdoyouknowmy

name, Miss Marney?’ Kateasked, turning by the frontdoorandfacingtheoldlady.MadMissMarneybeganto

chortle and then broke intoherwitchycackle.‘Thought you’d want to

knowthat,’shesaid.‘I’mnotthe only one that talks toherself around here. I’veheard you talking to yourselfup here in the mist. Youshould be more careful.Voices carry a long way upon the moor. “KateTrelochie,”yousaidoneday,only a few weeks back Iremember. “Kate Trelochie,you’re a genius, a genuinegenius. Who else do youknow who is only ten years

oldandhasazooofherveryown?”Soyouseewearetwoof a kind you and I.We aremadashattersKate.Weloveall God’s creatures and welovethisplacewithapassionno-one else wouldunderstand. You are the firstperson I’ve had inmy houseforfiftyyearsandmore.’Sheseemed anxious all of asudden and leant closer toKate. ‘Youwon’t tellanyoneyou’ve met me will you?’

Kate shook her headvigorously. ‘I don’t likepeople. Don’t understandthem, and they don’tunderstandme.It’soursecretthen, justbetween the twoofus.’‘Course, Miss Marney,’

said Kate, and the old ladypatted her on the head andwentindoors.Itwasadifficultpromiseto

keep that evening with thezooopenasusualandallher

friends around her. Shelonged to tell them all aboutMiss Marney and heramazinghouseofbooks, andshewouldhavedonebutforapowerful feeling of affectionfortheoldlady.Shehadbeenwelcomedintoahousewhereno other person had gone infifty years, and she had beentrusted by the old lady tokeep their meeting a secret.Temptedasshewasshecouldnot and would not tell

anyone,butshedidgosofaras to promise that tomorrowshemighthaveaveryspecialnewattractioninthezoo.‘Where will you get it

from?’theyasked.‘Whatisit?’‘Canwepickituplikethe

grasssnake?’‘Aha,’ she said

mysteriously to everyone.She knew she had saidenoughtobringthemallbackthe next day with money in

their pockets and so she saidnomore.‘Isawyouuponthemoor

againthisafternoon,’saidherfather that evening aftersupper. ‘See you a mile offclambering around in thatyellow shirt of yours. Findwhatyouwerelookingfor?’‘Sort of, Father,’ she said

andshesmiledtoherself.‘Nowhere near that house

was she?’ her mother askedsharply.

But to Kate’s great reliefnoreplycamefromherfatherwhowashiddenagainbehindhisnewspaper.‘Youkeepawayfromthere

like I told you,’ said hermother. ‘From what I hear,and I wouldn’t be surprised,there’ssomepeoplesayshe’sawitch.’‘Idon’tbelieveinwitches,’

saidKate.‘Neveryoumindwhatyou

believe in,’ said her mother.

‘You just mind what I say.There’sthingsIcouldtellyoumygirl.’

Thenextmorningshewasupat first light to prepare ahome for Jasper in the oldstable that no one used anymore. The greenhouse wasalready over-crowded andanyway she knew enough toknow that Jasper and hercreepycrawlieswouldnotget

on together. She cleared outthe old rusty chains andploughshares,therottencornsacks and fertiliser bags, andswept it all clean. The hay-rack would make a perfectperchforJasperwhenhewasbetter and he would haveroom to spread his wings.Meanwhile she made amattressofsofthayforJaspertolieon.The mist had come down

again as she climbed up into

the clouds towards the losthouse. Even before sheknockedonthefrontdoorsheheardtheoldladytalkingandlaughingtoherselfatthebackofthehouse.‘Comein,Kate,’sheheard,

and so she pushed open thedoor and went through intothekitchen.MissMarneywassittingin

herrockingchairbythestoveand sitting on her shoulderwas Jasper who cawed

unpleasantly at Kate as shecame closer. Kate stoodastonished. She could see notrace of his wounds. Heseemedtotallyrecovered.‘Don’tmindhimKate, it’s

onlytalk.Comein,comein–hewon’thurt.Youdidn’ttellanyone you’d been up heredidyou?’‘No, Miss Marney,’ Kate

said quite unable to take hereyes off Jasper. ‘But I don’tunderstand,’ she said. ‘He

was almost dead yesterday.Howdoyoudoit?’‘Almost dead, but not

quite,’ said the old lady.‘He’ll need some care, somerest and some good food –meat mind you. He likes hismeat,don’tyouJasper?Thenhe’llbe righter than rain inafewweeks.’‘But how did you do it,

Miss Marney?’ Kate askedreaching out cautiously tosmoothJasperonthehead.

‘Oh, I have my ways,’Miss Marney said chortling.‘I have my ways. I’m quitepleased with him really. Tobe honest with you I wasquite worried when youbrought him in, but there’snotalotIcan’tdoifIputmymindtoit.Wouldyouhaveacup of tea, child? I’ve onlyone cup. I’ve only ever hadneed for one cup, youunderstand. But I’ve hadminesoI’llwashitupandlet

you have a fresh cup. Jasperwill go to you, won’t youJasper? He can’t fly yet, socomealittleclosersothathecan hop onto your shoulder.That’s right.’ The raven putits head on one side andlooked warily at Kate, wholooked back just as warily.‘GoonJasper,don’tbesilly,’said the old lady and shejerkedhershouldertogethimto move, and Jasper hoppedobedientlyacrossontoKate’s

shoulder. ‘Quite a weight,isn’t he?’ saidMissMarney.Tea won’t be long. I’ve gotthekettleontheboil.’With Jasper balanced on

hershoulder,Katesippedhersweet strong tea and listenedintentlytotheoldladyasshesat back, rocking gently inher chair and talked andtalked. It seemed as if shewas making up for all thosefifty years in which she hadspoken to no-one.She talked

of all her animal friends onthemoor and of her belovedbooks. She had read everyone of them several timesover.ShedreadedthecoldofthewintersshetoldKate,forthere was never enoughmoney to heat the room andkeepthedampawayfromherbones and the mildew awayfrom her books.Her greatestdesire in theworld, she said,was for agreatwarmwoollycoat and a hat to cover her

ears.EveryquestionthatKatewanted to ask she answeredbefore she could even ask it.Miss Marney was a writer,she said, not a good writer,butnotabadoneeither.Shewrote stories about all thepeople who lived below theEagle’s Nest, about all thefarmsshecouldseefromherhouse, and about the animalsand the birds and of courseabout her moor. But no onewould ever read them, she

said, because no one wouldbelieve them. ‘They wouldthink they are just made-upstories,buteverythingIwriteIhaveseenwithmyowneye,mymind’seyeperhaps,butIseeitjustasclearasday.’Several cups of tea later

Katefeltsheknewandlovedthe old lady better thananyone else in the wholeworld, but one thing stilltroubled her about MissMarney.

‘Miss Marney,’ she said.‘It’saboutthebird...?’‘Jasper,’ said the old lady

smiling. ‘Jasper. You mustcall him by his name – it’sonly polite you know. Allright Kate, I knowwhat youwant to know. And you aremyfriendsoyoushallknow.But you must never tellanyone what I am about totell you for it is somethingthatpeopledonotunderstand,and what people cannot

understand they fear, andwhen they fear they hate.’She sat back in her rockingchair and sighed sadly. ‘Ihave a gift,’ she said. ‘I donot know where it comesfrom, but I have the gift ofhealing.’‘You mean,’ said Kate,

‘youmean that you can healanything you want to? Thenwhattheysayistrue,youarea kind of witch, a goodwitch.’

The old lady’s eyes wereclosedandshenodded.‘I suppose so,’ she said

quietly. ‘If it lives I canhealit, that’s all there is to it. Sonow you know my secret.Guarditwellmylittlefriend,for if anyone were ever tofind out that Mad MissMarney really did havestrange powers, then youknow what they’d do, don’tyou?’‘No, Miss Marney,’ said

Kate.‘They’d put me away,

Kate, like theydid tomyoldmother. She had strangepowersandtheydidn’tlikeitso they sent her to a homeand she never came back tome.That’swhy I have nevertrusted anyone before,why Ihavenevertoldanyoneofmygift, except you. And that’swhy no one else must everknow.’It was a slow walk back

over the moor with Jasperperched heavily on hershoulder. The warm sun haddispersedthemistandtheseawas there again. As Katecamedownthetracktowardshome she could see that herusualcustomerswerealreadywaiting outside thegreenhouse. She managed tododgearoundthebackof thehousewithoutbeingseenandliftedJasperupontohisperchbefore going down to the

bottom of the garden to faceher clamouring friendsoutside the greenhouse. Shetooktheirmoneyandputitinthe biscuit-tin she used for abankand then led thembackintothestable-yard.Once outside the stable

withherbacktothedoorsheproudly introduced her newexhibit.‘He’s the biggest bird in

theworld,’shesaid. ‘I foundhim yesterday, wounded up

onthemoor,shottopieceshewas – didn’t think he’dsurvive the night. But Ibrought him back and Inursed him and now he’srighter than rain. ’Course hecan’tflyalotyet,buthewillas soon as he’s strong again.He’scalledJasperandhe’saravenandifyouwanthimonyour shoulder it’s a pennyextra,likethegrasssnake.’And then she let them in.

His size and his presence

overawed and fascinatedthem totally. He was animmediate success. Theycould not take their eyes offthe enormous black bird thatsatglaringdownatthemfromthe high hay-rack; and oncethey had seen him perchingon Kate’s shoulder everyonewanted a turn– at apennyatime.The biscuit-tin bank

weighed a lot heavier thatnight.Kateknewnowexactly

what she would do with themoney, but wondered howshecouldeversaveenough.Itwas littleLauraLinnet’s

mousethatgavehertheidea.The next morning she wastakingahandfulofpurloinedminced meat into the stablefor Jasper’s breakfast whenLaura Linnet came runningintotheyard,herfaceredandsmudgedwith tears. She hada box in her hands, a browncardboard box with holes in

thetop.‘It’smymouse,’shecried.

‘The cat was playing with itand I shooed it awaybut it’shurt and I think maybe it’sdead. It’s not hardly movingbut I thought if you couldmendthatbigblackbirdthenyoucouldmendmymouse.’By this time all Laura’s

brothers and sisters andcousinswere filling theyard,all of them good zoocustomers. They were all

watching andwaiting for herdecision.Kateliftedthelidofthe box and saw that themouse was still living. Itseyes were open and it waslyinginonecorneroftheboxits heart beating frantically.Kate’s mind was workingfeverishly for she could seealready the opportunities buthadyettoworkthemout.Shethought for a full minute,appearing to examine themouse minutely as a doctor

would a patient. Then whenher plan was fully formed,she announced to everyonethatshecouldindeedcureit.‘It takes time though,’ she

said. ‘Always does. I’ll haveto keep the mouse untiltomorrow afternoon. By thattimeit’llbebetter.’‘How will you do it?’

Laura asked, sniffing backhertears.‘I have my ways,’ Kate

saidmysteriously.‘Ihavemy

ways.There’snotalotIcan’tdowhenIputmymindtoit.’And then she added, ‘It’llcostyoufivepencethough.’MissMarneywasnot sure

if she would ever see Kateagain.Shehadlainawakeallnightwondering if her secretmight have frightened thelittle girl away, so she wasdelightedwhenshesawKateopening the gate from themoorandrunninguptowardsthe house; and she was only

too pleased to take in theinjured mouse for it meantshewouldbe seeingmoreofher new friend whosecompany had becomesuddenly very important toherafterall thelongyearsofloneliness.‘Laura’s very upset, you

know,’saidKate,‘andseeingashowyou’vegotthehealingpowers, I thought, if youdon’tmind–Ithoughtmaybeyoucouldcureit.’

‘Do you know, Kate, Ireallydon’tlikemice.Idon’tknowwhy.ButI’lldowhatIcan for anything you bringme,’ said theold ladysettingthe box down on the kitchentable and peering anxiouslyinside. ‘But no one mustknow about it. No one mustever know.’ And she pouredoutacupof strongsweet teaagain and sat down in herrocking-chair smilinghappily. ‘Doyou likestories,

Kate?’ she said leaningforward. ‘Shall I read you astorythatnoone’severheardbefore?’Shedidnotwait foran answer, for she knew shedidnotneedto.‘I’vecalledit“TheGiant’sNecklace”.’Itwasaghostlylittlestory

and Kate sat enthralledthroughout; but the tea andthe story came to an end toosoon, as all good things do;andwiththepromisethatshewould be back tomorrow to

collect the mouse, Kate ranback down past the Eagle’sNestacrosstheroadandbackhometoWicca.Kate had absolute faith in

Miss Marney’s healingpowers and so shewasnot abit surprised that when shewent back to pick up themouse the next day it wasrunning round its box fullyrestored. She stayed for hertea and her story, this time astrange one about a crippled

boywhowenttolivewiththeseals, before she made herway back home with themouse-box.Laura Linnet and her

friends arrived at thegreenhousesoonaftershegotback and when Kate openedthe box there was a gasp ofadmiration and amazementfromeveryonearoundher.‘That’llbefivepence,’said

Kate, and then shemade herannouncement.‘I’llbesetting

up an animal hospital,’ shesaid.‘It’llbeintheoldchapel– in secret. My powers willonly work if it’s in secret.AndIdon’twantanyoneelseever to know. If they do alltheanimalsIhavehealedwilljust roll over and die. Bringalong any sick animals, anybird, any creepy-crawly. I’llcure anything you like forfivepenceatime.’So Kate Trelochie’s

financial empire spread from

the zoo to a thrivinghospitalin the old roofless chapel allhung about with ivy andbrambles and with ash treesgrowing up where the altaroncestood.Katewouldsitonagraniteblockunder theashtrees by the back wall withJasper on her shoulder, andhold her veterinary court.SeveraltimesshehadtriedtoreleaseJasperwhocouldnowfly perfectlywell, but he didnotseemtowanttoleaveher

and she now wenteverywhere with himpermanently attached to hershoulder.All summer long the

childrencamewiththeiregg-bound hens, their limpingdogs and their battle-scarredcats. They brought half-squashed frogs, crushedmoles, torn fledglings andeven a goldfish that couldonly swim upside-down andwas losing its tail.Kate took

them all in and carried theminsecretuponto themoor toMiss Marney who wouldkeep them for thenight, healthem,andthenreturnthemtoKate the next day when shecame for her tea and herstories.Kate spent most of her

daysnowupinthelosthousewithMissMarneylisteningtoherstrangelycompellingtales– about the white horse ofZennor, about the milk-

drinking knockers ofTremedda. She explored thehouse and browsed throughthe books and she talkedendlessly to Miss Marneywhom she discovered wasbecoming increasinglyanxiousasthesummerfinallycame towards its end. Shefoundshewasworryingmoreabout her books than aboutherself.‘It’sthedamp,’shesaid.‘It

hurts them, you know, more

than ithurtsme.Justso longasmybooksaredryand I’malittlewarm,I’mashappyasa lark and then I can write.All I need is a thickwoollencoatandawoollyhattocovermy ears. The worst thingaboutgettingoldKate is thatyoucan’tkeepwarmlikeyouused to.Up tonowI’veonlybeen able to write in thesummer time.You see, I canonly write when I’m warmandhappy.’

In spite of the success ofher animal hospitalenterprise, by the autumnKatehadonlyhalfthemoneyshe needed, and so she camereluctantly to the conclusionthat she would have toauction off her zoo. She hadnothing else to sell. The zoowas not bringing in muchmoneythesedaysforshehadno time now to collect newspecimens and everyone hadseen the old ones too often.

Even the fascination forholding the grass snake waswearingthin.Theanimalssheknewwereallreplaceableandanyway they would go togoodhomes.What had to bedone, she thought, had to bedone.Sheheldtheauctioninthe

ruined chapel and the priceswent sky high.Each bidwasfor a penny so the biddingtook some time, but herfriends seemed incapable of

resistingthetemptationtooutbid someone else. After all,what was one penny more?Withinanhoureverycreepy-crawlywas sold and she hadmade over five pounds –enough she knew for whatshehadinmind.She was just counting her

money to be sure, wheneveryone fell quiet aroundher. There was the sound ofplodding, hesitant hoofbeatsand little Laura Linnet came

in through the door of thechapel leading her old horse.She had tears pouring downhercheeks.‘The vet’s been,’ she said,

‘and he says Rubin’s dyingand he wants to shoot him.HewantstoshootmyRubin.’The horse’s head hung

almost to the ground and itslegs could scarcely carry itsweight.Hemovedslowlyintothemiddle of the chapel andsank heavily to the ground,

exhausted.‘I’ll pay you anything,

Kate,’ Laura begged. ‘Justhelp him, please help him.Youmusthelphim.’Kate knelt down by the

horse and stroked his neck.Hewasbreathingfastandshecould hear a terriblewheezing in the lungs. Shecould see from the way hesank down that even if shecould get him to his feetagainshecouldnotwalkhim

allthewaytoMissMarney’shouseonthemoor.Thefacesaroundherwereallexpectant,and she knew how popularold Rubin was and that hemeant all the world to littleLaura Linnet. She stood upslowly.‘I think I can save him,’

shesaid.‘Butitwilltaketime–maybemorethanjustaday– and it will take all myhealing powers.’ She neededto give herself room for

manoeuvrewhileshe thoughtthings out. ‘He’s very sick,’she said. ‘I’ve never seen ahorse as sick as this.He canhardlybreathe.’‘But the vet will be back

tomorrow morning,’ saidLaura.‘FathersaidthatunlessRubin looks better by then,he’ll have to have him shot.Andhewill,hewill.’‘I’ll try,’Kate said finally,

but try as shedid todisguiseit there was little confidence

in her voice. ‘But I can’tpromise anything. Go homenowall of you and leavemealone with Rubin. I can’tworkmyhealingpowerswithpeople around me. Go awayandremember–notawordtoanyone. Meet back heretomorrowfirstthing.’They obeyed as they had

always done.Kate knew thatsomeofthelittleonesalreadythought she was a witch andsheusedthatfearasa threat.

Sometimeagoshehadmadeit known that if any of thembetrayedtheirsecret,andtoldanyoneofherhealingpowers,she had the power to turnthem into toads. No one shefelt sure would have thecourage to put that threat tothetestandsohersecretwassafe.Kate’s mother and father

alwayswent to bed early fortheyhadtobeupearlyeverymorning. She waited fully

clothed under her blanketsuntil she heard them stoptalking in their bedroom andthen crept downstairs. It wasa star-bright night with thefullmoonlightingherwayupthe tracks towards MissMarney’s house. The firstfrost of theyearglistenedonthe rocks. She knocked andcalledout:‘It’s me, Miss Marney.

Don’t worry. It’s only me. Ineedhelp.’

OverawarmwelcomecupofsweetteainthekitchenshetoldMissMarneyeverything,all about her animal hospitalin the chapel. She confessedhowshehadusedherhealingpowers without ever tellingher.Miss Marney listened in

silence, her chair rockingbackandforth.‘OldRubin isdying in the

chapel, Miss Marney, and Ican’t do anything for him,’

she went on. ‘You mustcome.Ican’tgethimuphere– he’s too weak. MissMarney, you must come –you’re the only onewho cansavehim.’‘Is it him youwant saved,

Kate?’ Miss Marney asked,‘or do you want me to saveyou?’‘Both,’ Kate said honestly

enough. ‘But Rubin’s theoldest horse around – nearlyforty he is. Everyone knows

him. Everyone loves him –we’ve all ridden him. PleaseMissMarney.’‘One thing I still don’t

understand,’ said MissMarneylookinghardatKate.‘Themoney. I knowyou toowell Kate – you’d not makemoneyoutofthesufferingofanimals. What did you wantthe money for? Tell me thatKate.’Katecouldscarcelyseethe

old lady through the tears in

hereyes. ‘Iwanted it tobeasurprise,’ she said. ‘I didn’twanttotellyou.Ijustwantedtogiveittoyouforalltheteaand the stories and the nicetalkswe’vehad.’‘Whatdidyouwanttogive

me?’saidtheoldladyleaningforward in her chair andreaching out to take Kate’shandinhers.‘A coat,’ Kate said.

‘There’sacoatI’veseeninashop in Penzance – second-

handshop.Butit’swarmandwoolly and it’s only tenpounds and I wanted you tohave it for the winter. Yousaiditwasthethingyoumostwantedintheworld,sothat’swhy I collected themoney –andI’vegotenoughfromthezooandtheanimalhospitaltopayforitandforawoollyhatI’ve seen as well. They saidthey’dkeepit in theshopforme – I was going to get itnext week and then this had

tohappen.’The old lady lay back in

herchairandsmiled.‘You’rea kind little person KateTrelochie,’ she said, ‘as kindaoneasI’llevermeet.I’lldoitforRubin,I’lldoitforyouand for my warm woollycoat, but I must be backbeforemorning. I don’twantto be seen down there withyou.’Kate put her arms around

the old lady and hugged her,

and then helped her into hercorn-sacks and tied themaroundwithcord.Withalastsip of warm tea inside themtheywent out into the frostynight and hurried across themoorhandinhandanddowntowards the sea thatshimmered silver under thewhitelightof themoon.AndfromPendeenLighthouse,thelight carved out its arc overthe land and the sea, andseemedtowinkatthem.

Once in the chapel MissMarney crouched down overthe horse and felt him allover.Shelookedinhismouthand smelt his breath beforesitting back on her haunchesto consider. Then slowly, soslowly she extended herhandsafewinchesabovehischest.‘I’ll be some time, Kate,’

she whispered. ‘You stay bythedoorandkeepwatch.Andstayawakemind.’

ButKateusedonlyherearsas watchdogs and looked onasMissMarneyworked.ShedidnottouchRubinbutkneltover him, her hands held outstraight like detectors, andalwaysoverthehorse’schest.Thehourspassedandall thatcouldbeheardwasthesoundofthesea,theoccasionalhootof an owl and Rubin’slaboured breathing, and thenshesawMissMarneytakeoffher sacks and lay them over

thehorse.‘You’ll be cold, Miss

Marney,’Katewhispered.‘NoIwon’t,’shesaid,and

shelaydownbesidethehorseandputherarmsaroundhim.‘I’m tired, I shall sleep for abit now. Keep a good look-out and wake me before it’slight.’Kate settled down by the

chapel wall and pulled hercoat up around her ears. Tokeepawakeshetriedtocount

the stones in thechapelwall.Her last thoughtswereof theminers whomust have comehere to pray all those yearsago.Shewonderedwhattheywould thinkof itnowif theycame back and found itruinedanddeserted.Shewokebecauseshewas

woken by someone shakingher shoulder. It was littleLauraLinnet.Thechapelwasfilled with whisperingchildrenwho stood, backs to

the walls as far away fromMiss Marney as they could.Miss Marney herself waspullingonhersacks.‘You dropped off, Kate,’

she said, her voice full offatigue and disappointment.‘Thatwasashame.’‘It’s Mad Miss Marney,’

someonesaid,tooloud.But then Rubin lifted his

headfromthegroundandsatup. He looked around himsleepily, his eyes blinking in

the light. He got to his feeteasily enough, nuzzled MissMarney gently and began topullatthegrassbesideher.‘Mad I may be,’ she said.

‘But your horse is better.Keephimwarmandwellfedandhe’llbeallright.He’llgoonformoreyearsthanIwill.’Andshehobbledoutofthe

chapelpastKatewhowastoosleepy to find the words tostopher.Kate confessed the whole

deception to her friends andoffered them their moneyback.Notoneofthemwouldtake it – indeed itwasLauraLinnetherselfwho suggestedthey should all go up to thelosthousethatafternoonafterKatehadboughtthecoat.And so a cavalcade of

children and dogs and catsand horses and creepy-crawlies in boxesmade theirway that same afternoon uptheblacktrackoverthemoor

toMissMarney’shouse.Katebrought with her the brightred woollen coat with a furcollar, and a warm whitebobble-hatforMissMarney’sears.ShedidnotcomeoutatfirstwhenKateknocked.Thechildren all fell silent andlistened.Theycouldhearhertalking away to herself.Kateknockedagain.‘Come in Kate,’ Miss

Marney called, and they alltrooped into the house

through thebook-lined livingroomandintothekitchen.‘I’ve brought your coat

MissMarney,’shesaid,‘I’vecometosaysorry,andwe’veall come to say thank you.We’ve told everyone abouthow kind you are to animalsandabouthowyouhealthemand we’ve told everyone athomeyou’renotabitmadorwitchy. Everyone knowsyou’re a healer now, MissMarney–thevetsaysitwasa

miracle. And my father sayshe’ll be calling on youwhenhis animals get sick.There’llbe money enough to keepyourbooksdry.’Miss Marney smiled.

‘They say,’ she said slowly,‘they say that everything isfor thebest in theworld.ButI never believed it, not untilnow.’And she took the coat and

triediton.‘It’sabitonthelargeside,’

she said standing swathed inpillar-box red from head totoe.‘But it’llkeepmeall thewarmer. And I like the hat,but I won’t put it on nowbecause it’ll spoil my hair.Now, children, will you allhavesometea?I’veonlyonecup so you’ll have to have asipandpassitaround.Andifyou’llfindaplacetositdownI’lltellyouoneofmystories.Some people think I talk tomyself I know, but I don’t –

well not often. I tell myselfmystoriesoutaloudbefore Iwrite them down. I haven’tyet had time to put this oneonpaper.It’sallaboutanoldlady they once called MadMissMarney.’

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