We’ve still got our hill farm in Wales. But only just. An English
couple, the Watsons, bought the surrounding land and my Da got
this obsession they were poisoning his sheep.
I couldn’t think of a single reason why they should do this, but Da
claimed they wanted to take over, to drive the Welsh off their land.
It’s true that the Watsons had once made us an offer for the farm, but
that was before they bought the Molack place.
My father was not himself anyway, because the farm was doing
badly and the bank was watching his overdraft closely. He needed
scapegoats and the English Watsons were close to hand. And the
sheep were dying.
But I had another idea who might be the culprit – Da’s brother,
Govan Roberts. Uncle Govan had borne a grudge ever since Da had
accidentally knocked him down with a truck, breaking his leg so
badly that he had a permanent limp. I knew my father hadn’t meant
to do this – that it had been a genuine accident and he was deeply
sorry. Govan felt otherwise.
Maybe Da was having a breakdown, but he was quite
unshakeable about Tim and Rhona Watson. They were strong
personalities, articulate Londoners who made the locals feel
patronized, more by clumsiness than intention. When Tim Watson
made more money and wanted to increase his acreage for their
horses, he again made an offer for our farm, slightly raising the price.
Da then decided to declare war, claiming he was going to ‘drive them
across the border.’ Mum and I and my younger brother Dylan didn’t
believe him, but we worried all the same, knowing he had been
pushed to his limits.
Next morning, as I walked up the mountain to the high pastures I
saw Da rounding up the sheep with the dogs, muttering to himself in
Welsh – but it was Welsh that I didn’t understand. My father was
steeped in the old traditions and often boasted that he could trace
his family back to an ancient chieftain, Owen Larne, who was
reputed to be a black magician. We were proud of being Welsh too,
but Da’s ancestors had always been a family joke – an ironic one
now as even Owen’s dark magical powers had been no use in
helping Da over his financial problems.
But when I saw him whispering all those dark words I was really
concerned. Was he having a complete mental breakdown? Would
we have to sell the farm?
When he got back for tea, however, we were all relieved; my
father seemed to have returned to his old ebullient self and was even
talking of building up the flock. The vet had still not come up with a
diagnosis, but Da simply laughed at our consternation.
‘Danger’s over,’ he said and then muttered, ‘for us, anyway.’
What did he mean, I wondered. And what had given him such
unexpected confidence in the future?
I went to bed early, exhausted by all my speculation, and slept
deeply until just after eleven when I was woken by the thundering of
hooves. For a while I just lay there, amazed by the sound. The
Watsons had horses – but not that many.
Dragging myself out of bed, I ran to the window and saw what I
thought at first was a dark cloud under a crescent moon. But I saw
the cloud was on the ground and moving.
The hunt was dressed in black, heading over the hill towards the
Watsons’ land. I just couldn’t believe what I was seeing and
wondered if the thundering of hooves had woken my parents and
Dylan. But no windows had opened, except for mine. Then I saw my
father, walking up the valley.
I moved away from the window, not wanting him to see me, but as
I lay back on the bed, the words ‘black hunt’ beat in my mind. There
was something on the rim of my memory but I couldn’t connect,
couldn’t recall.
I closed my eyes and then sat up, rigid and shaking. Of course –
now I remembered – the legend of the Black Hunt! The riders and
their horses belonged to Owen Larne, that vengeful magician and
chieftain who lay buried in the hills, reputedly waiting to rise from the
dead and ride again against the English. What had my father done?
I got up and hurried softly downstairs, opened the door and ran to
the stable to quieten my pony Scarab. Slipping on his bridle and
saddle, I led him on to the sheep-cropped grass at the back of the
house. Once we were out of sight, I mounted Scarab and galloped
off in pursuit. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I had to
do something.
I felt a curious sense of wild anger as Scarab and I rode up the
valley and over the hill. Not exactly the emotion itself but a kind of
echo, just a taste of it – and I knew I was in the wake not just of the
hunt but my father’s rage as well. Then I crested the hill and reined
Scarab in, my heart pounding, my mouth so dry that I could hardly
move my tongue.
The Watsons’ farmhouse lay in the next valley, approached by a
long drive from the main road, over a mile away. The hunt were in a
semi-circle around the buildings, steam rising from the horses’
nostrils, their flanks gleaming with sweat. The riders were completely
still but the master was slowly approaching the front door, his
expression impossible to read in the tepid, milky light.
He knocked loudly, only once, and after what seemed an eternity
he knocked again. The sounds seemed to echo over the hills like
sharp claps of thunder.
A horse whinnied, the front door opened and slowly the master
entered.
There was a light in a downstairs window. The encircling horses and
riders were deathly still, the night breeze ruffled a mane here and
there and an owl circled the farmhouse, calling mournfully.
After a while the door opened again and the master let himself
out, pulling it to behind him. Then he mounted his horse and the
Black Hunt began to trot towards me, their hooves pounding the
smooth turf as they broke into a gallop.
They passed me like a breath of fetid wind, the eyes of both
horses and riders staring unblinkingly ahead. But it was the master’s
face that really appalled me. Chalk white in the wan moonlight, it was
nevertheless almost identical to my own father’s.
I knew I had to go into the cottage. I knew that I had to see for myself
what Owen Larne had done. The urge inside me was compelling,
and I didn’t hesitate as I dug my heels into Scarab and we cantered
down the long, smooth hillside towards the Watsons’ house.
At the door I paused, and then without knocking I pushed it open.
The carpeted hallway was well furnished, with pictures on the
walls, flowers on a table and a grandfather clock ticking the time
away – a far cry from our cluttered space with its smelly wellington
boots and overalls.
I paused, listening to the deep silence, broken rhythmically by the
clock. Hardly able to breathe, I walked into the elegant sitting room
but there was no one there. Then I opened the kitchen door.
I gasped and the sensation of suffocation increased as I began to
shake, feeling sick and feverish, the sweat running down my face.
Tim and Rhona Watson were sitting at a scrubbed pine table,
staring rigidly into each other’s eyes. There were no marks on either
of them but both were dead.
The silence lengthened in the cold, derelict kitchen and Jamie looked
at his watch. It was 3 a.m. and the conversation next door could
barely be heard.
‘Let’s get some sleep,’ said Laura. ‘I can’t take any more of this.’
‘Neither can I,’ Ian agreed.
‘Sleep’s the last thing I want,’ snapped Megan. ‘Hasn’t anyone got
another story?’
‘I have,’ replied Jamie slowly. ‘I went to New York last year. My
dad’s a psychiatrist and he heard this one in a hospital in
Manhattan.’
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