In The Grip Of Old Winter (12 page)

He tensed and rose and slid
his boots forwards through the snow a few inches at a time. Once past the
corner, the way ahead opened out onto a wider view.

About fifty metres in front
of him, in the middle of the lane, stood an enormous black dog. As dark as
night, its size hinted at a beast of monstrous strength. A dead deer lay
trapped under its paws and as Peter watched, the dog clamped its jaws onto the
neck. It lifted the kill with ease and with a single bound, left the road and
disappeared into the trees.

Peter gulped as fear
tightened his chest. He didn’t know the dog as being any breed that he
recognised. Was it a dog? The size and strength suggested some wild unknown
animal, an imagined creature from a storybook... or a nightmare.

He held his breath as he
listened. A rook, high above in the trees, gave a raucous call. Relieved to
hear that familiar cry, Peter guessed that the dog moved deeper into the trees
to feast.

His legs trembled and he kept
to the far side of the lane. An imprint of the deer’s body marked the snow at
the place where the dog stood. Beside it, the outline of a huge paw and across
the snow’s ruffled ridges, a smear of crimson blood.

***

Peter ran and his ears
pounded with his heart’s fast rhythm. The light increased as the banks on
either side of the lane sloped into a gentle rise.

Opposite, a large holly bush
covered in bright red berries spread its branches in a wide circle. He’d almost
run past it when he saw the five-bar gate hidden behind the holly’s prickly
leaves. Farmer Brunt’s, at last.

Beyond the gate, a short
track opened onto a large yard. A long two-storied redbrick house edged one
side. A thin stream of smoke rose from the chimney and yellow lamplight glowed
through some of the windows. A barn occupied the other side of the yard and in
front of its double doors stood a green tractor.

Peter ran up to the gate and
pulled the spring-lever to release the catch.

A man’s deep voice bellowed.
“Stop right there.”

Peter jumped back, unable to
see the speaker. The holly bush shook and a red-faced man stepped out from
behind its dark leaves and Peter’s mouth went dry as he stared down the twin
barrels of a double-barrelled shotgun.

“What you be doing coming
into my yard?” The man wore a long black coat that gleamed with a waxy shine.
The gun stayed straight and steady and aimed at Peter’s head.

“I’m from...” Peter swallowed
to stop his tongue from sticking to the roof of his mouth. “I’m staying at
grandma and granddad’s - my dad’s had an accident - he’s hurt his leg.” He
pointed back down the lane.

The man’s thick eyebrows
bristled as he frowned. “You’re from old ma and pa’s?”

The man’s age seemed much the
same as granddad’s, but Peter nodded. “I’m staying for Christmas.”

The man lowered the gun and
peered at Peter. “Aye, they told us you was coming down. Brought all this damn
snow with you too, by the looks of it.” He grunted, in exasperation or humour
Peter didn’t know. “Don’t have enough feed for the stock if it keeps on.” He
pointed the gun towards the barn. “Though I won’t be letting them out if...
er...” He released the spring-lever on the gate, stepped back as he opened it
and then strode out onto the lane. He tucked the gun under his arm, though he
kept the twin barrels’ horizontal. “Is it thunder I heard? Happened before you
turned up - must be you carry the weather in your pocket.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter.”

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

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

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

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

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

Peter nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

Peter’s shins ached from
pushing so hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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