Dying Fall

Sheep!’
    ‘Yes, sheep,’ says Ruth. ‘And nothing else. Why’s it called a forest? There aren’t many trees here.’
    ‘I’m not sure,’ says Cathbad, shifting down through the gears. Ruth’s aged Renault is finding the gradient a challenge. ‘I think in ancient times a forest just meant a place where the king used to hunt.’
    ‘It’s beautiful,’ says Ruth, ‘but it’s a bit spooky.’
    ‘There’s old magic here,’ says Cathbad. ‘Have you heard of the Pendle Witches?’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘They were a group of women at the beginning of the seventeenth century. There were lots of rumours about them – that they had familiars, that they made clay images and cursed people, made animals die and killed people’s children. Anyway, they were accused of witchcraft and ten of them were executed. They all lived around here, in the hills and in the forest. Pendragon actually lives in a cottage that was owned by one of the witches.’
    Ruth can see why this would appeal to a druid but she doesn’t think that the subject matter is very suitable for Kate. Still, with any luck she won’t have understood. Ruth looks round at her daughter, who is humming quietly to herself.
    ‘OK, Kate?’
    ‘Sheep,’ says Kate.
    There are more and more sheep in their way and Cathbad is constantly stopping to let them pass. The sheep don’t hurry either, gazing at them balefully out of their onyx eyes and meandering slowly in front of the car, woolly nether-regions matted with mud (or worse).
    ‘Dirty sheeps,’ says Kate.
    ‘Sheep,’ corrects Ruth.
    ‘But why?’ says Cathbad maddeningly. ‘Why isn’t it sheeps? I’m going to say sheeps from now on.’
    The road has narrowed considerably, and although they are still climbing they’re now surrounded by high grass banks. For Ruth it’s the worst of both worlds: she feels claustrophobic and agoraphobic at the same time. She wonders why she, who loves the lonely marshes, should feel so threatened by these lowering hills. Perhaps it’s the absence of the sea. When you’ve got used to being able to see as far as you can, it feels strange to be hemmed in on all sides by grassland and trees – and wall-eyed sheep.
    They stop at a crossroads while Cathbad consults the map. Ruth reads the place names out loud: ‘Fence, Stump Hall Road, Crow Trees Brow. Weird names.’
    ‘The magistrate who tried the Pendle Witches came from Fence,’ says Cathbad. ‘It must have been quite an important place once. I think it’s this way.’
    He takes the smallest and least prepossessing of the roads. The car crawls between dark hedgerows. The rain, which has been threatening all day, begins to fall. Kate starts to cry.
    ‘Look, Kate,’ says Ruth desperately. ‘Sheeps!’
    But there are suddenly no sheep. When they turn the corner they are in the cleft of a sharply sloping valley and there are no animals of any kind to be seen.
    ‘Look,’ says Cathbad, pointing.
    Halfway up the hill is a small, white house. A flickering light shows in one of the windows.
    ‘Dame Alice’s Cottage,’ he says.
    ‘What?’ says Ruth.
    ‘Dame Alice’s Cottage. That’s what Pendragon’s house is called. Dame Alice must have been one of the witches.’
    It isn’t the cosiest house name that Ruth had ever heard, but right now she’d do anything to get out of the car, give Kate a cuddle, go to the loo and have a cup of tea. She looks up at the isolated little cottage.
    ‘Does the road go that far?’ she says.
    ‘We can park by the gate. We’ll have to walk across the field.’
    Ruth lifts Kate out of her car seat and, as she is still inclined to be whiny, carries her across the uneven grass. The rain is heavier now and Ruth hasn’t unpacked hercagoule. Cathbad strides beside them, looking around with every appearance of pleasure.
    ‘Wonderful place. Wonderful energies.’
    As far as Ruth is concerned, it can keep its energies to itself. She’ll never be horrible about Norfolk again.
    ‘Cheer up, Kate,’ she says. ‘We’re going to see a nice man and have a cup of tea.’
    ‘Stop!’ shouts a voice. ‘Or I’ll shoot.’
    Ruth looks up and sees a white-bearded figure brandishing a rifle. As they stop and stare at him, a pit-bull terrier runs towards them, barking hysterically.

CHAPTER 8
    The dog makes straight for them, teeth bared. Ruth presses Kate against her shoulder and tries to think of everything she’s ever heard about pit bulls. They go for the throat,