The Coffin Path

by Katherine Clements

Genres: Ghost; Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

An eerie and compelling ghost story set on the dark wilds of the Yorkshire moors. For fans of The Witchfinder's Sister, The Silent Companions and Susan Hill, this Gothic tale will weave its way into your imagination and chill you to the bone.

Maybe you've heard tales about Scarcross Hall, the house on the old coffin path that winds from village to moor top. They say there's something up here, something evil.

Mercy Booth isn't afraid. The moors and Scarcross are her home and lifeblood. But beneath her certainty, small things are beginning to trouble her. Three ancient coins missing from her father's study, the shadowy figure out by the gatepost, an unshakable sense that someone is watching.

When a stranger appears seeking work, Mercy reluctantly takes him in. As their stories entwine, this man will change everything. She just can't see it yet.

Release date: February 8, 2018

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter 1

I was born with blood on my hands.

I killed my mother on the 22nd of August, in the year 1642, the day the first King Charles turned traitor and chose a battlefield over a throne. She was not murdered by musket shot or slaughtered by steel blade, as were so many during those years of war. Hers was a woman’s fate. She died in blood – the blood that bore me in on its tide.

At least, that’s what I was told.

I’ve had blood on my hands ever since. I’m elbow-deep in a thick, viscous caul of it. Though I’ve never sweated and screamed in my own childbed, I know life and death better than most women. And now, as ever, I’m mindful of my mother. It happens every time I birth a lamb – the weighted pause before the newborn’s first breath, like a clock’s final turning before the hour’s strike, and I always think the same thing: how the moment of birth, of new life, so often means the death of something else.

Such maudlin thoughts are natural in the cold, lonely months when days are icicle-bright and nights are heavy with peat smoke and shadows. But the February chill has lessened lately, the sky become cloud-laden, mist-thick, and the first lamb is a sure sign that spring will soon follow. It should be a moment of celebration, of gratitude and thanks, for the closing of one season and the beginning of the next – we have survived another winter – but sight of the first suckling always reminds me of the mother I never knew, the father who was left to grieve, and the debt I owe to both. With every spring, and every lamb, I have a chance, once again, to make it right.

Up on the moor, the snow is still knee-deep and sheep huddle under peat hags. Down on the valley slopes, where this one has wandered alone, just the drifts are left. The ewe has found herself a bare hollow sheltered from the wind, against the wall of an abandoned fold, and is butting up against the stone, pawing the frozen earth.

Ignoring the familiar twist inside – my guts telling me I won’t like what I find – I scramble down the steep fell towards her, scattering stones, my dog, Bracken, at my heels.

This place was someone’s home once: a one-roomed cottage slowly crumbling to ruin, doors and shutters long since stolen for fuel, mist winding about the chimney in place of smoke, a dank tomb smell of lichened stone, the sheepfold now a stretch of tumbledown dry-wall. Ragged crows eye me from the naked branches of a wind-twisted willow.

Urging Bracken to keep her distance, I move slowly towards the ewe. She’s unsteady, stumbling away from me, front legs buckling. I’d know her as one of my own even without the smudge of last summer’s tar mark on her fleece. She’s young, tupped for the first time last autumn. She should have at least two weeks until her time, but Nature has other ideas.

I call Bracken forward and she creeps into position, head low, clever, keen eyes fixed on the sheep. The ewe grumbles, panting hard as her flanks contract. She tries to move away but careers into the wall, off balance, and stands a moment, stunned, confused. I take my chance, hook her with my crook and pull her into the corner of the fold. She struggles and complains, but she’s tired, lacking strength to fight.

Her hind legs are bloodied, already blackened and stiff. There’s no sign of her water – it’s long been broken – but her backside is red and badly swollen. One small hoof protrudes from a seeping, sore hole. The poor creature grumbles again, loins quivering as she pushes, but instead of the double legs I hope to see, the single hoof doesn’t shift.

I send a curse to the clouds. I’m too far from home to go for help, and Ambrose will be indoors by now, waiting for his supper, while Dority stirs the pot and bounces the baby on her hip.

There’s a sudden cacophony as the crows rise from their watch post in a flurry of jagged wings and midnight-black feathers. Bracken barks. High above, a lone merlin circles, silent, waiting. She can smell death on the wind; at this time of year, even bad meat is better than none.

The ewe rolls her amber eye to mine and makes a mournful whicker. She doesn’t struggle as I hopple her front legs with a length of twine, tug her ankles and shoulder her onto one side. I run my hands over her belly. She kicks her tethered feet without conviction. The flock tends to lamb by noon, before their shadows grow short, but that hour is long gone: this lamb must be stuck, or maybe worse. I must get it out or lose them both.

Hurrying now, I strip off my heavy coat and hat, for I cannot work so encumbered. The air snatches my breath. The freezing deep of winter may be passing but it’s still bitter cold. I did not wear my stays today, preferring the ease and practicality of men’s clothes for my work, and the sudden chill bites beneath the rough kersey of my shirt.

I roll up my sleeves and kneel at the ewe’s back end. Lifting her tail, I see it’s worse than I first thought. Instead of a clean, wet opening, she’s torn and bleeding. Though I see no sign, I wonder if she’s birthed another before this one. Perhaps she’s injured herself in the struggle to be rid of the thing inside. There’s still only a single hoof in view, no sign of a second and no sign of a head.

I grip the lamb’s hoof in one hand and slide the fingers of the other inside the ewe. She makes a strangled complaint. My heart tightens. ‘There now, girl, let’s get this out of you.’

I push my knuckles inside, then more. Hot, shuddering muscle grips my wrist as she takes me in.

I feel it at my fingertips – the hard little bud of a second hoof – and slide inward to find the joint. It slips away so I push deeper, feeling for the slime-covered fleece and bone of the lamb’s leg. Then I have it in my grasp. I try to draw it gently forward but feel it pull back – a sign the lamb is alive. My hope awakens. But if it’s to come, I must help it. Left alone it will die and poison the mother too.

A fierce determination surfaces in me – the same I feel whenever I’m faced with Nature’s fickle ways. I know it’s wrong and I should accept God’s will in all things, but when it comes to my flock I’ll fight like a wildcat to make sure His will marries with my own.

I push further inside, up to my elbow, encased by slick heat. It’s careful work, taking all my strength and concentration as the ewe grumbles and pants. At last I have two legs within my grasp but I cannot feel the head; the lamb is lying back to front, turned away from birth rather than towards it. I have to work fast; a lamb stuck like this will suffocate before it has a chance of first breath.

I push deep and hook the second leg, trying to bring it forward to meet the first so I can start to pull. But it’s too much for the ewe. She strains against me, desperate to escape the thing that pains her. With no one to hold her still and no means of gaining better purchase, my arm is squeezed out. I’m splashed and smeared with scarlet. There’s something horrid about the vibrant hue – this is not the clotted, viscid stuff of birth but the fresh blood of a rupture. There’s something very wrong. I’m running out of time.

I’ve been here before, and from the first time to this last it’s always the same – the struggle only makes me stubborn. If I cannot save the ewe, I’ll save her lamb; a bargain I make time and again with God.

I push my hand inside to find the hind legs once more. Flesh slides between fingers like ribbons, the sheep’s channel a mess of meat. I grope blindly, no longer sure what I’m feeling. I swallow down rising panic as I feel the heartbeat pulse of blood against my hand. My arm is slick to the shoulder, shirtsleeve brightly streaked. It’s not right – there is too much blood.

I find one hoof, and soon, a second. A quick check – I have the hind legs. There’s no time to try to turn the lamb, so I grip both hooves and pull, gently at first and then a little harder until I feel it begin to slide.

The ewe has stopped straining and gives me no aid. She’s voiceless as she fades. But I feel a faint twitch from the lamb. I hold life in my fist, so I tug harder and bring the legs out. The mother groans. I struggle to my feet, levering all my weight now, and pull as hard as I can. And the lamb is born at last, slithering forth, yellow as butter, slippery as a trout.

The animal is formed well enough, as I knew this ewe would bring, but there’s no sign of breath. I have no straw or grass to rub it down, to hurry the life into its lungs, so I tear off my waistcoat and use that, ignoring the pinch of icy air. I wipe away the gore from its nose and mouth and dangle it, head down, swinging it gently back and forth, urging it to draw that first crucial breath. But the pale little body stays limp and airless.

Most often, a healthy ewe will turn about to find her young, licking it to life. Quickly, I use my knife to slice the tethers from the sheep’s ankles but she just lies there, flanks heaving, exhausted and blank-eyed, nothing left to give. Bracken comes sniffing, nose to nose, but there’s no response – the ewe no longer has the strength even for fear. I take the lamb to her head, hoping the scent will rouse her. Steam rises from the slick little body. The mother’s nostrils quiver but her eyes are clouding: she cannot help me.

I push the lamb against her fleece and rub hard. I wrap the tiny thing in my waistcoat once again and do the same, sending both prayers and curses up to a God who likes to give with one hand and take away with the other. And at last the lamb splutters and shudders, struggles to open its eyes.

The mother lasts long enough to hear the first fragile cry of her newborn. She fixes me with those amber eyes and I see the moment that she gives up. She lays her head upon the grave-cold ground, ready to breathe her last.

There’s nothing more I can do for her, out here, alone, with the dark gathering. I hate to leave her to the mercy of foxes and wild dogs. I hate to lose her, to admit defeat, but there’s a chance for the lamb, if I can get it to warmth and milk soon enough. I’m less than half an hour from Scarcross Hall, where a fire burns in the kitchen and Agnes will heat the milk. I make the painful choice, as I always do.

I pull on my coat and hat, tighten my waistcoat around the small, quivering creature and cradle it against my chest, ignoring the feeble panting of the ewe. I’ll send Ambrose with the cart to collect whatever is left of her in the morning. Calling Bracken to my side, I start out across the fell, making for higher ground. I hold the lamb tight for warmth, feeling it shiver, pressing its timid heartbeat against my own. I do not look back.

There’s a fog gathering, sitting heavy on the hills, sinking into the valley. I know the paths across these moors like I know every stone and slate of Scarcross Hall, but when the fog comes down it’s fast and unforgiving, and even us hefted ones can lose our way.

I first feel it as I crest the hill and join the old coffin path towards the crossroads. I sense it like a rabbit sensing a fox: there are eyes on me.

I’m used to all weathers and I know the tricks that Nature can play. I’ve scared myself at times, imagining spirits in the mist or glimpsing marsh lights dancing on the moor at midnight. But those are nothing more than half-remembered fantasies of a child with a head full of goblins and fairies, put there by a God-fearing father with a dread of the Devil’s creatures. I’m not one for superstition and scaremongering and I’ve never before felt truly afraid.

This is different: there is a threat in it.

My hackles rise. I’m a field mouse sensing the hawk, my pursuer invisible to me but every instinct telling me to run.

Bracken slinks to my side, ears flattened, growling low.

‘What is it, girl?’ I ask. ‘What can you see?’

She stops, glances backwards, teeth bared, then darts ahead, as if to hurry me. I quicken my pace to catch up with her, trying to shake the feeling, concentrating on the creature now in my care, telling myself I’m hurrying for him. The lamb has fallen silent, eyes closed, panting quick, shallow breaths. I pull my coat tighter and whisper to him, telling him to stay with me, that I’m taking him to a warm, safe place where I’ll give him the milk he needs.

With the fog comes the quiet, the weird, echoing closeness that hushes the birds and has any sane person hurrying to their hearthside. Bracken leads me on, her small brown body disappearing and reappearing through the gloom, like a wraith. Damp air seems to press at me, walls of fog reducing the wide expanse of the fell to little more than a few strides of uneven track. I’ve walked the coffin path my whole life, but without landmarks it’s impossible to tell exactly where I am. I feel disoriented, trapped. The muffled silence is uncanny. I fix my eyes ahead, denying my own wild thoughts. Something compels me to run, heart thumping, making a drum beat in my ears. I begin a quick, stumbling gait that has me tripping over stones I should know are underfoot. Still I feel it, like a cold hand sliding down my back: someone or something is out there. I cannot help but look behind. I see nothing save the stark black statue of a winter-stripped tree. A wild dog, perhaps, desperate and skeleton-starved? Or a beggar lost his way on the packhorse trails? I open my mouth to call out a greeting but something stops me and I’m suddenly convinced: whatever it is, I don’t want to meet it.

At last the gables and chimneys of Scarcross Hall appear through the murk, the lantern burning at the casement a welcome beacon.

I hurry across the yard to the kitchen door and lift the catch.

Bracken pushes past me, skittering across stone flags towards her makeshift bed by the fire.

‘Agnes!’

I hear the soft shuffle of indoor shoes in the buttery next door.

‘Agnes, come quickly. I need warm milk and blankets.’

As I turn to shut the door, I see a figure standing at the gatepost.

It’s indistinct, a shadow-shape, swathed in a winding sheet of fog.

Silent.

Still.

Watching.

For a moment I’m transfixed. A sense of recognition, of deep and ancient dread, wells in me. Then a bank of fog moves across the yard and when it clears the figure is gone. Imagination, I tell myself, a trick of the fading light. But as I shut the door, I make sure to turn the key.

Chapter 2

Agnes is at the door to the buttery, wiping floured hands on her apron.

I open my coat and show her the lamb, pressed against my panicked heart. ‘I need warm milk, quickly.’

‘The mother?’ she asks.

‘Down by the old cottage. I couldn’t save her.’

She shakes her head as she turns away. ‘The good Lord may have His plan but it can be a cruel one.’

I check the key in the lock once more and take a few deep breaths, swallowing my fear and drinking in the comfort of familiarity: the glow of peat clods in the hearth, the yellow tallow casting false warmth across cold flagstones, the yeasty scent of the dough Agnes has been working for tomorrow’s loaf.

I wait, impatient, while Agnes fetches milk from the churn – she moves so slowly, these days – and I long to take charge, but the lamb needs warmth before anything, so I kneel at the hearthstone, holding the small, damp body as close to the embers as I dare, trying to rub some heat into him. His fleece steams. Though I feel the rapid flutter of his tiny heart, he remains limp and shut-eyed.

I glance at the window more than once, expecting to find a stranger looking in, but there’s nothing except the reflection of candle flame as the sky darkens, making a mirror of the panes.

Agnes returns with a pan of milk and sets it over the heat. Then she fetches rags to clean the lamb’s fleece, still caked with his mother’s poisoned blood.

Those few minutes waiting for the milk to warm seem like hours. Bracken stretches and yawns, our strange encounter seemingly forgotten.

‘Did anyone come calling today?’ I ask, as we wait, unable to shake the sense of disquiet.

‘No.’

‘No visit from Pastor Flynn?’

She frowns. ‘Was he expected? No one told me.’

‘No. I thought I saw someone . . . Ah, no matter.’ I know how Agnes frets, and fretting makes her ill. She gives me a familiar, suspicious look. She knows I’m keeping something from her – but I decide that’s exactly what I must do.

When the milk is ready, I tilt the lamb’s head back and open his jaw. Agnes spoons it, little by little, into his mouth. At first it dribbles down my arms and makes creamy white rivers amid the bloody fleece, but with gentle coaxing he soon begins to swallow. After a few minutes of this I feel strength enter his limbs – a kick or two, a shiver – enough to raise a smile between Agnes and I. That’s how my father finds us, knelt at the hearthstone, like two pilgrims before a shrine, praying that the good Lord might spare the life in my hands.

Sam comes clattering in first, dragging Father by the sleeve. Agnes might be slow but Father is slower and no match for this strange whirlwind boy with his head of rusty curls, piercing stare and freckles showered across pale skin.

‘Now, child, I told you more than an hour past, it’s time for you to run along home,’ Agnes says, throwing Father a disapproving look.

He pretends to ignore her, dark eyes glowering beneath the grey crag of his brow. He’s agitated. I can tell his mind by a single glance – unlike me, he wears his moods for all to see.

‘Tell them, Sam,’ he says.

The boy looks up at him. ‘I thought it were a secret, Master Booth.’

‘There are no secrets in this house, my boy.’

Sam hesitates, a little unsure. ‘We’re searching for lost treasure,’ he says, almost a whisper.

‘That may be, but your ma will be sore worried and looking out for you,’ Agnes says. ‘It’s twilight already.’

Father bats away her concern. ‘Leave the lad be. He’s safe enough with me. What have we here? Look, Sam, Mercy has a newborn . . .’

As Sam sees the lamb, he drops Father’s arm and takes a few timid steps towards me. ‘Will it live?’

‘If we keep him warm and fed through the night, he may yet,’ I tell him.

Sam frowns as he watches Agnes spoon a little more milk down the lamb’s throat. The creature is responding to the feed and at last gives a hopeful bleat. Bracken raises her head at the sound, sniffs the air as she catches the scent.

‘The ewe?’ Father asks, placing his cane on the tabletop and leaning heavily beside it.

I shake my head.

He nods, lips pursed. I see his fists clench and unclench as he works out the frustration I know he feels. A hardy, vital man until recent years, he no longer has the strength for shepherding work and it’s a grievance to him. He still blames himself for losses like this one. He stands suddenly and goes to the casement, peering out into the thickening murk as if looking for something. I watch from the corner of my eye as he rubs at his forehead and pinches the bridge of his nose, as he does when he’s fighting his temper. I notice a slight tremor in his hand, a weird, distracted look in his eye. What has him so stirred up?

‘Can I feed it?’ Sam asks, bringing my attention back. ‘I know how. I’ve done it before.’ He leans in close, peering over my shoulder so I smell the oaty scent of his young skin.

‘It’s time you were away home, child,’ Agnes says. ‘This little one can do without you. Mercy will take care of him.’

The remnants of fear are still knotted in my stomach. I don’t want anyone wandering outside the bounds of Scarcross Hall this evening. ‘There’s a heavy fog coming in,’ I say. ‘And it’s near dark.’

‘Let the child stay,’ Father says sternly. ‘The Garricks will know where he is.’

‘I want to help save the lamb,’ Sam says. ‘Pa would want it.’

He’s right. In his place Ambrose would insist upon it. Besides, I’ll be up through the night and company would be welcome. The lamb is struggling to be set free, so I put him gently down on the flags where he sits for a moment before trying to stand on unsteady legs. Bracken, head resting on her paws, pretending indifference, watches, nostrils at work.

‘Sam can stay in here with me,’ I say. ‘We’ll fetch out the cot. Would you like that, Sam?’

He nods, pleased and surprised I’ve taken his side.

Agnes climbs slowly to her feet, rubbing the small of her back. ‘Don’t blame me when you have a tired, contrary child on your hands come morning.’ She takes up the pan and goes to fetch more milk, muttering under her breath.

It takes several hours, some dry blankets and another good feed before I’m satisfied that the lamb is out of danger. I wait up long after Agnes and Father have gone to bed. I must be sure before I allow myself any rest and, besides, I will not sleep easily tonight. The memory of what I saw out in the fog troubles me. I tell myself I’m being foolish, creating worry out of nothing, like a girl half my age, but I cannot dispel the creeping unease, or the sense I had of being followed.

I know the perils of wandering the fells alone. These moors and valleys are a haven for those who cannot make a better life for themselves in more forgiving country. We have our share of beggars, thieves and ne’er-do-wells. But this is my land, my home, and the things that may scare others are a comfort to me. I don’t see foreboding in a rain-fat storm cloud, but God’s hand in helping the becks run full and free; I don’t see the Devil’s work in the lights that sometimes dance across the moor top or the vivid colours that sometimes fill the night sky, but proof of His majesty; I don’t see a path down to Hell in the stretches of deadly peat bog, but His provision of our warmth and light. Never before have I sensed the kind of danger I did today.

I distract myself by making sure that Sam is warm, fed and night-stilled, tucked under blankets on the cot, the lamb dozing at his side. He’s quiet for a long time, staring into the fire until I take a seat nearby, on the high-backed chair that Agnes favours. I kick off my boots and warm my feet, thick woollen stockings giving off a faint must. I reach my pipe and tobacco down from the mantel, pack the bowl and light it with a taper from the fire. The smoke is rich and soothing.

Sam watches me, gently stroking the lamb’s ears. ‘What happened to his mother?’ he asks, eventually.

I take a long draw on the pipe. ‘She died.’

‘But why could you not save her?’

‘She was already too sick when I found her. The lamb was stuck. If I’d not come along, they would both have been dead by morning.’

He nods sagely and again I see the essence of Ambrose Garrick in him. ‘Will you find another to suckle him?’ he asks. At seven years he already knows the shepherd’s tricks. Like me, he’s been tending the flock alongside his father since his first steps.

‘He’s the first this year and he came early, so none will take him yet.’

I can see he’s fighting heavy eyelids. ‘The first of the year . . . and the first is special.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then he’ll grow into a strong tup.’

The lamb is weak, small and will make a wether at best, if he survives at all, and it does no good to keep truth from the boy, but I don’t have the heart to say it.

Sam yawns and rests his head back on the folded blanket that serves as a pillow. He strokes the soft fleece at the lamb’s muzzle. ‘He reminds me of the first lamb I birthed,’ he says. ‘Do you remember?’

I expect his eyes to cloud, but they stay clear, searching and painfully innocent. ‘Of course I do.’

‘What do you remember?’

His lids are drooping now and I know this is my chance to be kind, to bless him with dreams of a happier time. ‘I remember how brave you were, and how clever, the pride in your pa’s eyes when the lamb stood so tall and strong. I remember how happy you were. I remember Will’s smile . . .’

Sam’s eyes are shut and his breathing deepened. I won’t tell him what I remember most about that day, because we don’t speak of it. That was the day before Will’s accident.

My pipe is spent so I lean forward to rest it on the hearthstone, but Sam stirs, blinks, struggles to focus on the sleeping lamb.

‘You should rest now,’ I say. ‘I’ll watch over him.’

He shakes his head. ‘Did Master Booth find his treasure?’

I recall Father’s troubled frown, the tremble in his fingers. ‘What treasure?’

When he speaks he’s furtive, a little hesitant. ‘Sometimes the master lets me count his coins, but today some were missing. He said three were gone – the three he found up at the White Ladies.’

I know the coins that Sam means. Three small golden discs, worn and warped, decorated with strange pagan symbols – they’re not like any coin I might use to pay the traders in the village. When I was small, Father used to tell me the same story – that he’d found them up at the stone circle on the moor top, a gift of protection from the sprites. They were our secret and I swore never to speak of them, for fear it would break their spell. I liked to study them, to feel their weight, hear the tinkling chink they made if I rattled them in my cupped palms. But then I grew a little older and heard the stories, folklore and fancy, handed down to us young ones, whispered by firesides on dark winter nights. After that I sometimes wondered if, rather than protection, the coins offered an ill omen. But it’s been years since I thought of them, not least because Father keeps them hidden away.

I’m surprised he’s shared the secret that was once ours, though perhaps I shouldn’t be – in the absence of a grandchild, he has a soft spot for the boy. And if the coins are truly missing, perhaps that’s what has upset him: he’s always been so possessive of them.

‘Maybe the boggarts took them back,’ Sam says.

‘Did my father say that?’ I feel a spike of irritation, a little cross with him for entertaining the boy’s superstitions.

‘Yes . . . he said it might be so.’

‘Do you believe in boggarts, Sam?’

He presses himself up onto one elbow and looks at me. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Sam, you shouldn’t believe everything my father tells you.’

‘But he said—’

‘That’s enough now. It’s time to sleep.’ I stand and go to the door that leads out into the yard, trying to ignore the swell of unease in my chest. I test the latch, as I’ve done three times already. It’s still locked.

I return to the fireside and stoke the embers. I am being ridiculous.

‘I’d like to name him,’ Sam says quietly, as the lamb stirs and nuzzles against his hand.

I wrap a blanket round my shoulders and sit down. ‘If you like.’

‘I’ll name him Will.’

‘Are you sure? Will that please your pa?’

He looks away, stares into the fire, thoughtful and sad. ‘It’s not up to Pa. It’s up to me.’

He has his father’s strong opinions, and his stubbornness. ‘Very well.’

Sam closes his eyes, satisfied. I watch for a few minutes until his jaw falls slack and his eyelids begin to flutter. Can there be anything more peaceful and perfect than a dreaming child? The sight calms me.

I watch the reflection of the flames in the leads and think about what might be out there in the dark upon the moor. There’s nothing outside save the night, I tell myself, and the fog pressing at the panes. But I cannot sleep until I have closed the shutters.

Chapter 3

A few days later, I’m at the brook washing out my rags.

I prefer to do this work away from prying eyes – the scarlet stain of my flowers is a thing I would deny even to myself, if I could – so rather than use a tub in the yard, I choose a secluded spot near the falls, just a little way downstream. It’s the place we use to wash the sheep in summer – wide enough for three or four men to stand but so an arm’s reach could snare any wayward beast, deep enough to reach a man’s hips, with a strong current to take the filth away. The river is watered by streams that run off the moor top. We need only dam it in years of drought, perhaps five times in my whole life; this is damp country and clouds collect in the valleys. Now, in late February, melting snow swells the streams that feed the falls, and the water is too deep and too cold for any man to bear.

To either side, the land rises steeply up the valley walls. Silvery water carves a thousand-year path between peat and rock, dropping from the fells, freezing into icicles, glazing the mosses and hazing into fine mist where it meets the valley bottom. The music of the falls is as familiar as my own breath. It’s a place I’ve known my whole life – a playmate in childhood, a sanctuary now I’m grown, and many things between. The lofty ravine becomes my chancel, the lichened stone my altar, cascading water the whisper of prayer. It’s a place of memory, of grace, a place where Heaven and Earth seem to meet.

The fog that fell the night I birthed the lamb has stayed with us, rising and falling with the hours, turning daytime into twilight, lending a roof to Nature’s chapel. I am cocooned by it.

I set to work, trying to ignore the harsh sting of icy water and lye that turns my skin sore and red. As I beat my monthly blood from the rags, I sing to myself – an old ballad that Agnes taught me as a child. The story is sentimental, and when I was young, with a head full of notions, it appealed to me. Some silly maiden falls for a rogue who treats her ill. She prays for help to catch him and keep him, claiming that, deep do