they will be at the cottage some time after three. Even with Cathbad’s eccentric driving, they will be at Lytham before two. What can they do while they wait?
Unsurprisingly, Cathbad has an idea. ‘Why don’t we pop in to see Pendragon? It’s not far from here, just along the A59.’
Ruth quite likes the idea. She could do with some fresh air and doesn’t feel like turning up on Andrea Vickers’ doorstep on the dot of three. If she’s anything like Ruth, she’ll still be changing the sheets.
‘Can we ring him first?’ she asks. ‘I don’t want to turn up out of the blue.’
‘He doesn’t have a phone.’
Of course he doesn’t.
As they turn off the A59 the world changes. They pass through a stunningly pretty village with a stream running down the middle. The pub is called The Swan With Two Necks. Ruth, looking round, sees a goat standing in the middle of the road—there’s not a single other living soul to be seen. The road snakes slowly upwards, past crumbling dry-stone walls and the occasional ruined farm building. In the distance is a vast hill, its summit wreathed in cloud. It’s a curious shape, like a long flat table. Ruth thinks of the Stone Table in the Narnia books. As far as she remembers, something very nasty happened on that table.
‘Is that Pendle Hill?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ says Cathbad. ‘There are lots of legends about it. George Fox had a vision of God’s love on top of Pendle Hill. That’s where Quakerism started.’
Ruth quite likes Quakers—compared to other religions anyway—but the high bare hill doesn’t suggest divine love to her. Quite the opposite. It’s a sinister, lowering presence, black against the sky. The clouds leave shadows on the grass and in the distance Ruth sees a gleam of dark water. The foreground, too, is full of white cloudlike shapes.
‘Sheep!’ shouts Kate. ‘Sheep! 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
Unsurprisingly, Cathbad has an idea. ‘Why don’t we pop in to see Pendragon? It’s not far from here, just along the A59.’
Ruth quite likes the idea. She could do with some fresh air and doesn’t feel like turning up on Andrea Vickers’ doorstep on the dot of three. If she’s anything like Ruth, she’ll still be changing the sheets.
‘Can we ring him first?’ she asks. ‘I don’t want to turn up out of the blue.’
‘He doesn’t have a phone.’
Of course he doesn’t.
As they turn off the A59 the world changes. They pass through a stunningly pretty village with a stream running down the middle. The pub is called The Swan With Two Necks. Ruth, looking round, sees a goat standing in the middle of the road—there’s not a single other living soul to be seen. The road snakes slowly upwards, past crumbling dry-stone walls and the occasional ruined farm building. In the distance is a vast hill, its summit wreathed in cloud. It’s a curious shape, like a long flat table. Ruth thinks of the Stone Table in the Narnia books. As far as she remembers, something very nasty happened on that table.
‘Is that Pendle Hill?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ says Cathbad. ‘There are lots of legends about it. George Fox had a vision of God’s love on top of Pendle Hill. That’s where Quakerism started.’
Ruth quite likes Quakers—compared to other religions anyway—but the high bare hill doesn’t suggest divine love to her. Quite the opposite. It’s a sinister, lowering presence, black against the sky. The clouds leave shadows on the grass and in the distance Ruth sees a gleam of dark water. The foreground, too, is full of white cloudlike shapes.
‘Sheep!’ shouts Kate. ‘Sheep! 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
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