When the boat’s stern board at last cleared the end of the cart, it began to tip forward, both men rushing to catch and lower its descending shafts. Craith then bullied Duncan back between them and hitched him up while Sharman lashed down the boat.
At last, his hope of a hot bath once more seemed within prospect before the day was out. His spirits rose—until he remembered the mud already caked dry on both Craith and Duncan’s legs, and took into account the extra weight the cart now carried.
“Hmm. How soft did you say the going was at Derry Dip and Crook’s Fold?”
“Eh?”
Sharman closed his eyes and yet again slowly sighed, his hot soak now, it appeared, fast becoming something for another day.
7 To Fleabag Fulmer’s
When Craith had hung Duncan’s now empty feedbag safely back on the cart and grabbed the donkey’s harness, ready for the off, Sharman told him, “We’ll just have to go up to Fulmer’s instead.”
“Eh? Fleabag Fulmer? Why?”
“Hey! Don’t let the dwelgefa hear you call him that,” Sharman said, having only taken a couple of steps towards the track.
“It’s ‘is name, ain’t it?” and Craith blinked, which meant Duncan got a brief respite whilst Sharman stopped, turned and stared at Craith.
“No, it’s not; though I have to admit, it is fitting.”
“Well, what’s his real name then? And why do we ‘ave to go up there anyway?”
When Sharman only stared down at the three pairs of still stationary legs before him, light slowly dawned on the lad. “Oh. I see what you mean,” and he swiped ineffectually at the mud on his leggings, the habitual creases to his forehead only deepening as he straightened. “I can’t say I’ve been up there myself, but dad allus said Duncan had got too old to make it up Sheffy Hill anymore. He ‘as enough trouble on t’level these days.”
Sharman had already moved on, now some way down the track. “We’ll just have to give him a hand then, won’t we?” he shouted back over his shoulder.”
“Give ‘im an ‘and?” Sharman heard Craith grumble at the donkey, then his call of “Giddy up”.
The creak of the cart’s no doubt ungreased axle eventually followed on after Sharman, by now deep into the cool shade of the forest. In addition to the steadily gaining rumble of its wheels came Craith’s admonishment of “Come on, you dollop” before Sharman again had the benefit of their company.
“I can’t help remembering what dad said about Sheffy,” Craith again fretted, now at Sharman’s elbow. “What ‘appens if Duncan can’t hold t’cart on t’hill?”
“You do have chocks, I take it? Or have they gone the way of the grease?”
“Eh? Oh, aye…well, I’m pretty sure they’re on t’cart.”
“If not,” Sharman breezed, “we can always use your head,” and he peered in to check the cart as Craith’s mouth dropped open, dribbling whatever riposte might have assembled there. Sharman soon spotted the chocks, both hanging from one of the side posts.
Before long, they came to a split in the track, one way’s level surface exchanging bare rock for dry packed earth towards the winter-rise, the other soft leaf mulch and thin grass that gently rose towards the noon-high.
“I still don’t like it,” Craith grumbled as Sharman took the rising track.
“Not much we can do about it. Can’t risk getting bogged down, not with the load we’re carrying.”
“But…but how’s you going to get your boat back up river, back to Grosswilleal? What happens if there’s another one of them needs fetching over while you’re out o’ way?”
“Well, we’ll just have to cross that river when we get to it, eh?”
“What?” but Craith, in his inattention, stumbled against Duncan, hardly helping him draw the now lurching cart along the more uneven track. Duncan whickered, half closed his eyes and shook his head slowly from side to side.
“Come on. No dawdling,” Sharman shouted, having again got ahead. “And anyway,” he relented to explain as he slowed to let them catch up, “when have I ever had to go across this early in the year? Don’t think another’s likely soon, not before Summer. We’ll have the boat back to Grosswilleal well before then.”
As the track gently lifted them into the darker embrace of denser trees and a seemingly thicker canopy, the leaf mould beneath their feet reverted to bare but now damp rock. Ahead, and yet darker still, like a round window onto a moonless, cloud swathed midnight sky, a hollow opening could be seen. Only when they were about to enter did the creeper-choked rock face into which it had been cut become evident.
As they creaked, stepped and clopped their way in, Duncan brayed, the echo bringing him to a startled stop just inside the entrance. The cart only groaned and rocked when Craith pulled fruitlessly at Duncan’s bridle.
Craith’s favourite phrase, “Come on, you dollop”, only served to lock Duncan’s legs more stubbornly. Little but the whites of his eyes were visible when Sharman turned and looked back from further into the tunnel’s pitch blackness.
“It’s a good job he trusts you,” Sharman quietly sighed, his voice gently echoing along the tunnel.
“Gerr-a-move-on or I’ll take m’wip to you” gained Craith little more than to bring Sharman back to join them. Sharman slipped a hand beneath the donkey’s ear and gently rubbed the side of its head.
“Nothing to be afraid of, Duncan. It might be dark but it’s a clear run through. You’ve been this way before, remember? Many a time with this idiot’s father; may the old bugger have found peace at last.”
“Eh?” Craith spat, stiffening, but Duncan had clearly been reassured enough to lean forward heavily against the cart’s weight, jerking it and its burden on and into the tunnel, pushing a flustered Craith ahead of him.
Not many more minutes later and a circle of bright emerald light beckoned in the distance, drawing them up the last of the tunnel’s dark incline and out into dappled sunlight. Here, the rock face that fell behind rose unobscured by heavy growth, uncrowded by trees.
They immediately came out onto a lane that curved past the tunnel’s entrance, laid of uneven stones seemingly mortared by long grass. Its sweep cleaved the trees apart until the forest at the other side once more rose densely up a steep hillside towards the noon-high, and by chance towards the Sun itself.
Keeping the hill to their right, they followed the lane around its curve until coming to a stream, where they watered and rested Duncan before staring up Sheffy Hill, at whose foot they now stood.
“Is he likely to be expecting us?” Craith said, a furtive look Sharman’s way.
Sharman narrowed his eyes at the lad, somewhat taken aback. “My, my, but you have listened to your dad; no, there’s no way Fulmer will have seen the smoke from his place. So, it’ll be a pleasant surprise for him then, now won’t it?” to which Craith only blinked back.
Sharman clambered up the cart to check on the canvas roll, satisfied both it and the boat were still secure. He then took the chocks from the side post and swung their rope loops around his neck before climbing back down to face the lane’s daunting rise.
“Right then; ready?” Sharman asked, and Craith hesitantly nodded as he bit his lip.
The lane cut a narrow gap up through the forest, its middle stones stepped and overrun by straggling grass, its wheel track slabs long worn smooth. At Craith’s slap on his flanks, Duncan leant into the hill and steadily heaved the cart up the start of the climb, his hooves locking into each step whilst Craith pushed at the shafts and Sharmon at the back of the cart.
Progress proved painfully slow: a few heaved steps, a brief rest by all and then yet another few. When they’d climbed to about a quarter of the way up, Sharman called a longer rest and quickly chocked the wheels. The chocks, though, slipped and slithered on the smooth stone flags, juddering down a foot or so behind the wheels before Sharman risked his boot against one, halting its slide.
When they eventually got to the steepest part of the climb, however, abo
ut midway, Sharman had taken to pushing with his back against the cart, arms braced along its tail edge. Their breathers had now become longer, more frequent, the chocks less inclined to stay in place beneath the wheels.
Each time, they all rested as best they could, drawing in great lungfuls of air. Sharman became ever more worried that his boot wouldn’t be enough to secure the chock, or that the wheel would ride over it and crush his foot. He’d once more bent to check when a loud groan filled the air above his head and he quickly straightened, cracking his head against something hard: the stern end of the boat’s own keel!
It had slipped, worryingly—another judder as it again grated sternward beneath its securing ropes. Sharman lunged against it, inadvertently removing his boot from the chock. The whole cart then slid back, nudging him down the hill.
“PULL!” he cried, but Duncan and Craith’s sharp yank forwards dislodged the boat still more, its securing ropes twanging as they slid forward along the gunwales, further towards the bow. Then the winch rope creaked as it took the strain, Sharman briefly thanking Solem he’d kept it tied.
As he pushed with all his might, he noticed the boat’s stern now hung over the cart’s tail end by a good couple of feet, his eyes briefly widening before instructing Craith, “No more rests, do you hear? Not now; keep on going, whatever you do.”
This they did, seemingly forever, only slowly but at least steadily rising higher up the hill. Sharman was just beginning to think he could no longer summon the strength—images of them all finally crashing back down the hill filling his mind—when the slope at last began to lessen and Duncan took more of the strain. As though he’d got his second wind, the donkey drew the cart ahead yet quicker still. He almost snatched it away from an exhausted Sharman and up the last hundred yards or so.
Soon Sharman called a much longer halt, the chocks now easily doing their job on the gentler slope. They all puffed, panted and heaved, the two men doubling over for a while, red-faced. When they each seemed recovered enough, Sharman looked up only to notice the Sun had already passed it crest.
He slapped the side of the cart sharply a couple of times. “Well done, everyone; well done, but time’s marching on,” then patted Duncan’s neck as he staggered past him. Leading them on and up, he took them back and forth around a series of bends until the top of the hill finally came into sight.
Drifting up from beyond its brow, a thin smear of smoke marked their duty’s end, and hopefully a lukewarm welcome at the very least from an unsuspecting “Fleabag” Fulmer.
8 An Unexpected Delivery
The cut the lane made through the forest broadened out on the night-hidden side beyond the brow. A narrow, deep clearing and a long series of vegetable patches led the eye to a low, half-timbered stone building. Down the centre of the clearing, between verdantly punctuated plots of carefully tended black earth, a gravel path led straight to the building’s centrally placed front door. Clearly continuing beyond, the clearing then fell from sight down the slope of the hillside, laying open a tantalising glimpse to each side of the building of a far distant view.
While Craith secured Duncan to a tethering post between the lane and a first patch of early cabbages, Sharman waited at the start of the path. “Remember what I said,” he whispered to the lad. “Whatever you do, don’t call him Fleabag.”
“I won’t. Don’t worry. I ain’t daft, you know.”
“Hmm…”
Craith was soon beside Sharman, a smile disfiguring his features. “Dwelgefa Fulmer it is, then,” the lad affirmed, but then winked—worryingly.
The crunch of the path’s gravel beneath their feet somehow accentuated the eerie stillness, the usual sounds of the forest locked away behind the clearing’s arboreal walls. When, at the end of the path, Sharman knocked on the building’s front door, even his solid raps shied away from disturbing the peace and quiet, merely soaking dully into whatever somnolent rooms lay within.
No one answered.
“He’s probably round the back,” Sharman surmised, then led Craith along a flagged path that ran across the front of the building.
When they came down its gable end and out at the back, Sharman heard Craith behind him draw a sharp breath. “Sh…it” rode out on its slow release. Sharman turned to find Craith frozen, staring wide-eyed at what now lay spread out before them.
Sharman hadn’t thought, but now had to remind himself that Craith had never been here before. It had been his father who’d accompanied Sharman on their rare visits to Dwelgefa Fulmer, the last one of which must now have been many years before. Sharman looked out at the view again, but this time as though through Craith’s ignorant young eyes.
Apart from the glinting silver and grey of the river’s leisurely, serpentine meander after the sun, nothing lay before their gaze but an unrelenting spread of verdant forest, from where it tumbled down the hillside now below them all the way to a hazy, jagged and inordinately far off horizon. This was how Sharman had always imagined the sea to be, the one he’d never seen, the one that lay more than half a month’s journey towards the spring-set: a great rolling canopy, but of grey and white perhaps, certainly not green; a river writ large enough its furthest bank could never be spied—or so he’d been told.
Sharman picked out a heave of the forest that rose on this side of the river and upstream of its lagoons. He was about to point it out to Craith, how it would have obscured any smoke rising from Harclifferd, when a raised nasal voice broke the silence.
“Oi? What you doing here? And who’s that?”
Sharman swung round to find Fulmer standing in the doorway of a lean-to, part way down the building, his pants round his ankles, his arm outstretched towards Craith. The unmistakable squeal of a pig drifted out of the doorway, past the man, a somehow furtive grunt following on.
After what seemed an inordinately long time, Sharman managed to guard and then gather his thoughts, finally saying, “I’ve…I’ve got a delivery for you, re…respected Dwelgefa Fulmer. Oh, and,” he said, turning to Craith, “this is Gresty’s eldest—”
“What do you mean ‘delivery’?” demanded Fulmer, drawing himself up to his full but diminutive height. As his shirt rode up, any doubts that might have been had as to Fulmer affording himself the comfort of underwear were now clearly and pendulously dashed.
“Well,” Sharman hurried to say, “what do you expect I’m delivering?”
“But there’s been no smoke today. I know there hasn’t; I’ve checked. I always check, every…” but then Fulmer glanced down at himself. “Look, I’m halfway through having a dump, if you don’t mind; so this’ll have to wait. Go in and get yourself a beer,” he said, nodding at the building’s backdoor before squatting down to one side of the lean-to’s opening. His white pebble-like knees, fortunately, were then the only part of him left in full view.
“You’ll probably welcome a drink if you’ve come up Sheffy,” they heard him shout as Sharman dragged Craith indoors.
Beside a stone sink against one wall, a wooden beer barrel stood near the edge of an adjoining slate shelf, a tap already driven home. An assortment of beakers congregated nearby, none recently cleaned. Sharman washed two of the least dirty as best he could under the cold tap and was soon passing a beer-filled one to Craith. They’d both just settled themselves at a scarred and beaten old table in the centre of the room when Fulmer bustled in and cursorily washed his hands in the sink, drying them on his shirt.
“So, how come I haven’t had any warning,” he demanded as he snatched a random beaker and filled it.
“It was left at Harclifferd,” Sharman told him.
“Harclifferd? Then what you doing coming to me and not Woodwright?”
Sharman explained how high the river had risen, and how it had forced him down to the Lagoons, that its banks were flooded in places, which meant they couldn’t risk using the river track to get back up to Dwelgefa Woodwright’s.
“Damn,” Fulmer mumbled to himself, then told Sharman, “This is h
ighly irregular; you do realise that, don’t you? And it’s only Spring. What’re they doing sending one over this early? I haven’t got anything ready for this year—nothing.”
Sharman downed a good half of his beaker. “I take your point, but I’ve got to get my boat back before we lose the daylight. So, if you wouldn’t mind coming out and taking it off our hands—”
“That’s a point; why haven’t you brought it in with you?” he said, looking around the room.
Sharman bit his lip. “I suppose you’d better come out and have a look.”
“Eh? Why not just bring it in?”
“It’s a bit bigger than usual,” Craith piped up, and Fulmer stared at him for a moment.
“Gresty’s, you say?” he asked Sharman, who nodded—slowly—his eyes half closed.
“His eldest.”
Fulmer at first clamped his mouth shut and narrowed his eyes at them both. “Best drink up,” he finally said, “then we’ll go take a look, but I don’t like the sound of this—not at all.” He took a long swig of his beer then slapped his hand at his neck before vigorously scratching at it.
Sharman grabbed Craith’s arm beneath the table and slowly and ever so slightly shook his head at the lad, pursing his lips. “Fleabag” Fulmer, meanwhile, obliviously turned his same determined attention to his armpit.
9 Aveir de Peis
Set diagonally across the table, the canvas roll only just lay fully supported on the table top. Across it, Sharman and Craith sat facing Dwelgefa Fulmer as he tutted and repeatedly shook his head. Sharman peered through one of the room’s small and grimy windows at the afternoon’s slanting light.
“We really do need to be making tracks, Dwelgefa,” Sharman said, his attention inevitably drawn back to the girl’s face, revealed between a short length of peeled back canvas.
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