by Brian Carter
All night and for most of the next day the moors were glazed with frost, which Devonians called the ‘ammil’. Scoble’s body lying in Haytor Quarry was part of the savage beauty.
From his mask of ice the trapper stared blindly across the pond to the beam where the three foxes had sat watching him die.
‘It’s done,’ said Stargrief.
‘They do die, then,’ said Rowanfleet.
‘Like sheep,’ Wulfgar said contemptuously.
The clouds were whirling away and Hay Tor sailed out of the murk like an iceberg. Mordo the raven soared above it to a place close to the fading Dogstar.
‘Let’s go back to the cave,’ the black fox said.
‘You two go,’ Stargrief smiled.
‘But the winter will kill you,’ Wulfgar said.
‘The winter is nearly over,’ replied his friend. ‘I feel the need to travel alone.’
They watched his slight, grey figure recede into the distance beneath the Tor.
‘Stargrief,’ Wulfgar cried. ‘Stargrief.’
The ancient dog fox ran on and did not look back.
‘I’m sure he understands the White Vision,’ Wulfgar added. ‘The white grouse and the white hares.’
‘Perhaps it’s not part of this winter,’ said Rowanfleet.
Yet the mountain was there towering over Hay Tor, invisible to all other foxes. In his dreams it ran away from him to the edge of the sea at World’s End. But he would set foot on its snow one day and he would not be alone. Of this he was certain.
LATE SUNLIGHT
Under the hedge behind Bagtor Cottages primrose buds had risen from the shrew’s skull. Spring had come like a gasp of breath separating winter briefly from summer. But although the countryside looked drab and washed-out the grass was growing again beneath the dead bracken. The blackthorn was in blossom and the hawthorn’s leaves were greener than young wheat.
Through the sunlight the Becca Brook flowed gently and the waterfall sang like a bird at the Leighon Ponds. Stray sat on the dam and watched the alders swaying against the sky. For a couple of hours he had hardly moved while daws came and went and trout dimpled the hush.
The American lowered his binoculars and smiled. Then he got to his feet and followed the edge of the pond past the cairn to the dam where the trees were thick and the water was spiked with reeds.
‘What are you staring at?’ he asked.
Stray frowned up at him and dipped his hand in the pond.
‘Nothin’ much – just the treetops and things.’
‘You like watching the sky and water?’
‘Not always. But some of what I see makes me feel good.’
‘You’ve got a name I suppose.’
‘It’s Brian,’ the boy said, colouring. ‘I don’t like it much.’
‘I guess we can’t help our names,’ the American said.
‘You could’ve been called Adolf and that would have been bad news.’
The boy laughed and said, ‘You back at Aish Cottage, mister?’
‘Yep. I’ve bought the place. All I need now is a dog to fill the basket in the parlour and I’m set up.’
‘They say Scoble had your spaniel.’
‘They’re probably right.’
‘Scoble’s dead. He froze to death in the quarry last month.’
‘I know. Jenny Shewte told me.’
‘I idn sorry. He liked killing birds and animals.’
‘What happened to Old Blackie?’
‘O he’s OK,’ the boy said, his eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘He’s got a new vixen and her’s lovely. I saw ’em up over Hayne last Saturday. They’ll never have Old Blackie. Never. He’s magic.’
‘And he’s won,’ Richard Williams said quietly.
Snow still lingered where the goyals faced north, but the sheltered coombs were soft and green. Dartmoor carried the late sunlight on rounded hills into a haze ringing with the cries of plover and curlew.
The dark dog fox and the red vixen ran shoulder to shoulder over Conies Down to the tor above the Cowsic River. Mist rose from the valley and dimly at first Vega shone in the east where night waited.
This was Wulfgar’s saga
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Brian Carter was an artist, poet, columnist, children’s author, naturalist and broadcaster who influenced a generation of nature writers. His six novels all explore man’s relationship with nature, the first of which, A Black Fox Running, was published in 1981. His art was exhibited at the Royal Academy in London and at galleries in Paris, Germany, Holland and Canada, and he had a one-man show on London’s West End. He fought and won many conservation battles for the English countryside and had a great love of the natural world, particularly of Dartmoor, within sight of which he lived most of his life, spending time outdoors there walking, cycling and playing football. He contributed to every edition of West Country newspaper the Herald Express from the early 1980s until his death in 2015. He is survived by his widow Patsy, his children Christian and Rebecca, and three grandchildren.
First published in Great Britain by J. M. Dent 1981
This edition first published in Great Britain 2018
This electronic edition published in 2018 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
© Brian Carter, 1981, 2018
Map and illustrations © Brian Carter, 1981, 2018
Foreword © Melissa Harrison, 2018
The Estate of Brian Carter has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as author of this work.
Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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