The White Horse of Zennor (4 page)

Farmer Veluna had been a joyful soul all his life, a man of laughter, who rode high through the fields on his tractor, forever singing his heart out, in a perpetual celebration that he belonged where he was. His joy in life was infectious so that he spread around him a convivial sense of security and happiness. In business he was always fair although he was thought to be overgenerous at times, not hard enough a man according to some of the more craggy moorland farmers. But no one in the parish was better respected and liked than Farmer Veluna so that when he married lovely Molly Parson
from Morvah and produced a daughter and a son within two years, everyone thought it was no more than he deserved. When he built a new milking parlour some of his friends shook their heads and wondered, for no one could recall a milking herd on the land before; but they knew Farmer Veluna to be level-headed and hardworking. No one doubted that if anyone could make it work he could, and certainly everyone wished him well in his new venture.

For several years the milk flowed and the profits came. He built up the finest herd of Guernsey cows for miles around and there was talk that he was doing so well that he might take on more land. Then, within six short weeks he was a ruined man. First the corn harvest failed completely, a summer storm lashing through the valley breaking the ripened corn and flattening it to the ground. The storm was followed by weeks of heavy drizzle so that not even the straw could be salvaged. But the cows were still milking and the regular milk cheque was always there every month to see them through. Farmer Veluna was disappointed by the setback but burned off the straw when he could and began
to plough again. He was still singing on his tractor.

Then came the annual Ministry check for brucellosis,
*
the outcome of which had never worried Farmer Veluna. It was routine, no more than that, so that when the two vets arrived at his front door some days later it never even occurred to him that they had come about the brucellosis test. The vets knew him well and liked him for he was good to his stock and paid his bills, so they broke the news to him as gently as they could. Farmer Veluna stood in the doorway, his heart heavy with foreboding as they began to tell him the worst.

‘There can be no mistake?' he said. ‘You're sure there's no mistake?' But he knew he need not have asked.

‘It's brucellosis, Farmer, no doubt about it; right through the herd. I'm sorry, but you know what has to be done,' said one of the vets, putting a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. ‘It has to be done today. The Ministry men are on their way. We've come to help.'
Farmer Veluna nodded slowly and they went inside together.

That afternoon his entire herd of golden Guernseys was driven into the yard below the dairy and killed. Every cow and calf on the farm, even one born that same morning, was slaughtered; and the milking parlour stood silent from that day on.

In the weeks that followed the disaster every tractor and saleable machine had to be sold for there was the family to feed as well as the other stock, and an overdraft at the bank that Farmer Veluna had to honour. It was not much money to find each month but with little coming in, it soon became apparent that the pigs had to be sold, then the geese and finally the beloved horse. All that was left were a few hens and a shed full of redundant rusting machinery.

Each evening the family would sit around the kitchen table and talk over the possibilities, but as the situation worsened the children noticed that it was their mother who emerged the stronger. The light had gone out of their father's eye, his entire demeanour was clouded over with despair. Even his jaunty, lurruping
walk had slowed, and he moved aimlessly around the farm now as if in a daze. He seemed scarcely even willing or able to consider any suggestions for the future. His wife, Molly, managed to persuade him to go to the bank to ask for an extension of the loan, and for a new loan to finance new stock and seed; but times were hard even for the banks and when both were refused he lapsed into a profound depression that pervaded every room in the house.

Friends and neighbours came with offers of help but he thanked them kindly for their generosity and refused them politely as they knew he would, for he was above all a proud man from a proud family and not accustomed to accepting charity from anyone, however dire the necessity.

Desperately Molly urged him on, trying to release him from the prison of his despair, believing in her heart that he had it in him to recover and knowing that without him they were lost. The two children meanwhile sought their own consolation and relief up on the high moors they knew and loved so well. They would leave the house and farm behind them, and climb
up to the great granite cheesewring rocks above the village where the wind blew in so fiercely from the sea that they could lean into it with arms outstretched and be held and buffeted like kites. They would leap from rock to rock like mountain goats, play endless hide-and-seek and tramp together over the boggy moors, all the while trying to forget the threat that hung over them. Their walks would end often on the same logan stone above the Eagle's Nest, a giant slab of rounded granite as finely balanced as a pair of scales on the rock below, so that if they stood on opposite ends they could rock it up and down like a seesaw.

Here they were sitting one early autumn evening with the sun setting fire to the sea beyond Zennor when they saw their father and mother climbing up through the bracken towards them. Unusually, they were holding hands and that signified to both children that a decision might have been reached. They instinctively sensed what the decision was and dreaded it. Annie decided she would forestall them.

‘You needn't tell us,' Annie said to them as they climbed up to sit down beside the children on the logan
stone. ‘We know already. There's no other way is there?'

‘What do you know, Annie?' said Farmer Veluna, the first words either of the children had heard him utter for more than a week.

‘That we're going to sell the farm,' she said softly, almost as if she did not wish to hear it. ‘We're going to sell the farm and move away, aren't we?'

‘I won't go,' said Arthur, shrugging off his mother's arm. ‘I won't. I was born here and I'm going to stay here. No one is going to make me move.'

He spoke with grim resolve.

At nine, he was a year younger than his sister but at that moment he seemed suddenly a great deal older. He was already as tall as Annie, and even as an infant others had recognised in him that strong Veluna spirit.

‘We shall have to sell, Arthur,' said his father. ‘We've no alternative. You need money to run a farm and we haven't got any. It's that simple. Everything we had was in the cows and now they're gone. I'm not going to argue about it; there's no point. We shall have to sell up and buy a smaller farm elsewhere. That's all there is to it. There's other farms and there's other places.'

‘Not like this one,' Arthur said and turned to his father, tears filling his eyes. ‘There's no place like this place and you know it. So don't pretend. You told me often enough, father; you told me never to give up and now you're giving up yourself.' Farmer Veluna looked away unable to give his son any answer that would convince even himself.

‘That's unkind, Arthur,' said his mother. ‘You mustn't be unkind to your father, not now. He's done all he can – you know he has. It'll be all right. It'll be the same. We shall go on farming, but in a smaller way, that's all. It's all your father can do; you must see that Arthur.'

Annie turned to her father and put her arms around him as much to comfort herself as to comfort him. It seemed to do neither.

Farmer stroked his daughter's hair gently.

‘We shall be all right, Annie,' he said. ‘I promise you that. Don't worry, I'm not a man to break my promises. You know that, don't you?'

Annie nodded into his chest, fighting back her tears.

‘We'll see you back at home, children,' Molly said.
‘Don't be long now. It gets cold up here when the sun's gone.'

The two children sat side by side and watched their parents move slowly back down the hill towards the farm. They were so alike to look at that many people considered them to be twins. Both had their parents' dark shining hair and their skin stayed dark even in the winter. They had few friends besides each other for there were not many children of their own age on other farms round about, and so they had spent much of their life together, and by now sensed each other's mood intuitively.

‘Annie,' Arthur said finally when he had wiped the tears away from his cheeks. ‘I couldn't live anywhere else, could you? We have to find a way to stay here, because I'm not going. I don't care what father says, I'm not going.'

But Annie was not listening to her brother, for she had been distracted some moments before by the sound of a distant voice from behind her, perhaps from the direction of the Quoit. She had thought it might be the wind at first, moaning through the stones. She put her hand on her brother's arm.

‘Listen,' she said. And the voice was still there, clearly discernible now that Arthur had stopped talking. It was more distinct now, and although they could as yet make out no words, they could tell that someone was calling out for help. They leapt from the logan stone and ran down the track into the heather and bracken of the high moor, homing in all the while on the plaintive cry that came to them ever more urgently from across the moor. They could hear now that it came from the ruins of the old count-house, and they slowed to a walk as they approached, suddenly uncertain of themselves.

‘Help me, please help me,' clearly a man's voice, a man in pain; and no longer a shout into the wilderness, but a plea directed to them.

‘Can you see anyone?' Annie said, clutching Arthur's arm in fright.

‘I'm down here, over here in the ruins. Oh for pity's sake, come quickly.' The children climbed slowly down into the ruin itself, Annie still holding on to her brother, and at last they found what they had been looking for.

Lying in the corner of the ruined old count-house, propped up against a granite pillar was an old man, but
no ordinary man; for he was smaller even than any dwarf but unlike a dwarf his features were in perfect proportion to his size. He was roughly clothed in heavy tweed trousers and a black moleskin jacket. He had wild white hair and eyes as blue as the sea. He lay with one knee clasped to his chest and the children saw that clinging grotesquely to his foot was a rusty gin trap.

‘A Knocker,' Annie whispered, and she stepped back in alarm, dragging Arthur back with her; but Arthur wrenched himself free and stood his ground.

‘I know that,' Arthur said, speaking loudly for he felt it was rude to whisper. ‘There's nothing wrong with Knockers. They won't hurt you, 'less you hurt them. Isn't that right, sir?'

‘Quite right, young fellow,' said the old man crisply, ‘and anyway since I'm pinioned here with this confounded trap, there's not too much danger of my hurting you my girl, now is there?'

Annie shook her head vigorously but was not convinced.

‘And since you're here I wonder, would it be too much trouble to ask you to help me out of this thing? I
would have done it myself if I could, but I'm a wee bit little to pull the spring back and if I move, my leg burns like hell fire. Confounded farmers,' he went on, wincing in pain, ‘they're still trapping you know, but it's not as bad as it was. In the old days my father told me the whole moor was littered with them – rabbit traps, bird traps, fox traps, all sorts. You couldn't go out at dark you know for fear of putting your foot in it, so to speak. This is an old one, been here for years I should think, but there's still some of them at it. I've seem them. I know everything that goes on. Confounded farmers.'

‘I'm a farmer's son,' said Arthur defensively, crouching down to examine the trap, ‘and my father wouldn't use gin traps. He says they're cruel and anyway they're not allowed any more.'

‘Quite right,' the Knocker said, straightening out his leg for Arthur. ‘I know your father. He's a good man. Know you two as well – seen you often enough springing around out on those rocks. Didn't know I was watching, did you? 'Course it's a shame about your farm, but that's life. Swings and roundabouts, ups and downs. It happens.'

‘You've watched us?' said Annie who had plucked up enough courage at last to come closer. ‘You've seen us up there?'

‘Course I have,' said the Knocker. ‘We know everyone for miles around. It's our job to know what's going on; that's what we're here for. Now look, children, can we continue this discussion after you've set me free, if you don't mind. My leg's throbbing and I'll bleed to death if you don't help me out of this soon.'

Rust had stiffened the spring so it took Arthur and Annie some time to prise open the jaws of the trap far enough for the Knocker to withdraw his boot. He fell back to the ground in a faint as the boot came clear. By the time he came to, some minutes later, he found the children had taken his boot off and were kneeling over him bathing his ankle with a wet handkerchief. He lifted himself onto his elbows and smiled up at them.

‘That was kind of you,' he said. ‘I'm surprised you didn't run away; most people would have you know. I think you must know about us. Someone must've told you. But you didn't know we bled, did you?'

Arthur shook his head. ‘No, but everyone's heard about you,' he said, ‘although no one really believes in you any more. But ever since my mother told us all about Knockers and little people and all that, I've always thought that if you were true then you'd live up here on the moor or maybe down the mines. There's nowhere else for you, is there?'

‘I still don't think I should really believe it,' said Annie, tying the handkerchief in a tight knot, ‘if I wasn't touching you, I'm sure I wouldn't.'