Silent on the Moor. Deanna Raybourn

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      She motioned toward the far end of the garden where a rotting wooden door sagged in the stone wall. I turned back, eager to see Grimsgrave Hall in the clear light of day. It was almost as forbidding as it had been by moonlight. The native gritstone, once handsome no doubt, had weathered to blackness, giving the entire façade a gloomy cast. The ruined wing put me in mind of a skeleton, its flesh rotted away from the bones. But the structure itself, Jacobean in design, was elegant if old-fashioned. Properly rebuilt and with thoughtful landscaping, it might still be redeemed.

      “It would take a miracle from God and more money than I will ever see in my lifetime to rebuild it,” Miss Allenby commented, intuiting my thoughts.

      “It is a handsome place,” I offered, following slowly as she led the way to the wooden door.

      “Handsome, but rotten through and through. I have a model of the house, as it used to be. It is a doll’s house really, but it was built by an architect who came to make a study of the house. He presented it to my grandmama when she was still in the nursery, and eventually it was given to me to play with. It is a lovely thing, but it makes me quite sad sometimes to see how it used to be. Mind your step here, my lady. A bit of stone has come loose,” she warned.

      I followed her into a pleasure garden, this one derelict as well. It had been well-planned and probably well-executed, but little that was recognisable remained. Woody old vines choked a statue of an ancient king, and here and there a few scattered bits of stone spoke of ornaments long since destroyed.

      “That is King Alfred,” Miss Allenby informed me, gesturing toward the decrepit old king. “He is an ancestor of the Allenbys. We are of ancient Anglo-Saxon stock,” she said proudly. Her chin was tipped high, and I could well see the resemblance to old royalty in her profile. I had read long before that the athelings, the children of Saxon royalty, had been reckoned by the conquering Normans to be the handsomest people they had ever seen. It was not so difficult to believe Miss Allenby was of this tribe. I said as much to her and she laughed, clearly pleased.

      “There is an old tale that Pope Gregory once saw a group of Angle children for sale in the Roman slave market at Deira. He was so struck with their beauty, he asked who they were. He was told they were Angles, and he replied, ‘Non Angli, sed angeli.’”

      “‘Not Angles, but angels,’” I translated.

      “Precisely.”

      We passed through the pleasure garden and beyond another crumbling door. As soon as we crossed the threshold, I gasped, for stretching before me was the moor, vast and rolling, empty and endless as the sea. It was beautiful, and yet inhospitable as well.

      Miss Allenby stood next to me. “When I was a little girl, I was frightened of the moor. The way the wind always rises, keening like a human voice. The local folk call it a speaking wind. One is never entirely alone on the moor. That wind always blows, and that voice is always there.”

      “I can well imagine it,” I murmured.

      “But it can be a great comfort as well,” she said, turning aside. Her expression had not changed, but I noted the black of her gown and remembered the brother whose death had necessitated the loss of her home. Did she mourn him still?

      A narrow path wound its way through the moor grasses, here quite straight, there bending a little to skirt a bit of rock or a boggy patch. There was just enough room to walk abreast and we did so. I had thought the moor empty, but as we moved farther from the Hall, I noticed the occasional bird, beating its wings to rise above the grasses, or heard the bleating of sheep carried on the wind.

      She pointed out the dark, peaty waters that swirled and sucked in boggy places, ready to close over the unsuspecting. She warned me sternly against straying from the path, and lifted her arm to point out a shimmering expanse of black water in the distance.

      “Grimswater. It is an ancient place, that lake—full of magic. They say the god who lives there gave this moor its name.”

      “Really? I should have thought the name Grimsgrave quite appropriate in any event.”

      Miss Allenby gave a quick, light laugh. “The moor is not so sinister as that. Grim was a Saxon god, and grave merely means pit or shaft. This moor was mined in ancient times, even through the Roman occupation. Silver and lead run deep under these lands.”

      She nodded toward the surging waters of Grimswater. “They say there was once a town there, where the waters now stand. It was a rich place, with fine houses and proud people. One day a poor man searched the town for shelter and food, but none would offer him succour. Only the poorest farmer would give him a crust and a bed. When he had taken the farmer’s hospitality, the poor man, who was a god in disguise, raised his hand and cursed the town.”

      Miss Allenby paused a moment, her eyes closed. Then she opened them, spread her arms and intoned,

      “Grimswater rise, Grimswater sink,

       And swallow all the town save this little house

       Where they gave me food and drink.”

      Her voice was commanding as a priestess’ and I shuddered a little. It was too easy to imagine her, clad in the robes of a pagan witch, conjuring spirits to do her bidding.

      She smiled then, and the effect was lost. “It is atmospheric, isn’t it? They say the waters rose at once and covered the town, drowning everyone. The Saxons used to throw sacrifices into the lake to keep the gods happy. Even now, when the wind is coming off the waters, you can hear a bell tolling under the lake. It is said to presage a death in my family,” she finished softly.

      “The moor is full of old legends, isn’t it?” I asked faintly. There was something quite otherworldly and a little unsettling about Ailith Allenby. Talking to her was rather like conversing with a faery or a unicorn.

      “Oh, yes. There are soft places where the souls of those who have been sucked into the bogs cry for help.”

      “Is that all?” I demanded. “They don’t drag folk down into the bog with them or carry off one’s children?”

      “No,” she said, her tone edged with peevishness. “I think you are making sport.”

      “Not a bit,” I told her truthfully. “We have the most useless ghosts at my father’s house. I always think if one is going to be haunted, it’s rather nicer to be haunted by something useful, don’t you think? Your tolling bell, for example. Quite helpful indeed. An Allenby would hear that and know he ought to change his ways or at the very least make a proper confession if he is to die soon.”

      She turned wordlessly and led the way across the moor. I realised my tongue had run away with me and thought to make amends, but the wind rose and rendered conversation impossible. We trudged along, here and there helping each other over the muddiest bits, until we reached a crossroads in the path. A direction board pointed out the proper way to the village, but Miss Allenby struck out toward the left, taking a smaller path that wound higher up on the moor. I followed now, struggling to catch my breath as Miss Allenby led the way, unruffled as ever. If my flippancy had offended her, she had decided to overlook it, and I relaxed a bit, enjoying the glorious fresh air and the spectacular views.

      After a few minutes, we came over a rise and I saw, sheltered just below us, a cottage sitting beside another crossroads. It was a tumbledown little place of faery-tale proportions, with a high-peaked СКАЧАТЬ