Alchemist's Apprentice (12 page)

‘Off you go, then. There's no use you hanging around here, is there?'

‘I suppose not.' Jack picked up his blanket and moved across the room. Beyond the open door, blocking the sky completely, the dark moors stretched away. Could there really be a horse up there? Did he dare to dream it?

He turned and looked back at Nell.

‘Where shall I find the horse?' he asked. Nell smiled and sparks of delight freshened her eyes.

‘That's my boy, Jack,' she said.

J
ACK SPENT MOST OF
his money before he left the town. He bought two pound loaves from the baker and a piece of butter and a good wedge of cheese from a farm girl at the corner of the street. Then, following Nell's directions, he set out up the steep, cobbled streets towards the moors.

The rain cleared and was replaced by a sharp, cold wind, which dried the ground beneath Jack's feet but cut through his clothes and made him shiver. Before long he had left the town behind him and was walking up narrow cart roads between high walls of grey stone. Behind them, steep, muddy fields ran up to small farmhouses and cottages which huddled in against the hillsides like sleeping animals. The wind blew the smoke sideways from their chimneys.

The higher Jack climbed, the harder and colder it seemed to blow. From time to time he rested in a stand of trees or in a sheltered corner where two walls met. He was determined to make his provisions last as long as possible, but the cold made him ravenous and he could rarely resist nibbling at the fresh crust of his bread. By the time he reached the top of the hill which overlooked Shipley, half of the first loaf was gone.

It was mid-afternoon and the wind was still blowing hard, finding the gaps between the stones in the walls and moaning through them. The road levelled off and ran straight along the edge of the moors. Jack followed it as far as he could, reluctant to cross the last boundary wall which separated the hillside farm-land from the bleak, rushy expanse of the heath. It seemed impossible that any creature, man or beast, would choose to inhabit a landscape like that, even if it meant freedom. It occurred to him that the horse might be dead, and he considered abandoning the whole venture and returning to the relative comfort of the town streets below. But when the road began to slope away again, back down towards the brighter green of better land, he had to come to a decision. The dream of Matty replayed itself in his mind, causing his heart to lurch and carrying him, almost involuntarily, towards the wall. As he climbed it he knew that there was, in fact, no choice, and never had been. Hermes was watching over everything, singing with the thin voice of the wind, drawing him on towards the unknown.

For the rest of that day, Jack wandered aimlessly across the cold, squelching boglands, his direction guided only by the need to keep the relentless wind at his back. The landscape was huge and empty, each horizon yielding to another equally desolate, equally lacking in promise. Ragged crows tumbled in the wind like huge smuts. Thin sheep hugged the cover of slopes and left indignantly when Jack disturbed them. Other than that, nothing moved except Jack himself, small and lonely beneath the indifferent sky.

As night began to fall, he found scant shelter among some stunted willow trees beside a sludgy black stream. There was brief comfort in the meal he made of bread and butter and cheese, but it didn't last for long. His blanket was poor protection against the cold and throughout the night, curled up like a stray dog, Jack shivered and shook and gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering. The chill fingers of exposure groped for him, but he fought them off, hugging himself, determined to survive.

Some time before dawn, the wind dropped and clouds settled on to the hills like thistledown. At first light, Jack got up. The chances of finding a horse in those conditions were negligible, and yet Jack had only two alternatives. He could stand still and get colder and wetter than he already was, or he could move on. So throughout the morning he walked within a dome of mist, with no idea of where he was going. Several times he came dangerously close to dark, murky bog holes, and once he blundered into the edge of a marsh which sucked with frightening power at his feet. After that he followed the faint tracks laid down by moorland creatures that were, in this hostile environment, much wiser than he. He never saw them, though. He saw no sign of life at all apart from the occasional sheep, shambling off into the white haze as though it were part of it.

During the afternoon the mist lifted and a weak, wintry sun-light replaced it. It did not, however, reveal any sign of the missing horse. Jack scanned the horizon constantly, veering towards vague shapes that might have been horses sleeping or grazing, but always turned out to be rocks or trees. His supplies were beginning to run short, and the lack of sleep began to cause giddy episodes, when the dreary surroundings twisted and tumbled and produced strange images in front of his eyes.

As the evening light began to fade, a hint of frost entered the still air, causing Jack to double his blanket and wrap it round his shoulders like a shawl. He was beginning to despair of finding shelter, when he found the land beginning to slope downwards again and revert to rough pasture and stone walls. He entered a small valley, at the head of which, nestling in the cleft between two steep hills, was a single, sturdy farmhouse. Wood-smoke hung on the air around it and Jack could smell it from where he stood. Fire was a luxury he could not expect, but the farm buildings which surrounded the yard would be good enough for him.

Dogs would be the problem, but Jack had learnt a lot over the last weeks and months. He waited until the darkness was complete, then walked slowly down towards the farm. With a stealth born of desperation he slipped soundlessly over loose stone walls and across the holding pens until he was at the edge of the yard. A strip of soft lamplight showed through a gap in the shutters of the house, but there was no sound at all. Nor was there any movement in the yard. The dogs were either in the house or asleep.

Barely breathing, Jack climbed into the yard and slipped like a shadow over the bottom door of the cow byre. Inside, a placid milker lay on a bed of dried rushes. When she saw Jack she lifted her head and regarded him with curiosity for a moment before accepting him as she accepted all other human eccentricity. Jack lay down beside her. She resumed her chewing of the cud and, lulled by the rhythmic sound and the solid warmth of her flank, he was soon sound asleep.

J
ACK WOKE TO THE
musical ringing of milking. He turned on to his back, torpid in the fuggy warmth of the byre, but he wasn't allowed to sleep again. A cold nose nuzzled and a warm tongue licked his cheek.

‘That's it, Rufus. You wake him up.' It was a girl's voice, light and humorous. Jack sat up. They were all looking at him; the girl with her cheek to the cow's flank, the dog who was now sitting down with his head on one side and the cow herself, still placidly chewing. The froth in the bucket was rising towards the rim.

‘Ah, now he's awake,' said the girl. ‘But where has he sprung from, that's the question.' There was a sly smile in her face as she spoke that Jack found quite enchanting. He didn't feel threatened in the slightest.

‘We don't get many strays around here,' the girl went on. ‘You're a fair step from home, I dare say.'

Jack scratched his head and nodded. From the yard a man's voice called out, ‘Who are you talking to, Jenny?'

All three faces turned away from Jack and towards the door. The girl put a finger to her lips. ‘Just Parsley, Father. She's imagining flies again.'

Footsteps crossed the yard and a door closed. ‘He's not so bad,' Jenny whispered. ‘But he has a bit of a temper in the mornings.' For a while she said nothing, but drew the last drops from the cow's udder and put the bucket up on to the window ledge, out of reach of the hopeful Rufus. Jack watched her surreptitiously. Her uncombed hair hung in long, gleaming shanks, snarling here and there in the rough wool of her jersey. Her face glowed with a healthy blush and seemed set in a permanent smile.

‘If you had any milk to spare, I could buy it,' said Jack, making a weak jingle with the last two coins in his pocket.

Jenny looked around, slyly. ‘I'll give you some,' she said, ‘but only if you tell me what you're doing here.'

Jack shrugged. ‘Just sleeping.'

‘Not here, stupid. Here.' She gestured towards the world beyond the byre. ‘Out here. Nobody comes here without a reason.'

She waited for a moment or two, and when Jack said nothing, she reached for the handle of the bucket. ‘No milk, then.'

‘Wait.'

‘Tell me, then.'

Jack stood up and moved closer. ‘Can you keep a secret?'

The girl nodded. Half a dozen hens had gathered at the open door and were crooning to each other inquisitively. Jenny made a half-hearted kick at them and they wandered away again. Rufus was sniffing at the corner of Jack's blanket where the last of his bread and cheese were tied. He hitched it up out of reach and stroked the dog's head. Then, in a low voice, he said, ‘I'm here looking for a horse.'

Jenny burst into peals of laughter, covering her mouth to try and keep them contained.

‘Why is it funny?'

‘It's no secret,' said Jenny, still giggling. ‘Everybody knows about that stupid horse. The whole country is out marching up and down the place looking for him.'

‘Well, I haven't seen them,' said Jack.

‘Maybe not. But we've had more visitors here in the last two weeks than in the last two years.' She laughed again. ‘And the best of it is that they all think they have a secret.'

Jack's heart sank. ‘Did anyone find him yet?'

Jenny shook her head. ‘I don't think so. And I'll tell you something else for nothing. He's not far from here.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because our mare has disappeared, our work horse, Bessie. Father's furious. He thinks she has run off with the stallion, see, because he found two sets of tracks. And if she has, they can't be far away. She would always hang towards home …' she blushed and giggled, ‘… no matter how handsome her sweetheart might be.'

‘Didn't your father follow the tracks?'

‘Of course he did. We all did. But you know what the mist was like yesterday. The tracks disappeared and the horses with them. We searched all day.'

‘Maybe someone else has found them,' said Jack, glumly.

‘Maybe. Maybe not.' Jenny reached for the bucket again and handed it to him. Rufus pricked up his ears. The froth had been deceptive. Now that it had settled, Jack could see that the milk only filled a quarter of the bucket.

‘Don't take too much or you'll get me into trouble. And don't spill it.'

With great care, Jack tilted the bucket and began to drink. He didn't intend to be greedy, but it was difficult to stop once he had started, and Jenny had to prise the milk away from him.

‘You'd better go,' she said. ‘I might even see you later on, up there.' She gestured vaguely towards the hills.

Jack looked at his feet. ‘Thanks for the milk. And for not telling anyone.'

Jenny nodded. ‘Even if you can't catch the colt,' she said, ‘you might find our Bessie. She's an old softy, she wouldn't give you any trouble.' She reached for a coil of dusty rope that was hanging from a bent nail in the rafters, then blushed and grinned charmingly. ‘You can use this to catch her. But don't be expecting any daughter's hand in marriage from my father, you hear?'

Now it was Jack's turn to blush. He took the rope, screwed up his blanket into a clumsy ball and made a rush for the door. A moment later, without any idea of where he was going, he was out of the yard and climbing the steep hill behind the house towards the open heath. He did not look back.

At the top of the hill he paused to get his breath and look around. The black moorland rolled and dipped away in three directions. There were a hundred places where a pair of horses could be concealed, but at least the air was clear and he could see right to the horizon. And as he set out on his third day of searching, he had a new confidence. He now knew for certain that the Arabian colt did exist and was not just a figment of Nell's imagination.

The wind picked up again as the morning wore on as cold as on the first day, if not colder. Jack allowed himself to be guided by the little sheep tracks that skirted the bogs and ran around the contours of hills, going in any direction that seemed likely or even possible. Sometimes he climbed to high ground to get a broader view of the surroundings and sometimes he kept to the dells whose turns and deviations provided perfect cover for fugitive creatures. From time to time he called the mare's name, softly: ‘Bessie, Bessie.' A dozen times he found what he thought was the imprint of a horse's hoof in the rough turf, but he could never be certain and he never found more than one at a time. The day was hard and frustrating, but it was softened by the memory of Jenny's smile. He had never really noticed girls before, but now he began to wonder what it really meant to be married. He remembered the pictures of the courtship between the Red King and the White Queen in the alchemist's house and they reminded him of his other search, for the mystical stone. The desolate surroundings provided hundreds of possibilities, but the idea of slopping around in those cold, wet bogs gave Jack the shivers.

To his combined pleasure and disappointment, Jack saw no sign of other searchers: if Jenny's family had come out again, they must have taken a different direction. He finished the cheese and all but one last crust of his bread at midday, sitting on the highest ground that he could find and exposed to the worst of the wind. Nothing moved, nothing disturbed that vast, dismal scene, and Jack was reduced to solitude again.

The day wore on and passed the eerie afternoon hour which marked the turn towards evening. Jack was beginning to wonder where he would sleep that night when something made him stop in his tracks. For a moment or two he had no idea what it was; he had seen nothing and heard nothing and the moors were as bleak and empty as ever. Then it came again. The wind was carrying the smell of horses.