Читать книгу Storm - Henry James Halliwell Sutcliffe - Страница 4

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Hardcastle, Master of Logie, came swinging up the last of the stiff miles that climbed from Norbrigg market-town to the high uplands. October’s mists had lain heavy on the lowlands, but here on the tops he strode into sunlight and clean, nipping air.

Grim and lean, toughened by many sorts of weather, Hardcastle paused to get breath again, and looked out across the lonely acres that stretched to the four quarters of a blue and amber sky. Ahead of him, bordering the roadway, he saw the straggling clumps of houses known as Weathersett. A brave, storm-battered village, keeping watch above the mines that once fed its people, it wore a comrade’s look to Hardcastle. So did the barren pastures, roaming out and over between their grey stone fences to the gateways that gaped across the hill-tops.

His thoughts were busy with all that lay hidden in these broken lands—unfenced mines, their waters brimming deep—caves, wandered through in boyhood, that had set their spell of mystery and dread on all his after life. It was a haunted land, as all folk knew, and in its old mine-workings lurked trolls and ancient goblins.

His glance roamed down to another village—not reared high like Weathersett, but skulking in a lowland hollow on the far side of the benty waste. He forgot trolls and all their phantom kindred. They were unsubstantial, but the people who lived there in Garsykes village were flesh and blood and a standing menace to the country-side.

A strange look stole across Hardcastle’s face. Contempt, antagonism, the shadow of some restless fear, followed each other as he stood watching Garsykes; for distrust of its folk had been in his mother’s milk, and in the tales passed down for generations.

They had many by-names, like all tribes greatly feared. Men of the Wilderness, some called them; others the Broken People, or the Lost Company. Names of that sort were no more than wind in the reeds.

The stark truth remained that Garsykes village was the abiding-place of every rogue about the fells. Sheep stealers had foregathered there since time out of mind—men who had done murder on the high fells—lesser rogues who had snatched purses at village fairs, and come breathless from pursuit. Such pursuit ended always on the verge of Garsykes, for none but vagabonds dared enter.

Hardcastle remembered his father’s downright struggle against the tribute these Lost Folk levied on the country-side. They were a small village then, but had grown big on what they fed on, till nowadays even strapping farmers paid toll for a safe home-coming.

Hardcastle swung down the road till a turning of the way showed him suddenly the whole, wide front of the highlands that stepped out to his own Logie country.

Pengables caught the mellow sunlight, and his rocks were softened till they showed like some misty castle seen in dreams. The brackens were on fire, and slender rowans crimsoned up to the wise, stalwart pines that fringed the moor.

This was a man’s land, wide, free-striding, its shoulders pushing up to freedom and the sky. It had fathered and mothered his orphaned life. He knew its every dell and furrow, and from the heart of it a crisp, sweet breeze ran out in greeting.

He went down the lone track—past Drumly Ghyll, where Riding Nevison had leaped his horse from cliff to cliff in half-forgotten days—and came to the bend that showed Langerton below him, a hamlet clustered round its water-mill. He could almost hear the mill-wheel droning—a goblin that toiled underground, to his awed boyish fancy—a goblin still, though manhood had killed many pleasant, eerie fears of that sort.

Hardcastle, not knowing why, halted in his stride, and stood looking out across the waste. If the hills were brown and steadfast washed by rain and sun, below him lurked the mines, the bogs that sucked a man down, dragging at him till limb by limb the chill ooze chained him. And there were the Wilderness Men, whose enmity was a dread thing to earn.

A stab of fear took him unawares as if one of the Stealthy People had crept on him from behind. He shook it off, telling himself that the dread was part of his heritage of Logie. A grown man must learn to shake off nursery tales.

The swart, russet face of the land, crowned by Pengables, stood friend to him as he went down the twisting road; and it was in his heart to clear these lusty acres of the scum that hindered them. It was in his heart still when he came past Mathison’s pinfold, where in summer they gathered flocks for sheep washing.

Out of the pinfold came three gaunt men, and straddled across the road, barring it to him. They were unwashen, shifty folk to look at, and they asked tribute.

“I owe none,” said Hardcastle, with rough contempt.

“We’re Wilderness Folk,” said Long Murgatroyd, the tallest of the three.

Again fear played about the Master of Logie, from long habit—played for an instant, and was gone.

“How much would content you?” he asked, as if willing to drive a sober bargain.

“As much as you’ve got,” snarled Murgatroyd.

Hardcastle was beginning to see red, dancing lights between the gaunt men and himself, was ceasing to count the odds. “You shall have it.”

The three leered at each other. “What did I tell you?” asked one of them. “Nobody dare touch the Master of Logie, we said. Oh, we’d best go wide of the Master, we snivelled. But he’s frog-livered too, like the rest of his dalesmen.”

Hardcastle backed quietly to the open gateway of the pinfold, and stood in front of it. He had room to swing his arms, and the three must come at him one at a time or not at all.

“Come, take all I’ve got of muscle,” he said. “It’s waiting for you.”

The Lost Folk were happier when they fought in numbers against few; but now the biggest of the three saw, too, the red, dancing lights and made at Hardcastle. The bleak, well-matched fight went this way and that. Neither spared nor hoped to be spared. The world was narrowed to the limit of blows that thudded out into the breeze. Then Hardcastle swept his left arm round, as it might have been a hammer, and his man went down, and lay still, and cursed no more.

The Master of Logie had given tribute, enough and to spare. His face was wealed and broken, his body hammered out of shape. The men left were wondering how to take him—for the pinfold wall would not let both make at him together—when Hardcastle settled all doubts for them. Fury was on him now. He sprang forward before they guessed his purpose, gripped them with either hand and brought their heads together with a dizzy crash. He stood a moment looking at them as they lay beside Long Murgatroyd, and wondered at his strength. Then he went down the road, with a song at his heart. Whatever stoop to pride the dalesmen made each market day when they paid tribute, the pride of Logie went secure.