Ormeshadow Read online

  Here in Ormeshadow, ragged children ran along in the muddy wheel-ruts of carts. They stared at strangers. When Gideon said hello, they continued to stare in silence. There was only a chapel and an inn. Unlike the cornfields around Bath, there was coarse grass fighting against the wind coming in off the sea.

  “Gideon, this is my land so it’s yours, too.”

  “All the farm?”

  “No, this half. This half, mind. That’s important. From over there”—he pointed back across the miles to where they’d come from—“to all the way over there, to the tip of the Orme.”

  “This is the Orme?”

  “She’s beneath your feet. Behind us, where the land rises before it dips, are her hindquarters. This ridge is her backbone.”

  Her spine ran away from them down the centre of the Orme. Limestone showed through in patches, seamed with lichen. She was taking shape beneath Gideon’s feet.

  Sheep scattered as they walked. Gideon felt they were high up enough to reach out and grasp the sky. The gulls that hovered and fell on the wind had stopped soaring and screaming, retiring to holes in the cliff faces around the bay. The air was changing from warm amber to a cool, dusky blue.

  “This is my favourite place, Gideon.”

  “Not the library?”

  Gideon meant the old master’s library in Bath, where his father worked. Sometimes Gideon was allowed to go there with him and look at the rows of spines, gold lettering tooled into the leather. Rolled maps were stored in brass tubes. There were butterflies skewered in cases, beautiful things the size of a man’s hand, their iridescent wings marked with blind eyes for protection. Gideon had wanted to know why they were so dangerous that, even in death, they had to be contained. His father had laughed.

  Gideon wished he could take back the question about which place his father liked best because he looked sad.

  “Where there are books there’s learning. There’s no finer thing, but a man needs more. The soul must be fed, not just stomach and mind. He needs peace. Some people find it in church. I’ve always found it here.”

  Gideon slid his hand into his father’s.

  “Your grandfather used to bring me here. He was called James. He used to tell me stories about the Orme.”

  They reached the tip of the spine, where the gentle incline peaked, just behind the head. The Orme was a strip of land, dividing the bay in half, and was symmetrical on either side of the ridge. Off to the east there was an inlet where the river met the sea after its journey down the valley, where more sheltered, prosperous lives were led.

  “Look at those.” His father showed him the rocky outcrops on either side of the Orme. “Those are her ears.”

  “Do dragons have ears?”

  “And noses. See?”

  The dropping outcrop was her snout, bumps marking her nostrils. Gideon laughed.

  “How long do we have to stay here?”

  John gave him a sidelong look.

  “There’s no more work for me in Bath, or elsewhere. We’re staying right here. Half the farm is ours. Never forget that and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Your uncle Thomas is a fine farmer, but this place is too much for one man. I gave him a mighty chore when I left. I can only hope he’ll forgive me.”

  They watched the sun slip away underwater.

  “I knew I couldn’t stay away, Gideon. Not forever.”

  The Slow-Blinking Eye

  “GIDEON, WE HAVE TO go.” John Belman broke the silence.

  “No, I want to stay here. I want you to carry on telling me about the Orme.”

  “We don’t seem to have much time together the way we used to. Samuel and Peter have never had what we do. Thomas is too hard on them.” His father sounded like he was apologising. “Tell you what. Why don’t we slip up here one evening in the week, just the two of us, and we can talk more?”

  Gideon pulled a face, trying to delay his father, but they started to walk back to the farmhouse.

  “A little longer, then, but not much. We shouldn’t keep the others waiting.”

  Down at Ormesleep they would be laying the table for supper.

  “Tell me some more about the dragon.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Why did she come here?”

  “The Orme was royalty among the dragons. Daughter of a king. Her father was fearsome and brave, but for a dragon he was also an original thinker. He planned harmony between dragons and men, who were always at war.”

  “An alliance between men and dragons?” Gideon was enraptured by the idea.

  “Dragons live a long time and see great changes. Their king had foresight, knowing though small, men were cunning, and held the future in their hands.”

  “What did the king do?”

  “He chose an ally among men.”

  Gideon could hear the storytelling in his father’s voice.

  “Who did the king choose?” Gideon was curious, and jealous. A king of men. Or a warrior.

  “A shepherd.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! Dragons can use their slow-blinking eyes to look into the heart of any man. The dragon king saw honesty and truth. Do you know what the man was called?”

  Gideon shook his head. Something in his chest fluttered, trying to answer.

  “Gideon Bellamans.”

  “Bellamans?”

  “Yes, the origin of our name, Belman, is Bellamans. I called you Gideon for him. Gideon promised to be his emissary, carrying messages to the English thanes, for the sake of peace. No more arrows shot at the sky to kill dragons and no more villages burnt in revenge. It didn’t please all men. Or dragons. There were some of his own kind who plotted against the king.”

  “Treason?”

  “They attacked him during the great migration of dragons, when he’d be at his most tired from the flight.”

  “Did he fight back?” Gideon’s eyes were wide with fear.

  “Oh yes. He wasn’t king for nothing. He battled for his life, as did his loyal followers. It must have been quite a sight, the last battle of the dragons.”

  Gideon could see them in shades of green and dark purple, in bronze and gold, wheeling around each other. This was no simple posturing. They were like kestrels, their huge talons leading their attack, slashing and clawing at each other. Fire streamed from their nostrils and their teeth were bared. There was a flurry of leathery wings as they grappled, trying to drag one another from the sky.

  The sound. The sounds, louder than any other, shaking the earth and the sky. Screaming. Screeching. Howling. Such sounds, never to be heard again.

  “What about the princess?” The Orme, a princess.

  “She flew with her prince and her child, guarding her father’s flanks with flame-dripping jaws. How she fought to protect her family. She was so fierce that several of their enemies had to work together to separate her from them.”

  “How did they do it?”

  “They got between her and her calf.”

  Gideon imagined her, torn, trying to be everywhere at once until the mewing of her child overcame her. She broke away, her wings beating.

  “What could she do, alone and surrounded? They taunted her, so many of them, dipping and diving around her until she was exhausted. Then they inflicted the most painful wound of all. They crushed her son between their great claws.

  “The Orme’s piercing cry cut through all the others, making those who had done the terrible deed back away, fearful and ashamed. She followed, her blind fury making her reckless. Finally, a blow knocked her from the sky and she fell to earth.

  “The ground shook, again and again, as the bodies dropped from the heavens.

  “The princess was left for dead, one body among many heaped upon the hills. Her leg was injured and all that came from her nostrils were sparks too small to ignite a flame.

  “From where she lay, she could see the body of her father. He was on his side, panting. His chest was ripped open and his life leaked out. The Orme crawled ov
er to him.

  “‘Go, daughter. Fly before they regroup and come back.’

  “‘No, I won’t leave you.’

  “‘Yes, you will. I command you. Go and sleep and heal until our time comes again.’

  “Before he died, her father told her his secret, of a man called Gideon Bellamans and where to find him.”

  Gideon could see the farmhouse now, smoke climbing from the chimney.

  “The Orme was tired and weary because she had flown a long way after the battle. Tired and weary and heartsick. All her kin, all that she loved best in the world, gone. Her father. Her mate. Her child. She circled high in the sky, the circles becoming smaller and lower until she landed in the sea to cool herself and wash away the dirt and blood. She shifted her belly, the warmth of the sun finding her bones.

  “When she sighed smoke curled from her nostrils. That was how Gideon Bellamans found her, weary and brokenhearted. To live such a long time and spend it feeling so low is a terrible thing.”

  Gideon tried to imagine such pain but couldn’t. Instead he saw it all as his father described it, Gideon Bellamans’s surprise as the beast turned her massive head to look at him. He stood on the cliff edge, unsure whether she was friend or foe, fixing him with her slow-blinking eyes. He didn’t turn and run. She was the one trespassing, after all. He listened as she spoke and took in the crusts of blood along the deep gash on her leg.

  “I will look after you,” he announced, once he’d heard her story.

  The Orme looked at this man who she could kill with a swish of her tail and saw what her father saw and finally understood the nature of men. That such a brief life could burn so brightly and be so noble and so devious surprised her. Her father had been wise indeed.

  “I will sleep,” she told him. “I must heal and dream and wait for my time to come again.”

  She tried to eat the dead sheep he’d brought her with delicacy, but she was ravenous. She tipped back her head and chomped them down, her jaws working.

  “You’ll be dead when that time comes,” she told him, looking for the man’s fear. Not fear of her, but of death itself. There was none. He stood tall and nodded as though his own mortality were nothing to fear, being the natural order of things. “And so will your sons, as their sons will be and so on and so on.” Then, with sadness, “You and I will not speak again, Gideon Bellamans.”

  “Then I will keep you safe and tell my sons to tell their sons, and their sons’ sons and so on, that here lies a dragon and the Bellamanses must always shelter her and be there for her when she wakes from dreaming.”

  Closer to the farmhouse and Gideon could see Samuel’s anxious face, peering from the window in search of them.

  The Race

  GIDEON MARVELLED HOW WHEN Thomas called Sweetheart to heel she came without question, just for the joy of being in his shadow.

  “He’ll never love anyone as much as he loves that dog,” Maud had once complained out of her husband’s earshot, banging pots about on the stove.

  Nancy, Sweetheart’s sister, made to follow, but Thomas held her back with a low, growling whistle. Sweetheart turned her longing eyes on him, grateful to be chosen, her pink tongue lolling.

  Now Thomas, with only his two dogs, had brought the whole flock down to the shallow crossing place in the river to be washed.

  The rest of the Belman men waited, in position.

  “Your father has a God-given talent,” John said to his nephew. “I’ve never seen a man with a talent for dogs like he has.”

  Samuel stood shivering in his shirtsleeves, waiting for the sun to warm him through. “I suppose so.”

  “No supposing at all, boy.” Gideon had never heard his father call anyone boy before. “When he was your age he was training his first dog, all by himself. No one taught him how to. By the time he was fourteen, men were coming to him and asking him to pick them out a pup from the litter he’d bred and name his own price for it.”

  Samuel, stung, stared up the hill at his father.

  “So why doesn’t anyone come up here for pups anymore?” Gideon asked.

  “Your grandfather put a stop to it all when Lord Jessop came all the way from Carrside in his carriage, offering Thomas a place, breeding and training his hounds for hunting. He had some funny notions about what was important, our father did, especially after our ma died. He didn’t want us both leaving the farm. He did Thomas a disservice. Every man has a talent.”

  The sheep poured down on them as if a dam had broken and let them through. Thomas was whistling; shrill notes, low hoots and growls, a whole language only his girls understood. Gideon felt the same respect for him at that moment as he had when he watched the blacksmith shoeing a horse or his mother’s needle fly across a piece of silk.

  Thomas waved and John was in the water, wading in up to his thighs. The river swirled around him. The dogs guided the flock toward the gap in the bank. The boys stood with legs spread and arms out, helping the dogs to keep them from breaking away.

  There was a crush of bleating sheep as they hovered at the river’s edge. John grabbed the foremost sheep, one hand on the scruff of its neck and the other one deep in the fleece of its back, and heaved it into the river.

  The alarmed sheep kicked until it landed in the water with a splash. The others followed, a woolly tributary, plunging into the water and coming out indignant and wet. They filled the field on the other side, this baptism not to cleanse their souls but their fleeces, ready for shearing as soon as they were dry.

  Peter picked up the shearing shears, the blades hinged at one end. “You can carve them into pieces if you’re not careful.”

  “Get off.” Thomas took them off him. “They’re not a toy.”

  Gideon sat on the wall, the cold seeping from the stone and into the seat of his trousers. Peter wandered away, punching Samuel as he went. Samuel hit him back, felling his brother with ease. They went at it in silence and their father left them to it.

  “Come here.”

  Gideon jumped down but lingered by the wall.

  “I said come here.”

  Overcome by the desire to run away, his legs refused to carry him to Thomas as instructed.

  “I won’t bite you.” Thomas raised an eyebrow at him, gesture and words that were like Gideon’s father’s. Gideon obeyed.

  “Here. Take them.” Thomas offered him the shears.

  Gideon took them, his fingers and thumb finding their rightful places. The oiled hinge offered little resistance and the shears responded with a dangerous snipping sound.

  “You’re a natural. We’ll make a farmer of you yet.” There was no pride or encouragement in his voice, just cold observation. “Careful, though. They can be lethal. You can take off teats and testicles along with the fleece. Not to mention fingertips.”

  The words “teat” and “testicle” sounded sore in themselves, making Gideon want to protect every fleshy part of himself.

  “Peter’s right. I’ve seen bad shearers take off skin and flesh from cutting too deep.”

  It was the most Gideon had ever heard his uncle say to anyone. That it was directed at him made Gideon feel it was an examination he had to pass. He wanted to rise to it and ask a question or make a clever comment that would make him worthy of his uncle’s attention. Instead of the free banter he enjoyed with his father, he froze, unable to think of what to say.

  Clare and Maud had joined them, leading the donkey and cart for taking the fleeces away. John strolled over and picked up the second pair of shears.

  “What are you doing?” Clare asked.

  “I’m the son of a sheep farmer.” He shook his head at their incredulous faces. “What did you think I was going to do today?”

  Clare looked at him like he’d been concealing things from her.

  “Let’s see if you still have the knack or whether all those books have ruined you.” Thomas gave his brother a rare smile. It looked odd on his narrow face.

  The sheep had been penned with a run at on
e end of their enclosure. At the start and end of the run were trapdoors that could be lifted when one of the boys pulled on a rope. Samuel manned the first door and Gideon the second, while Peter stood on one of the fences making up the run and flicked the sheep with a switch to keep them moving. Once released by Gideon, the lone sheep was met by one of the men, brandishing blades.

  “You go first, John. It’s only fair to give you a head start.”

  John caught the ram and heaved it onto its hindquarters. Using a bale for balance, he tipped the sheep back at an angle. It realised the futility of its struggle and gave in. John’s knees were wedged into the animal’s fleshy belly rather than its ribs, to cause it the minimum of discomfort. One hand held the shears and the other gripped one of the forelegs.

  Another sheep came out of the run to be caught by Thomas.

  Gideon watched his father at the unfamiliar task. It was strange to see, as it was clearly once a well-practised chore. As he worked, John’s fingers seemed to remember their disused skill. They found their way, pulling the wool back to bare it for the blades. He went from tummy to throat, from neck to flank, rolling the sheep from one side to the other until he reached the tail.

  The fleece fell from the sheep in a single piece. It was worth more whole.

  Thomas finished his a fraction sooner. Both men swapped from shears to clippers to trim the sheeps’ hooves, and they were set free at the same time. Without their coats they were scrawny, naked creatures. They ran into the far corner of the field in shame.

  Maud went to take Thomas’s fleece, telling Clare to fetch John’s. Maud taught her how to cut off the dunged wool and twist and roll the fleece into a neat bundle. She was about to fling them on the cart, but Thomas shouted to her as he struggled to get to grips with the next ewe. He told the women to make them into separate piles, one his and the other for John’s fleeces. They would count them at the end.

  “But—” Maud began.