Free The View From the Cart by Rebecca Tope Page B

attention at first, as they tried to return to their former home, and the lusher forage of the valley. They hurt their feet on our granite outcrops, and one day wandered as far as Cranmere Pool, which was well away from our usual grazing.
    So it was that Cuthman had to watch them. At daybreak, before they began to wake and move away, he would be there, waiting to guide them to a fair patch of ground and keep them under his gaze. Slowly they would drift further and further from the hut, until at midday he would begin to herd them homewards again, little by little, the sheep eating as they went the fine thin grass between the tussocks of heather and drinking from the countless springs and streamlets which ran down any slope. With luck, by dusk they would settle down at a point not too far from home, ready to begin all over again the next day.
    â€˜What do you do all day?’ Wynn enquired, gazing at him curiously.
    â€˜I pray,’ he said.
    Wynn laughed. ‘What? All day long? What do you pray for, little brother?’
    â€˜For a sight of the Saviour. For courage, goodness, wisdom.’
    I interposed, before his sister could mock him again. ‘Cuthman, where do you get these ideas? Who do you speak to of such things? Do angels come to you, out on the moors, or merely strolling monks?’ Too late, I realised I must sound as scornful as Wynn had done, and tried to put an arm round him to counter such an impression. He ducked away from me.
    â€˜The ideas are nothing remarkable, Mam. Everyone wishes to become better than he is. I pray to become a good shepherd, with strong sheep and plentiful lambs.’
    â€˜That’s very fine of you. But a sight of the Saviour? That strikes me as a lot to ask for.’
    He shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
    As he grew, the lad seemed forever hungry. I remembered my mother complaining that she could scarcely keep food enough in the house for my brothers’ needs, as they grew from boys to men. Cuthman would wrap up a whole loaf and whatever meat he could find, with apples or plums in their season, and take it with him in a stout sack, slung over his shoulder. By the time he returned, the sack would be empty and his belly demanding a large supper. ‘We shall have to slaughter one of those lambs of yours before its time if this goes on,’ grumbled Edd, who had seen our food stocks dwindling. Cuthman nodded.
    â€˜Plenty of lambs,’ he said, shortly. One of the orphans which Spenna had given us was a ram, fortunately not yet castrated when he came to us, and intact still at the time we gained the flock from Bran. Cuthman gave that animal special attention from the first, until he grew into a fine sire for all the future season’s lambs.
    I had heard other women comment on the strangeness of the time when their children turn to full grown people. Over those two or three summers, with Cuthman’s flock flourishing and Edd somehow crumbling away, the old pattern shifted into something quite different. Wynn played a part in this, by leaving us for days on end to stay with Spenna in the village. She worked with the potter, learning her art and the mysteries of firing the different types of clay. She went on a cart down to the southern edge of the moor, where a special clay could be had, and came home full of the sights she had seen and the people she had met. It was her first time away from the village and she gained a new understanding of how wide the world was and how much there was to discover. She stayed a few nights with us, describing every detail of her journey. Cuthman listened avidly, questioning her on the roads and whether she had passed any churches or hermitages.
    But we adapted to the changes, and life continued. I tended my bees and fowls and spinning and weaving. I grew vegetables in a plot behind the hut, and gathered fruit and berries. Edd milked the home cow, and continued to grow an acre or two of corn. The hogs did poorly, often