Free Eppie by Janice Robertson Page A

beneath the packhorse
bridge.
    Betsy shivered. ‘Let’s mog on; it’ll keep us warm.’
    In silence they ambled along the riverside lane. Drifts of wild
daffodils and purple saffron edging the common lay battered. A hornbeam had
fallen beside the stocks.
    The Fat Duck, the whitewashed stone tavern, was suffering
the same fate as the medieval granary, sinking into the soft ground. None of
its gable windows were level.
    ‘A little further?’ Betsy asked.
    Lost in her sad thoughts, Eppie trudged on. Twiss’s tail
thumped her legs as he trotted alongside. Occasionally, he nudged her hand for
a stroke. Gradually, she became aware that, the cottages left behind, they were
passing through bleak hilly lands littered with isolated boulders. Trees grew
at tortured angles, bent from bitter winds. 
    Betsy’s footsteps faltered. ‘Deary, why’ve we come this far?
Best turn back.’
    Twiss growled deep in his throat. Hackles raised, he bolted
across the wet, hillocky ground, heading toward the river. Eppie charged after
him, Betsy’s plea for her to stop ignored.
    The dog disappeared from view. Eppie pelted in pursuit along
narrow, sheep-beaten paths. Wind tore at her billowing shawl and moaned in the
skeletal branches of stunted hawthorns.
    Leaping into a rain-washed gully, Twiss barked frenziedly.On the opposite bank, Miller’s Stream tumbled in a
dramatic torrent over the steep rocky face. Here the thundering waters cut
deeper and faster. Stones dislodged by the dog’s paws plummeted into the
ravine.
    Catching
up, Betsy chided breathlessly, ‘What’s your mam forever telling you? No running
off.’  
    Eppie
trembled uncontrollably. By the stern look on the old lady’s face, she guessed
that she had not seen Talia’s ghostly body buffeted upon rocks in the ravine.
    Head
lowered, Twiss whimpered.
    ‘Whatever
is the matter with him?’ Betsy asked, her voice shaking. ‘Why’d he run off?’ 
    At
Twiss’s paws lay a bird. Eppie picked it up. In her cupped hands its body felt
cold, its feathers damp.
    Betsy
frowned. ‘How odd. It looks like a white robin. Toss it in the river or a cat
might chew it.’
    The
instant the bird touched the heaving waters, its wings opened. They watched in
amazement as it rose towards the ragged, racing clouds.
    ‘Well
I never!’ Betsy said. ‘I could’ve sworn it were dead.’   
    Relieved
to be back in her cottage, Betsy fretted. ‘I must’ve been barmy taking you so far.
Now my ankle looks more bruised than one of yer pa’s soaked ‘taties.’ 
    Thinking
about the bird, soaring like an angel to the skies, lent wings to Eppie’s feet.
    Parson
Lowford, Gillow and Claire were seated at the bedside, gazing mournfully upon
Martha’s blue-tinged face. The parson spoke quietly, his palms pressed together
in prayer. ‘O Almighty Lord God let it be thy pleasure to restore Martha to her
former health. If thou hast decreed it otherwise, let not my will but thine be
done.’
    Sobbing
out her heart, Eppie raced in and pressed her cheek against Martha’s neck. 
‘Don’t die, Mammy!’
    Betsy
appeared, puffing and distraught. ‘I couldn’t stop her!’    
    Upon
hearing the commotion, Martha’s eyes flickered open. She smiled weakly, though
her voice was filled with pain. ‘Eppie! For once I’m glad you got to wandering,
leastwise as far as the parlour.’

CHAPTER NINE
CRUSADER OAK
     
    Eppie slopped whey into the trough. ‘Uncle
Henry says that Mister Lord’s prize pig is nine feet long and eight feet round
its belly. You’ve both got to grow bigger than that.’
    Though she tried to interest the cow in a handful of chopped
root vegetables, Celandine lethargically lowered her head.
    Fetching the wicker basket that Haggard the hurdle-maker had
made for her, she sprang across the stepping stones that spanned the stream.
    Gillow tied the outer leaves over the curd of a cauliflower,
shielding it from the sun so that it would not run to seed. ‘Don’t eat them all
afore