Free Eppie by Janice Robertson Page B

you get back,’ he called, guessing she was off to collect more
blackberries from beside Shivering Falls. ‘And don’t be long; I could do with
some help.’
    Skirting the wood, she came to the open glade. Gushing over
a stone lip, the waterfall glistened in the morning sun. Fragrant petals of
wild rose swirled in knotted confusion with blackberry briars. Careful not to
scratch herself with the thorns, she plucked the firmest berries and placed
them in the basket.
    Twiss soon lost interest. A pheasant fled, squawking, at his
homeward dash.
    Uncomfortably hot and sticky, she knelt beside the pool and
splashed her face. 
    Last night being the hottest of summer, she had slept only fitfully.
Overcome with tiredness, she lay in the shade beneath a white willow. Above her
head, skeins of midges hung in shafts of light.
    A myriad of sunlight and shadows played upon her face, flickering,
lulling her into an ocean of dreams.
    Around her a fey princess, apple blossom sprinkled in her golden
hair, danced to the haunting lilt of a flute, which played as happily and
brightly as the chirping birds.
    Abruptly the quivering trill died.
    A boy, of noble appearance and attire, squatted on a boulder
above the pool. His flaxen hair was caught back in a ponytail.
    ‘Don’t stop!’ Eppie cried, seeing him lay the flute upon his
knees.
    ‘I don’t feel like it anymore.’
    Scrambling up the rocks, she plonked herself beside him.
    Around his blue eyes was a red-rimmed soreness.
    ‘You’re Gabriel, ain’t ya?’
    Crushing the tails of his
scarlet jacket in his hands, the boy stared transfixed into the pool.
    ‘I see you in church. I’m
Eppie. I live in the cottage beside Miller’s Bridge. Twiss came with me. He’s
Wakelin’s dog. Tipsy was from Aunty Claire’s cat. Have you gorra dog?’
    He let out a shaky sigh. ‘I
have a brown and white Angora cat called Prince Ferdinand. Father says my cat
is a drawing-room-pet-only, but I smuggle him into my bed at night. I chose his
name from Shakespeare’s plays.’
    ‘Wakelin’s supposed to learn his letters. Mr Strutt, the
master cropper, slaps him when he won’t think. Pa wants to learn Wakelin the
accordion so he can play in the church concert. Wakelin told him he’d rather go
blobbing for eels.’
    In silence, they watched grey wagtails dart from rock to
rock at the poolside. Red admiral butterflies flitted among the yellow petals
of marsh Saint John’s wort.
    ‘I’ll be off. Pa told me to give him a hand with his caulis.’
    ‘Don’t go!’ he implored. ‘It’s just,’ he faltered, ‘you see,
I’m not used to other children. Mother likes me to talk to her, though she’s
sickly.’
    ‘My mam was sick a year ago. She skidded and squashed my
baby brother. I’ve not seen you at the Falls before.’
    ‘Father says I’m to keep away from the cottagers. He says
they’re ill-disposed, though I think Samuel Cobbett is friendly.’
    ‘He’s my Grumps.’
    ‘Your what?’
    ‘My grandfather. I’m supposed to call him Gramps. When I was
little I called him Grumps. It sort of stuck. If you’re not meant to talk to
villagers, why didn’t you pelt off scared when you saw me?’
    ‘It seemed all right because Talia wasn’t frightened of you.’
    ‘The girl dancing?’
    ‘You saw her? I thought only mother and I could see her. She
used to be my sister. I mean she still is.’
    ‘How come she melts away like that?’
    ‘She just does. I used to sleep in the nursery. Now I’m in
the bedchamber next door. There’s a secret panel in the wall. When I’m lonely I
crawl through to be with her. She rides on Spellbound, her rocking pony. Mother
visits Talia in the nursery. We call it the Swan Chamber because mother, Talia
and I used to like standing together at the window to watch a flock of mute
swans fly over. I still watch them - on my own. Their snowy feathers look a
beautiful blue against the setting sun.’ He hesitated, unsure whether it was
safe to develop a friendship