Free The People in the Castle: Selected Strange Stories by Joan Aiken Page A

Furry Race? My daughter revived it five years ago. There’s two villages, ye see, Polgrue, and Lostmid, and there’s this ball, what they call the Furry Ball. It’s not furry; it’s made of applewood with a silver band round the middle, and on the band is written,

      Fro Lostmid Parish iff I goe
    Heddes will be broke and bloode will flowe.

    “The ball is kept in Lostmid, and on the day of the race one of the Polgrue lads has to sneak in and take it and get it over the parish boundary before anybody stops him. Nobody’s succeeded in doing it yet. But why do you ask?”
    Ian explained about the scene the night before.
    “Eh, I see; that’s awkward. You’re afraid it may bring on an attack if he sees them crossing his land? Trouble is, that’s the quickest shortcut over the parish boundary.”
    “If your daughter withdrew her support, would the race be abandoned?”
    “My dear feller, she’d never do that. She’s mad about it. She’s a bit of a tomboy, Clarissa, and the roughhousing amuses her—always is plenty of horseplay, even though they don’t get the ball over the boundary. If her mother were still alive now . . . Bless my soul!” the old doctor burst out, looking troubled, “I wish Meredith had never come back to these parts, that I do. You can speak with Clarissa about it, but I doubt you’ll not persuade her. She’s out looking over the course now.”
    The two villages of Lostmid and Polgrue lay in deep adjacent glens, and Polgrue Chase ended on the stretch of high moorland that ran between them. There was a crossroads and a telephone box, used by both villages. A spinney of wind-bitten beeches stood in one angle of the cross, and Clarissa was thoughtfully surveying this terrain. Ian joined her, turning to look back towards the Hall and noticing with relief that Sir Murdoch was still, as he had been left, placidly knocking a ball around his private golf course.
    It was a stormy, shining day. Ian saw that Clarissa’s hair was exactly the colour of the sea-browned beech leaves and that the strange angles of her face were emphasized by the wild shafts of sunlight glancing through the trees.
    He put his difficulties to her.
    “Oh, dear,” she said, wrinkling her brow. “How unfortunate. The boys are so keen on the race. I don’t think they’d ever give it up.”
    “Couldn’t they go some other way?”
    “But this is the only possible way, don’t you see? In the old days, of course, this all used to be common land.”
    “Do you know who the runner is going to be—the boy with the ball?” Ian asked, wondering if a sufficiently heavy bribe would persuade him to take a longer way round.
    But Clarissa smiled, with innocent topaz eyes. “My dear, that’s never decided until the very last minute. So that the Lostmidians don’t know who’s going to dash in and snatch the ball. But I’ll tell you what we can do—we can arrange for the race to take place at night, so that Sir Murdoch won’t be worried about the spectacle. Yes, that’s an excellent idea; in fact, it will make it far more exciting. It’s next Thursday, you know.”
    Ian was not at all sure that he approved of this idea, but just then he noticed Sir Murdoch having difficulties in a bunker. A good deal of sand was flying about, and his employer’s face was becoming a dangerous dusky red. “‘Here, in the sands,/Thee I’ll rake up,” he was muttering angrily, and something about murderous lechers.
    Ian ran down to him and suggested that it was time for a glass of beer, waving to Clarissa as he did so. Sir Murdoch noticed her and was instantly mollified. He invited her to join them.
    Ian, by now head over heels in love, was torn between his professional duty, which could not help pointing out to him how beneficial Clarissa’s company was for his patient, and a strong personal feeling that the elderly wolfish baronet was not at all suitable company for Clarissa. Worse, he suspected that she guessed his anxiety and was