by Alex Miller
Sensing that something’s up, a few of the more alert riders and foot people have begun gathering just inside the entrance to the courtyard. I see Morris and Fred Alsop among them. Alsop raises his hand to me in a nervous greeting, at the same time nudging Morris, obviously wanting to get him to come over here. But Morris stays planted where he is. Tolland has come up too, and makes his way through with difficulty, riding his own horse and leading Kit.
A moment later Perry signals Tolland to bring the mare over to him. The conversation’s finished. He can get no more out of Grabbe. He climbs into his saddle and he and the whipper-in trot out of the yard together, the crowd at the gate parting to let them through, then closing behind them and trailing after them. They’ve gone to interpret Grabbe’s news to the master.
This is not just a matter of being polite to the woman who’s paying for it all; she mightn’t have ridden a horse for more than twenty years, but Mrs Allen still controls the hunt. If they could get away with it, Perry and his hounds would chase almost any huntable stag they could rouse from the covers this morning. They want to get out there and get on with it. But she will insist that the stag to be hunted today is the most suitable, that it is the oldest stag harboured in the area. And as far as she’s concerned they can spend the whole day looking for that one rather than settle for something less. So now she wants a description from Perry of his intended quarry, a detailed description if she can get one, if Grabbe’s actually seen the beast and hasn’t just followed its footprints, though there’s not much Grabbe can’t tell about a deer from having seen its slots. She’ll want to be able to recognise the animal that her hounds are chasing when she sees it, and should they happen to kill something else at the end of the day, Perry will have her to answer to.
Almost before Perry and Tolland are out of the yard Cheyne spurs his horse forward and calls, ‘What’s the news then, John?’ And the rest of us, the Tiger and Mrs Grant from one direction, and Fred Alsop and Morris from another, with me and Kabara bringing up the rear, we all move in to hear what the harbourer’s got to say. You can see he’d rather not hang around, but he has to wait here for Mrs Allen’s decision, and then he’ll take the huntsman and a few of the senior hounds out and show them exactly where the stag is bedded down. After that he can go home and get some breakfast. Or go out catching rats, which is the other thing he does for a living. Perhaps I should ask him for a solution to my problem.
We move in on Grabbe, as if he were our quarry. He’s slow to respond to Cheyne, concentrating on nipping straggling threads of tobacco from a new smoke. He greets Morris and touches his hat to Mrs Grant. His skin is brown and shiny, drawn tight over the small sharp bones of his face, with scarcely a wrinkle in it, almost oriental. I don’t know how old he is. At first he looks old, sixty or more, but the longer you look the more you see there’s something young about him. About his eyes in particular, which are cheeky, or amused. As if he might be aware of a situation that no one else has noticed, and is waiting for the moment when someone will notice it, so that he may then share his amusement with them. His expression makes me want to look around, to see what the source of his amusement might be. To these hunting people he’s a mystery man. A troll, out of the earth and bracken and forest. Smelling like a deer himself. He gets a meagre living from them, but he does his work alone, not sharing it, secretly. None of them really knows exactly how he goes about it. Perhaps he doesn’t know how he goes about it himself, not in a way to tell anyone. Exercising an instinct for such things. A sense of how things are in the woods about him. The bending of a twig or the cropping of a leaf, staring signs, shouting events at him, and where others see only a confusion of muddy footprints, he sees the time and the place, the size and the direction, the age and the sex of the animals that made them. The detail of events accumulating in his awareness as he moves slowly through the grey dawn, or stands for an hour, still, receiving information in the dark. Attuned more finely to the ways of the animals, at last, than to the ways of humans. And doing all this while others sleep. People are bound to wonder about him.
It is said Grabbe lost his home and his family and his job as an estate manager years ago through this obsession with the forest and with the habits of the nocturnal deer. Roly-Poly would say he was drawn away, that he was seduced by his taste for it, like an alcoholic, or an insane person with a delusion, by degrees going deeper, until in the end he had abandoned everything useful, and was ravelled up and lost in affairs to which sensible people give no more than a passing nod. What can be got out of such entanglements? They are a disaster! And she would suspect him of touching on the power to curse or cure. One of them! The crazies! A threat! That’s why she keeps well away from hunting. She sees too much of this kind of thing in it. Too much relying on insights that ordinary people know nothing about. Knowledge that can’t be decently accounted for or explained. Relying on crazy freaks like John Grabbe to tell you what to do? That can’t be right! And all of it going on up here, away from civilisation! Away from the work and the crops and the regular business that holds her life together. She doesn’t come here, because she doesn’t want to know about this consultation in the backyard of the Royal Oak at Winsford. She’d feel sick and scared if she had to witness the way her husband is so passionately interested now in the words of this ragged little misfit from the woods who’s messed up his own life. And what about this trembling black fortune standing at my heels? What about this entire with the strange Australian name? Kabara? Why give a horse a name like that? What can it possibly mean? And it’s on the point of soaking up half her harvest money! What about that? It would make her dizzy to see it all swimming together like this in the yard of the pub here; all the money, and the good health, the lives even, all hanging by threads, hanging by sudden accidents or by decisions made hot. Why risk all good things on this business?
Cheyne’s voice booms out over our heads: ‘Well, come on John! What’s it to be?’
The harbourer is looking at Kabara while replying to Cheyne. And that private amusement in his eyes has spread to the rest of his face, to his lips. His voice is soft, relaxed, unhurried, his few words concealing more than they reveal. It’s easy to hear that he’s not interested in what he’s saying or in the question that’s been put to him. His mind is on something else. Despite Cheyne’s aggressive energy, his authority, his almost threatening mounted bulk which he is thrusting forward now, he’s not having much of an impact on the harbourer. Grabbe is more interested in Kabara’s feet. He comes over and reaches down, bending towards Kabara’s off-foreleg, preoccupied with this action when he says: ‘A stag went into Burrow Wood this morning.’
The Tiger and Mrs Grant nod knowingly at each other, as if they had guessed as much already. And it is a confirmation of what they’ve been hoping for. Cheyne urges his mount in even closer, not satisfied with this, wanting more. Grabbe slides his hand down Kabara’s foreleg and eases the foot up to inspect it. At this, Alsop and the Tiger check each other nervously. What’s going on here? Grabbe gazes steadily at the underside of the hoof for a few seconds, everyone staring at him and waiting. Then he puts it down; Kabara is still and quiet while this man’s hand is on him.
Cheyne’s not going to wait for his answer, he’s going to squash it out of Grabbe! His massive horse is almost on top of us! I can smell it! Towering and powerful and, like its master, restless. Reaching with its head and sawing and pulling at the bit, its weight shifting dangerously from one great muscled leg to another, eyes wide with anxiety, hating to be forced this close to Kabara, soapy froth beginning to whiten its grey neck where the reins are rubbing and slapping, and a continuous rumbling and gurgling going on in its guts.
Grabbe gets hit a couple of times with flecks of saliva as he straightens from examining the hoof. Cheyne’s right over him, his knee actually nudging Grabbe’s cap a bit askew. ‘Yes John? Well? He went in did he?’
The harbourer looks up at him: ‘He did Mr Cheyne. But I don’t know whether he’ll come out for
you.’
The Tiger laughs sharply at this, almost a shout, staring hard all the while at Alsop, who’d be over here in a flash finding out what Grabbe’s interest is in his horse, if it weren’t for this other sweating charger that’s threatening to trample me and the harbourer to death any second.
Cheyne doesn’t laugh. He’s not about to ease up on the pressure either. ‘Jack Perry and his hounds will take care of getting him out for us, John,’ he says, reefing on the reins and forcing his horse to stand close, side-on to Grabbe, effectively blocking his way.
‘Did you get a look at his “head”?’ Cheyne’s pushing hard while he’s got the chance. He wants to know as much as Perry knows. He wants to know it before things start happening, before Grabbe goes home to his breakfast and there’s only rumours and speculations left to go on. He wants to be set up sweetly with the facts before the inevitable confusions and complications and the accidents of the run start to develop. He wants to be sure of what he’s up to and to leave to chance as little as possible. He’s after a decisive clue that will enable him to distinguish this stag from all other stags when he first sees it, and not be misled by false starts after the wrong deer, or become confused when this stag changes the hounds on to the line of another later on. He wants to be certain that he can remain staunch to the line of the original quarry when others have become unsure of it. You can see that he doesn’t care if he’s being rude. Annoying John Grabbe doesn’t worry him in the least. He won’t back off till he’s squeezed as much information as he can out of the harbourer, and a description of the peculiarities of this Burrow Wood stag’s antlers is what he’s looking for from Grabbe, a definite identification. The stag’s unmistakable signature. He believes this much is his due.
Grabbe turns to me, his palm resting lightly on Kabara’s neck. ‘They don’t all have “heads” do they?’ he says quietly, friendly, taking his time despite Cheyne’s urgent pushing and shoving, speaking directly to me, almost as if he might even consider that there are no mysteries for either of us in this business.
But what does he mean? Can he mean he’s seen Kabara’s tracks at the soiling pit of the Tivington nott! That he’s slotted us there? Is this what he’s just been checking on? The print? Kabara’s signature? Our trace left there in the mud on the verge of that dark spring? Is that the connection he just confirmed for himself? Or am I jumping to a crazy conclusion? Is he telling me he knows all about the nott’s new home and my visits there, or is he telling me something less than that? Should I just accept that he knows? My instincts urge me to. There’s no way of being sure with someone like this. Whatever he says, he seems to suggest that he knows more and means more than he’s actually telling.
Before I can say anything he turns away, ducking under the nose of Cheyne’s horse and going over to where he’s left his pony standing. I look up and meet Cheyne’s aggressive gaze fixed on me. He’s debating with himself whether or not it might be worth asking me what Grabbe has said. The minute I look at him, however, he decides against speaking to me, wheeling his horse aside and going after the harbourer. At this moment the intermittent dismal howling of the imprisoned hounds surges up into an excited chorus, and Grabbe kicks his pony into a trot, eluding Cheyne and crossing the yard to intercept Perry and Tolland, whom the pack has got wind of returning through the gate.
I’m hit by a gust of warm alcohol and tobacco breath close to my right ear. ‘What did he say to you?’ Alsop asks, sounding winded and anxious, getting to me ahead of the Tiger. ‘He didn’t reckon there was something wrong with Kabara’s feet, did he? Anyone would have to be pretty bloody stupid to think that!’ He reaches down, leaning his weight heavily against Kabara’s shoulder for support, and with difficulty he examines the underside of the stallion’s hoof. ‘Sound and clean!’ he says, angry, as if he’s proving a big point. He gives a groan as he straightens up, and puts his hand on his side, beginning slowly to knead his ribs with his long bony fingers. He’s close, standing next to me. We both look at Kabara.
‘What do you think of him?’ he asks me, as if it occurs to him suddenly that my opinion might be of some interest. When I don’t reply immediately he looks at me. His face is greyish and chalky, tiny dry flecks of skin lifting from his cheeks, and the flesh hanging loosely from the bones of his skull as if there is no resistance to its weight any longer in the muscles. Seeing me reading all this in his features seems to amuse him, and his eyes, at first weary and preoccupied, brighten up with interest. He smiles slowly and sounds more relaxed when he asks, ‘Do you know much about horses?’
‘Not much.’
The Tiger and Mrs Grant converge on us. And there’s disappointed Harry Cheyne returning across the yard. Morris is hanging back from it all. I catch his eye and he makes a face of mock alarm. He’s enjoying seeing me stuck in the thick of it. Tiger rides up close to me and he leans down from his saddle. ‘What did Grabbe say to you, boy?’
Here they are! All of them! Surrounding me. Waiting for my answer to the big mystery. What do I make of it? What will they make of it? There’s nothing else to say. They are waiting.
‘He said not all stags have heads.’
Mrs Grant turns to Cheyne as he comes up; ‘Grabbe’s harboured a nott for us, Harry.’
He reins in next to her and sits there, digesting this unexpected information, not looking particularly convinced. He scarcely more than glances my way. There’s dislike or mistrust in this, maybe he hates to depend on an outsider for anything. I don’t know. That could be my paranoia. He’s checked in his quest for reliable facts, anyway, that much is certain. Mine is exactly the sort of information he doesn’t want. It signals the beginning of uncertainty and rumour, and it can lead to confusion. He sits on his big horse and he thinks. Accepting nothing.
But if Cheyne’s checked, the Tiger’s relieved. He’s cheered up no end now we seem to have avoided focusing on the sensitive subject of Kabara in front of everybody. ‘So he said he’d found a nott in there did he?’ he says to me.
‘He didn’t say a nott. He just said they don’t all have heads.’
Cheyne snorts at this, convinced beyond any doubt now that my information is worthless, obviously concluding that I’m confused and don’t even know that a nott is a stag without antlers.
The Tiger knows better than to make this mistake and he glares at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What about the horse?’ Mrs Grant’s voice, loud and clear and direct, a voice pinning down the attention of everyone within hearing of it, cuts through, her question startling the Tiger and ending, for the moment, interest in my uncertain report about the possible nature of the stag. Everyone looks at me and Kabara.
‘What did the harbourer say to you about the horse’s foot?’ A calm, self-assured woman, sitting confidently on her fine hunter. She looks physically fit and well prepared for this business.
‘He didn’t say anything about the horse,’ I reply.
The Tiger’s looking anxiously from Kabara to Alsop to her, and back to Kabara again, as if he expects the stallion to be snatched away from him any second.
‘He’s a noble creature,’ she says, studying the stallion, not really that interested in my reply after all; ‘but I shouldn’t care to hunt the moor on him.’ She looks past us then, seeing something beyond Kabara that interests her more, and she rises in her stirrups and waves, moving off as she does so and calling; ‘Jimmy! Hold up!’ and away she goes, heading across the yard to intercept Lord Harbringdon, who looks like he’s probably on his way to assist Perry and Tolland draft out a few selected hounds from the howling motley in the black hole.
‘Well, there you are!’ the Tiger says, jubilant, almost pouncing on Alsop. ‘Not an Exmoor hunter!’
Alsop looks from Tiger to Harry Cheyne. He can scarcely be seeing any real friendliness in either of their faces—and he puts his hand on Kabara’s neck, caressing the horse gently. ‘She doesn’t know my horse.’
‘Peggy Grant knows horses,’ Cheyne says in a h
ard tone; nothing to be argued with, making a statement of fact, local knowledge again, closing the subject. He’s had enough of this. He wheels his big grey and rides off towards where they’re getting the hounds out; ‘You coming, Bill?’
The Tiger’s quick to follow him. ‘Get up, boy!’ he says to me, hardly able to contain his delight at the way this little exchange has turned out.
I tighten the girth and mount up, but Alsop puts a restraining hand on my rein, preventing me from following the Tiger. ‘Well?’ he says, gazing up at me, belligerent maybe, or if not that then at least making a demand; ‘Your mate Morris reckons you know something about horses. I asked you what you thought of this one?’
Morris is standing about ten yards off, maybe within hearing, and maybe just out of it, depending on the level of our voices, but not watching us and obviously not caring one way or the other about the outcome. He’s keeping apart from it. That’s his way. Being his own man when his time’s his own. He’s good at that. Now he’s having his day off, that’s all. He’s on holiday. He’s standing there on the cobbles, shaved and washed and well fed, and he’s feeling this warm sun soaking its way through his jacket and into the muscles of his tired back. That’s what he’s doing. In a trance by the look of him, I’d say. He and Alsop have probably had a couple of drinks together in the pub before we got here. Come to think of it, that would be just the sort of thing Alsop would insist on after getting a lift in Morris’s car. He’d feel he had to do something. I can hear him carrying on about it. Them going off then, and Morris’s wife staying back, doing her knitting and sitting up the front of the car as always. In place.
