On this day, as he worked in his garden to turn over the cold spring soil ready for planting, he was not thinking of their poverty and was almost entirely content. His stockings were out at the toe. He had hardly a coin to his name, but the look on Abel’s face when he was told he could ride Troubadour alone to the tinker’s camp on an errand for Jane was worth any fortune. He had seen his young self reflected in his son’s expression. Such excitement was followed immediately by an attempt to look purposeful, in case his father might think him too frivolous to be trusted with Jane’s broken pots. He could remember himself behaving in that way, his determination to behave as a man, though still being a boy. And he realised now, though hadn’t before, that part of a parent’s role was to act as though his son was the man he pretended to be. It made him smile as he thought of it. Abel was ready for more freedom and had been for some time. He was growing up.
‘Go on then,’ he had said, as if he felt no parental anxiety. ‘Take it steady for old Troubadour’s sake. A good rider spares his horse. But make sure you are home before dark, won’t you?’
It was a little early for sowing, but Christopher Morgan had saved many seeds from last year’s crops and was anxious to get his vegetables growing as quickly as possible. He smiled over the screws of paper that Abel had so diligently labelled for him last autumn: onion, leek, bean, cabbage. Each done in a much fairer hand than the hen-scratching his father indulged in.
Christopher picked up the packets of beans and put them down again. They were pretty, these trailing beans from the Americas, and he would be prepared to try eating them this year because looking at the flowers wouldn’t fill their bellies. But he should resist planting them in the garden now because they would suffer if there were a frost. When he last had tried a hot bed to cheat the cold, the beans had grown like weeds, but the slugs had eaten every one. This year, he would start them off on a windowsill and plant them out when their stalks were tougher. Perhaps that would deter the slugs. English beans didn’t mind the frost and slugs were not so fond of them. He could plant some to complement the ones he had sown last autumn.
Christopher liked his garden. Growing vegetables made him feel useful and it was soothing to rake and plant, rubbing the damp loam through his fingers. Some days he could almost forget that he had ever been anything other than a gardener, though, not having been taught, he had made many mistakes and relied on William for most of his good results, especially in the early days.
Soon, he had two rows of English beans and a scant row of onions planted. He picked up his rake and carried it back to the stable where he left it next to Troubadour’s stall.
‘Young Abel must be with Tinker Black by now,’ he remarked to Jane, going in at the kitchen door.
Jane gave her usual glower at his muddy boots, but also as usual said nothing about them. ‘I hope Tinker notices the crack at the handle of the large pot. I forgot to point it out to Abel.’
‘I am sure he’ll notice,’ said Christopher, kicking off his boots and a copious amount of mud at the same time. He wandered up the passageway in his threadbare stockings in search of his buckled shoes. Eventually he found them by the fireplace where he’d left them to dry out the day before. It had been wet for several days and the inn felt clammy and chill. There was a small fire, but it looked a poor affair in the huge, elaborately carved fireplace. The wood was damp and a sulky fire always caused a certain amount of smoke to trickle away from the chimney and into the room.
Christopher held onto the mantelshelf to steady his balance while putting on his shoes. While straightening a stocking he felt his heel go through it. He sighed. Abel needed stockings too. His son’s toes were quite cramped in the ones he had. No wonder the lad preferred to go barefoot, although, since he’d found some old boots, abandoned in the inn, he’d been keener to be shod. The old boots were excellent for riding too.
He pushed his other foot into its shoe and went upstairs. Usually he wrote in his journal at night, but occasionally he had the desire to put something down straight away. It was the sight of his little son looking so grown-up that prompted his desire to write. Christopher wanted to commit his thinking to paper while it was still fresh and new in his head. The book he was using for his journal was one he had written in for many years. It was bound in purple Morocco leather and was darkened with the daily handling it had been given. The brass clasp was dulled with use, but there were still plenty of pages ready to take his pen. Often his entries were perfunctory when he named little more than the day. For the year of Abel’s birth there was almost nothing, but sometimes, as now, the mood took him, and he wrote with a will, losing himself in his prose.
Some while later he stretched and got up. He felt hungry and realised that it was mid afternoon. He put his journal away and cleaned his nib. Abel would be back soon. He should hurry downstairs to be sure to welcome his son home. Jane might have made Abel some titbit as a reward for going on her errand, though there would be precious little in the larder to make him much of a treat.
He was disappointed when Abel didn’t arrive in the next hour. The spring days were still short, and it wouldn’t be very long before dusk. Anxiously, he went out onto the high road and stood for a few minutes looking for his horse and his son. The road remained empty.
‘I will walk up to meet him,’ he said to Jane, who was busy cooking. ‘Or …’ He looked troubled. ‘Will he maybe dislike that? I don’t want to appear the anxious parent.’ For a few seconds he stood irresolute and then he turned abruptly. ‘I will go.’
He strode away from the inn, aiming to get to the bend in the road from where he felt sure he would see his son coming proudly home. But when he was but a few yards along the way, the fine drizzle turned to rain. Christopher wondered if he should return to fetch his cloak and hat, but he didn’t want the bother of it. Instead, he quickened his pace. He imagined his hand on his son’s knee as they went home in fine companionship. He would ask how Troubadour had behaved, wonder what the sea had looked like on this grey day and praise the boy for tying the pots back onto the saddle so well.
At the bend, he squinted into the rain that was falling ever faster. There was a horse! At this distance he couldn’t tell if it was Troubadour, but it must be. Quite why in this weather Abel was allowing him to graze on the verge was beyond him but it was probably so that the horse wouldn’t need so much feed when back at the stable. Christopher was both proud and saddened at that thought. That his son should know it necessary to save money pained him.
He couldn’t see Abel, who must be standing the other side of his mount, holding the reins. What a good son he was to be so mindful of his horse’s needs on this dreary day. Even so, he should come home now. With the clouds so low, it was getting darker by the moment and he had been told to be home before dark.
It was too far to hail the lad so, feeling rather peeved now he knew his son was safe, Christopher set off to close the distance between them. Abel was generally a healthy boy, but what if he caught a chill because of the rain? It was thoughtless of him to stay out so long.
Suddenly the rain became a downpour. The stony road fast became a twin stream, with rainwater filling the ruts. Water dripped from Christopher’s hair onto his nose and trickled uncomfortably down his neck. Then, as suddenly as it had started the rain stopped and pale sunshine edged a low cloud. Christopher shook his head like a dog and looked up. He had made good progress and maybe the horse had wandered in his direction too. But he was angry with Abel now and worried about his health. Feeling that he was close enough he hailed his son.
‘Abel! ABEL!’
At once the horse lifted his head and began to trot towards him, but a clanking of pots rose up and the animal slowed abruptly to a walk. Of Abel Morgan there was no sign.
Christopher felt a blade of fear slip between his ribs. Mindless of his footing, he splashed and slid his way at a run towards the horse. Troubadour came to greet him, nickering happily to see his master, but Christopher was in no mood to pra
ise him. He grabbed the dangling reins and swung himself up into the saddle, fitting his feet awkwardly into the shortened stirrups.
‘What have you done with him?’ he demanded of the horse. ‘Did you get loose and wander off while he was waiting for the pots to be mended? Did you leave him to walk all the way home? But no!’ He looked at the unrepaired pots still tied with his knots to the saddle. Something had happened before Abel even reached Tinker Black. Had Troubadour been stung by a wasp so early in the year? Impossible. Even so, the horse must have shied, and young Abel must have fallen. If he had not been injured he surely would have been home by now. It was not so very far to walk.
Christopher turned the horse and kicked him on. The pots set off such a clanging that Troubadour threatened to bolt so he pulled the horse up, undid the knots and tossed the pots away. The old horse trotted on willingly enough, splashing through the muddy ruts. The light was fading fast and almost every rock and bush looked to Christopher as if it were his son. But at length he reached the camp and saw to his dismay that the tinker was gone. Had Abel even met him? Should he go on in case his son lay a few yards further?
Christopher was distraught. If Abel lay undiscovered for long he might succumb to the cold. And if he wasn’t found soon, light would be needed to search. In vain he rode on, casting his gaze from side to side, still hoping to see his young son walking unharmed towards him.
Eventually it was too dark to see anything. There was no moon, and the rain was coming on again. Christopher’s voice was hoarse with calling and his skin was clammy. The cold was seeping into his bones, but he did not heed it. In sudden despair he set Troubadour to gallop back the way they had come. In a mad dash they hurtled, sliding in the mud, to the inn, where Christopher threw himself from his mount and entered, calling for William and Jane. His teeth chattered and eyes were as wild as they had been a dozen years before when he had first arrived as the new owner of the inn.
‘My son,’ he cried, his voice breaking with pain and passion. ‘My son is lost on the road! Make haste to light the lanterns and fetch help. My son. My poor son!’
8
William was first to arrive in answer to his master’s call. ‘Is Abel hurt?’
‘I don’t know!’ said Christopher. ‘I can’t find him.’
Jane came too, her face white. ‘Where was the horse?’
‘On the road, not far away. I’ve ridden up to Tinker’s camp and beyond. But the pots aren’t even mended. And there’s no sign of Abel or Tinker.’ Christopher’s voice was shaking. ‘It got dark, so I came back for the lantern.’
Jane laid her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘If you run to tell Coleman, God willing, he’ll raise a team of men to help search. I’ll set a new candle in the lantern, sir.’ She looked at his sodden jacket and dripping hair. ‘And perhaps you could put on some dry clothes and your cloak and hat, sir?’
Christopher shook his head. ‘There’s no time.’
‘And yet, if you take a fever you will not be able to help him. And besides,’ she hurried, seeing his impatience, ‘Abel will need to be wrapped warm when you find him.’
Christopher nodded. ‘You are right, Jane. Make haste to fetch the lantern while I do that.’
Dario was a village with little of substance for the gossips, so news of Abel’s absence was soon known to every last soul. Such an unusual event brought almost all in a fever to be involved. As many lanterns that could be found were lit and several carts, including Coleman’s and Daniel’s, were used to take parties of searchers further along the Chineborough road, dropping them off at several places to search. The rain held off, but the moon stayed stubbornly hidden and it was difficult work.
There were so many places he could have fallen, so many stones available to break his skull and so many bushes he could have collapsed into. Eventually everyone was out of candles, out of energy and out of hope. To Christopher’s dismay, the searchers straggled back to the inn, and settled in to warm themselves and mull over their lack of success.
‘Calm yourself,’ Coleman told Christopher. ‘You cannot expect more now. We will go out again, when it’s daylight.’ Several others murmured their agreement.
‘What’s clear is that he’s not lying out on the road,’ said Daniel. ‘So, he must be in some form of shelter from the night, even if it is under a bush. That is positive, don’t you think?’ He raised his eyebrows to the distraught father before lighting his pipe with a spill and puffing away as if it was any ordinary night, while in truth it was the first night the inn had been so full for years.
Christopher had no heart for conversation. As soon as beer had been served and he had thanked the villagers and arranged for their return in the morning, he went out into the road and divided his time between walking about and standing still, staring into the night as if he could conjure his son to appear. Once everyone had gone he continued pacing for a while. Eventually, he sent Jane and William to bed. He left the front door propped open and dragged a chair close by, so as to be there the instant there might be any news.
The fire burnt down and he shivered under his cloak. He dozed and woke with a start, but it was just an owl, calling to its mate. He got up and went out into the cold air yet again. It was still several hours before dawn. What if Abel woke from his injuries in the night? What if he wandered, his senses addled by the fall, further from the road? Near where Tinker camped the ground fell steeply away, almost to a cliff. Had Abel stumbled there in a daze and fallen again? All Christopher could do was pray to a God who had never helped him, pace and wait.
The following day was bright and sunny. Everyone’s spirits lifted, even Christopher’s. But although they searched further and clambered amongst the rocks and furze bushes where Tinker’s camp had been, and as far as was safe down the crumbling cliff, they found no sign of him. Christopher took Troubadour and rode until he came upon Tinker, settled into a camp not far from Chineborough.
‘I saw no boy,’ said Tinker nervously.
Christopher tried not to frighten the man, who had lived in the area all his life and was a simple fellow. ‘I’m not blaming you,’ he said. ‘But Abel is missing, and I would be grateful for any help you could give me. Did you see anyone on the road?’
‘Only Daniel in his cart,’ said Tinker. ‘Sometimes he gives me a twist of tobacco.’
‘What time of day was this?’
‘The sun was still high,’ said Tinker. ‘But it was beginning to fall, and I was packing up.’
‘Then Abel must have just missed you.’
Without another word he left the man and rode slowly home, still looking for any sign of his son.
Daniel was no more help than Tinker. ‘Tinker’s brain is addled,’ he told Christopher. ‘I came upon him during the morning. And I certainly didn’t see your son. Are you sure Tinker doesn’t have him? After all, he is more gypsy than anything. Maybe he has stolen him away.’
Christopher took that back to William and Jane. ‘Maybe,’ he said to them, ‘Tinker should be questioned.’
They looked fearful. ‘Tinker has never harmed anyone,’ Jane said. ‘He’s like a child himself. If he’s questioned he will be in so much fear and pain that he’s likely to say anything to make it stop.’
‘And yet, if he knows something …’
‘He would have told you, I’m sure.’
‘It’s more Daniel making mischief where none is,’ said William. ‘In his usual way.’
‘The man has no heart,’ agreed Jane.
‘I would agree,’ said Christopher slowly. ‘Except he, too, was out, searching with us all.’
‘Sitting idle in his cart I heard,’ said Jane. ‘And hollering up and down when he thought of it.’
‘Even so. He could have done nothing.’ They were all silent for a moment and then Christopher continued. ‘Well, you have known Tinker Black all his life. I will leave him in peace for now. But if we do not find Abel soon he will have to be questioned further.’
The following da
y, Christopher widened the search. While the villagers looked in every shed, ditch and bush in the village itself, he took the track that led off the road close to the inn. It passed the old abandoned village and ended in the open moor. It was highly unlikely but possible that Abel had mistaken the directions to Tinker’s camp. Or, perhaps more likely, wanting to enjoy his freedom, he could have taken a detour onto the moor before planning to ride on to get the pots mended. He did not often disobey his father, but he was a growing lad, and sons did not always obey their fathers in everything.
Christopher felt a shiver of dismay as he approached the tumbled walls of the cottages and the old church. People came this way to cut furze and dig turf for their fires, and to pick berries in season, so the track was not overgrown, but the abandoned village was and was thought to be haunted by the plague dead. Rumour had it that at the end there was no one left to bury the dead, so they lay tumbled just inside the churchyard wall, hidden beneath the tangle of brambles and nettles.
Unlike most of the cottages, the church still had its roof, but it would not be many years before it might fall in. In one place, deer and ponies had broken through the churchyard wall and had left a distinct trail through the undergrowth. In contrast, the original path to the church had become impenetrable.
Christopher dismounted and tied Troubadour to a wind-stunted thorn tree. Before clambering over the church wall, he hesitated. But he feared not finding Abel far more than the skeletons that lay beyond the wall. He hoped, at least, that they were more to be pitied than feared. If the stories were true they did at least lie on holy ground. Besides, surely no demon could cause more anguish than he already felt?
The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan Page 7
