The Ridgeway

The Ridgeway

It was a miserable night to be out in it. The Ridgeway path snaked out in front of them, endlessly, bloated with rain and muck like a dirty slug found crawling on its belly in the garden. The wind had been howling with a brutal disregard for anything it came near, it blew with aggression as though it wanted only to hurt, only to freeze, only to slice.

There was no part of John that was not wet, or so he came to believe. He no longer walked with a confident and brisk step, he squelched with all the dread of a man emerging from a drowning. The water had long since crept from his old boots to his socks, up through his trousers and beyond. If only this was the only line of attack, but no, though he had pulled his hat down past the very brim of his ears, the water seeped and seeped, it seeped into the hat and soaked it, and his hair and his very head. It trinkled. Real persistent like, down into the crevices of his neck, seeking the warm dry places on his chest, under his arms, down his back. Eventually he would be completed soaked under his ‘waterproof’ clothes, then he really knew that he would have no other choice but to walk all night, he couldn’t stop now, taking shelter would be pointless and if he slept, well, who knew if it would be the sleep of the cold, his last sleep, as the wet soaked his bones, stole his heat and left death in its place.

He cursed his poor horse, Trickle for going lame, he was now down to one pony, Molly, Molly was old, and not strong enough really to carry the load alone, now if he’d had them both together it would have been fine. But it wasn’t going to be, not now, not now that the storm had come in, as everyone said it would, and that he only had one horse, one horse to pull the load. He shook his head to himself as he considered his situation and kept doggedly plodding forward.

If only the Ridgeway wasn’t so dam high, it was so exposed. Everyone said it was an ancient way, why were the ancients so intent on freezing themselves in such an exposed place? It ran from Avebury Ring and past Wayland Smithy they said, it was probably a bad choice, but it was the shortest route by mileage, so he guessed he’d have to make his peace with that at least. Avebury Ring gave him the creeps, why should they be able to build up a ring with stones so very large and high? How did they carry them and place them up? And why, more to the point, why? What could it mean? He knew as well what they said about Wayland Smithy, the grave of a giant? The Ridgeway was an inauspicious place when you thought about it. He cursed his choices again.

Molly, grew restless with her burden and worried at her bit. As he settled her down, he looked hard at the path ahead, it was hard to see as the rain was driving into his eyes and the dark had continued to deepen but it seemed as though he could see a figure. He felt a flash of irritation, not only was he humiliating himself by being on the road, with such a burden on such a night but now, someone would bear witness to it. They appeared tall, clad all in black and moved quickly towards him.

In the circumstances he came to a stop to await this person, here was every possibility he was about to be robbed so he may as well greet the person and face the consequences.

The rain continued to pound down onto the road, drip endlessly onto his head and trickle mercilessly down his neck.

The stranger hailed him and seemed to want to talk to him. He squinted his eyes as best he could but he could not make out the stranger’s face, his hat was pulled low and his neck line was high, consequentially, all he could see was a pal curving nose and two dark spaces where his eyes should be.

 ‘Hi Friend, what brings you out on a night like this?’ The stranger’s voice was low and loud, and despite the interrupting sound of the rain, he could hear it clearly.

‘Hi, I have a load, an urgent load to take to Streatley. Yourself?’

‘My sister, she’s disappeared, we’re looking for her.’

Deep within him he felt a tight knot, a tight knot deep inside his belly. He caught his breath and tried to peer even closer into the mans face, the man, seeming to feel his interest, turned suddenly.

‘Such a night!’ He yelled, out to the wide expanse that fell away by the side of the Ridgeway Path, ‘Quite a night.’ He conceded, before turning back towards him.

‘What load is this poor horse carrying on such a night as this friend?’ Oddly, the stranger seemed to linger on the word friend. He let it hang in the air, before the rain dashed it from between us, as ethereal as an idea.

‘Ah barrels of cider.’ He tried to sound as though it were nothing important, he took a step and tried to pull Molly, but the man interrupted him and he froze.

‘On such a night as this? I wonder at the urgency?’

‘Let me go!’ The words exploded from him, the many hours of trial and suffering he had endured suddenly erupted from him. All those suffering steps he had taken in the rain and the cold, all of it, only to now to frustrated at this stage, randomly and pointlessly in the middle of the Ridgeway path.

The stranger broke from him and ran round to the cart that poor Molly laboured under. There were no barrels, only heaps of sodden blankets, sodden blankets concealing something. As he dropped Molly’s reins and made to stop the stranger, rounding the side of the cart only a moment too late, he suddenly was caught by the stranger’s face. And as the stranger yanked the blankets aside and gazed down in horror at the delicate and fragile body huddled below, he realised that he recognised the stranger’s face. It was her face, the very same.

The stranger must be her brother, could only be the brother of the dear beautiful Alice. The Alice who had spurned his advances, how was he to know she would die? How could he have guessed that when he pushed her to the ground to stop her from running that she would hit her head and die right there?

John and the stranger stood now, looking at each other, looking only at each other and John knew he would never leave the Ridgeway alive.