A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) Read online

  ‘Stop it! We took off in a field didn’t we? – We’ll find a nice large field to put down in. I only need a run of fifty feet or so. You didn’t really think we were going to land at an airfield did you?’

  Wren stared resolutely ahead; still hiccupping.

  ’Come on brawd, I need you now! You’ve been great – but I need you to sort out a field. Believe me – this is the easy bit! This little plane’s so light, soon as the wheels touch down, it’ll just roll forward – it’s designed for this. All I’ll have to do is slam the brakes on!’

  It wasn’t really a lie. Sooner or later every aircraft had to land. Newton’s Law. But Rhyllann kept that little gem to himself. That massive field there, just outside the moors would do he decided. He dropped ten knots, found an aiming point and began descent, hoping the change of altitude wouldn’t affect wind speed too much. For a moment he felt terribly isolated, without backup, and only himself to rely on. Then practice and training kicked in, dropping to 200 feet, he began the short final, he heard Jack Turner’s voice. “OK now then Lad, maintain the airbrake setting, increase the angle of attack and pitch that nose up. And I promise you every time you take off or land, you will hear my voice!” Now they were only 20 feet from the ground, and he began final roundout.

  The small herd of cattle straggling the field trotted away as the plane swooped down. Rhyllann reminded himself to keep breathing as trees magically grew to tower above them and the ground rose up to meet them. The plane dropped gracefully, aligned perfectly, the wheels skimming the grass now just before stall, engines in overdrive, bumping along then taxi-ing smoothly forward to come to a controlled halt.

  Rhyllann continued shutting down instruments ignoring the joyful voice inside his head urging him to take flight again. He’d done it! His first solo! Text book landing! And the only witness seemed totally unfazed.

  ‘We need to go in that direction.’ Wren pointed up the field, past the solitary oak. ‘– up there and through that hedge – we should find ourselves on the moors. Dunno which side we’re on though.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me? Thank me?’

  ‘Congratulations. Thank you. Erm … we’ve got company – that guy don’t seem too happy about something.’ Indicating the figure hurtling towards them, growing stockier and angrier looking by the moment as he decreased the distance between them.

  ‘Probably the farmer. Upset about you stampeding his cattle.’ Wren mused. Ignoring the muffled yelps of pain, Rhyllann dragged him from the aircraft and forced his cramped legs into a staggering run towards the hedge.

  ‘We’ll never make it!’ He panted. With their cumbersome three legged gait, they’d only managed a hundred yards, the hedge seemed a thousand yards away – uphill. Rhyllann supported his cousin on one side, the damn bag banging against his hip. And he was expected to run? Trying to look over his shoulder and hurry at the same time he stumbled. Wren crashed into him sending them both sprawling to the ground.

  ‘He’s stopped. He’s given up!’ Wren crowed. Rhyllann squinted. The guy held a hand to his face.

  ‘No. No he hasn’t! He’s talking to someone. He’s calling the police!’ They struggled to their feet again.

  ‘Annie!’

  ‘Shut up. Walk as quickly as you can. We might make it.’ They would never make it. As they passed the oak tree an ominous growl filled the air. Before Rhyllann could think “two-stroke-engine” a scrambler bike roared into view, scattering the cattle into a mad stampede.

  The pillion rider brandished a rifle their way letting off a warning shot.

  Rhyllann froze as the noise reverberated through the air almost drowning the low pitched insane mooing of cows.

  He hadn’t called the police. He’d summoned reinforcements. They were both dead.

  Wren plucked at his sleeve. ‘Hoodie – quick – take your hoodie off!’ He shouted. Ignoring him, Rhyllann tried to hurry him up the hill.

  ‘Rhyllann! Give me your hoodie then run!’ As he spoke Wren dragged the oversized second hand fleece from Rhyllann's shoulders. Now he could make out words:

  ‘You hellers! I’ll have you, you buggers!’ The motor bike grew rapidly larger as it decreased the space between them.

  Panic stricken, Rhyllann pulled his arms free, and thrust it at Wren, who grabbed Rhyllann’s bag from him.

  ‘Run!’ He shouted with a shove.

  Rhyllann began running, rock hard ground rising to meet his feet as they slapped down, then flew up, faster and faster; his eyes streaming scalding wind burned tears. This wasn’t fair! How could he outrun a motor bike? Or a bullet? What was Wren up to? Getting ready to blame him – beg for mercy – negotiate? Rhyllann almost made the hedge when he spun round. He needed to see what Wren was playing at.

  He had pulled the jacket hood up, and now stooped, wiping the ground then his face. He lurched back towards the oak, bending to pick up a stick, the motorbike almost on top of him.

  Rhyllann began racing back down the hill. ‘No Wren, no! Don’t do it!’ Jesus Christ! He really thought he could angle that stick through the bike’s wheel Indiana Jones style. ‘Wren stop – You’ll tear your arm off – No!’ He yelled.

  Machine and Wren seemed about to collide. Rhyllann would never make it in time but he kept running. ‘NO!’ The scream ripped through his lungs.

  Wren ignored him. Dodging the bike, he lurched into the tree and with an awkward upward and sideways pounce, walloped one of the branches with his stick. A rugby sized ball spun away from the tree, smashing into the bike, dissolving into a cloud of smoke. Wren rolled away, stumbling to his knees then his feet, crouching low to stagger into a run. The bike swerved crazily; shouts filled the air – Now Wren streamed upwards throwing the stick before him like a drunken pole vaulter. A dozen black pinpricks darted around him searching for bare skin, before giving up and rejoining the main swarm.

  Farmer and friend had the bike up and were juggling it between them as they swiped at the air furiously, yelping all the while. After a few false starts the engine roared again. Rhyllann didn’t wait to see anymore – spinning to race after his clever brilliant cousin. But the engine noise dwindled as the men turned tail, presumably back to Mrs Farmer and vinegar dabs.

  Hunched on a log, hands and head between his knees, Wren waited for him. The jacket still swamped him and his face seemed covered with sweet smelling mud. Catching sight of Rhyllann he wheezed between gasps.

  ‘Nothing quite so scary as a nest of angry wasps!’

  *

  The glorious adventure was fading – this really was hopeless. If only they were three years older. Old enough to hire a car or better yet a four wheel drive and thunder up to Taffy’s Folly. They would be home and dry by now. Instead Rhyllann was tired, hungry and cold. Wren hadn’t used mud to protect his face. He’d used cow pats. The only way to scrub most of it away had been to use the hoodie. Now Rhyllann shivered inside a thin t-shirt as he followed Wren round yet another corner, to be confronted with yet another stretch of the narrow lane they’d been trudging along for the past hour.

  ‘But Annie – we’re like knights – on a quest. Sir Rhyllann and Sir Wren! Come on – I’ll carry your bag!’

  More like demented hobbits he thought, eyeing Wren’s jumper enviously, half wishing he’d kept the hoodie in spite of the stench.

  The lane ran between two steep banks which sunlight never penetrated, making it dank and chilly. Just when he could stand no more, the banks lowered into dry stone walls; wild flowers sprouting from the many crevices. Rhyllann’s goose bumps faded in the sun’s warmth. Without warning, the hedgerow dropped away and they reached a plateau. A soft greenness lapped at their feet: Bodmin Moor. Islands of golden gorse and boulders, some solitary, some heaped like a careless child’s building blocks littered the expanse of rugged greenery which rolled away into the horizon. A breeze swept his brow like a soft caress as he drunk in the view, taking deep gulps of the thick honey flavoured air, hearing unseen birds chittering. In the far
distance where the green met the blue, two hills rose, purple splodges painted against the skyline.

  This is heaven. We’ve stumbled upon heaven Rhyllann thought. His lungs filled with untainted pure air, pumping his blood with so much oxygen he felt giddy and drunk. He took a step forward. Underfoot, the grass sprung upward to support his weight. He took another step, then another, then another. Wren bounded beside him, just as giddy. Every step they took bounced them upwards – a giggle escaped Rhyllann, his body seemed lighter – less cumbersome. They sprung from tussock to tussock calling and laughing and spinning.

  ‘Look! I'm like that nun – you know … "The Sound of Music."’ Flapping his arms theatrically Wren skipped up a hillock warbling. ‘The Hills are alive.’

  ‘With the sound of music …’ Rhyllann trilled. Adding: ‘Your foot’s better then!’

  Wren sat down cross-legged, grinning madly. Turning the bag upside down he shook the contents out.

  ‘Yes!’ He snatched up a forgotten Snickers bar. ‘Let not poor little Annie starve!’

  ‘Did you take that poor man’s scale ruler and maps?’

  Wren giggled. ‘You took his plane.’

  ‘Borrowed. I’m gonna give it back.’

  Wren stuffed his plunder back in Rhyllann’s bag, and broke the chocolate bar in two, still gurgling with laughter.

  Accepting his half, Rhyllann got the petrol station’s map from his bag, and sat down.

  ‘So where next?’ On the map page, Bodmin Moor measured five inches, a mere handspan.

  Wren turned it this way and that, peering thoughtfully.

  ‘Dunno. If we’re here – then the next village along will be St Bernnard. But if we’re here.’ He twisted the book upside down – ‘then we’re closer to Delabole. That lake would be Dozemary, or Pendragon. Take your pick. We can either cut across the moors – or go through all these villages.’

  Pendragon lake was one of a series of lakes on the other side, towards the bottom right of the moors. Rhyllann squinted at the map again.

  ‘We need to head for St Judgey, that’s the nearest village. I say this way.’

  Wren disagreed. ‘If you’re right – St Bernnard’s just over there. Let’s get something to eat. Please. There might even be a camping place where we can buy a shovel.’ His face shone at the prospect.

  Rhyllann doubted that. But the Snickers bar had only woken his stomach up and left his mouth coated and furry. He nodded.

  ‘C’mon then – rock and roll!’

  Rhyllann almost wished they were here on a camping holiday: It wasn’t all springy grass, now and then they had to scramble over boulders, here and there were marshy patches; but that just added to the adventure. They found a clear stream and stopped to splash water at each other, then scrubbed at their faces, gulping noisily as they did so.

  ‘I think I could live on this water alone.’ Wren said.

  Rhyllann pulled a face, but didn’t disagree. Stone dry walls began to appear hemming the moor land into tiny fields, minutes later they found an asphalt lane leading to a huddle of houses.

  To one side of the village, moors stretched into a gauzy infinity; the other had a steep drop into a valley gouged out by a river which glistened below. Rhyllann thought of wilderness films, shot in Canada, or maybe even New Zealand.

  ‘My god, imagine living here. Imagine waking up to that view.’ Wren said. ‘Wonder where the shops are?’ he added.

  Rhyllann grimaced. ‘I think we’re walking down the high street now. Pub! Look there’s a pub. Bound to do ploughman’s lunches.’ He broke into a trot.

  ‘Lashings of ginger beer!’ Wren called as he tried to keep up.

  Rhyllann gripped his side, laughing. ‘Dork!’

  Outside the pub they paused.

  ‘You’d better wait here – they’re looking for two youths.’

  Wren nodded, his face flushed with exertion. ‘Get lots. Lots and lots and lots. And get directions to Taffy’s Folly.’

  Rhyllann nodded, run a hand through his hair, then patted down his jeans. ‘Do I look ok?’

  ‘You look fine – go on!’ Wren settled himself on a nearby wall.

  The pub’s interior was gloomy. A scattering of regulars looked up as Rhyllann entered with a show of confidence he didn't quite feel under the hostile scrutiny. He half expected one to say. “This is a local pub for local people.”

  But then his attention was caught by a pile of French bread under a plastic dome; filled with ham, cheese and succulent looking beef. Swallowing down the salvia flooding his mouth, Rhyllann's stomach cramped with anticipation. Eyeing the large fridge stacked with bottles of cola, he almost purred with pleasure, imagining chugging the sweetness down his throat without pause.

  ‘Hey you. Can’t you read?’ The barman rapped the sign behind him, beneath a monobrow his eyes glittered spitefully in an otherwise immobile face.

  “No unaccompanied children.”

  ‘That’s ok – I’m only after …’

  ‘No children allowed.’ This time his lips twisted into a sneer.

  ‘But I only want some of those rolls and ….’

  ‘No kids. Out.’

  ‘But….’

  ‘Out. I’m not serving you.’

  The locals didn’t bother to hide their grins, Rhyllann accepted defeat. He couldn’t risk the man calling the police.

  ‘Ok ok, I’m going – can you just tell me the way …’

  ‘This is a pub. Not a public information service. Out.’

  The door creaked open to admit a swarm of lycra clad middle aged cyclists. The bartender’s face filled with horror.

  Rhyllann smirked. ‘Have a nice day. Have a nice life.’ He said, squeezing through the door as two late comers joined their party amid cheers and jeers and calls to ‘Mine host serve up your finest ale! Bring forth your serving wenches!’

  Wren stood guard over a huddle of cycles.

  ‘Them nice people done gave me three shiny coins to keep eye on their bikes.’ He said. Rhyllann burst out laughing. Wren did look like a candidate for the village idiot, smears of cow muck lingering, his eyes shining from the exhilaration of the moors.

  Wren gave a wicked grin. ‘I think those will do.’ Pointing to two pannier laden bikes, handlebars adorned with smart plastic wallets, complete with inlaid compasses.

  ‘Are those O.S. maps?’ Rhyllann asked. A nod. ‘I suppose those panniers are stuffed with eats?’ Another very happy nod.

  ‘And look! Look at this!’ He actually caressed the small digital device on the handlebars. Rhyllann looked over intrigued.

  ‘Big whoop! That’s neat. We can measure how many miles we do.’

  Rhyllann never cared much for push bikes, but this machine was in a different league. Probably worth more than Mum’s car, he thought with a twinge of guilt. They freewheeled down hills to coast halfway up the other side before hitting the pedals again.

  They kept to the lanes, skirting villages that surrounded the moors like beads on a necklace. Rhyllann felt faint with hunger, hearing a church bell chime twice, he demanded they halt for lunch. Rummaging through the panniers he failed to notice the awkwardness of Wren’s dismount.

  ‘Jeez!’ He said staring in disbelief at the crustless sandwich. ‘I don’t bloody believe it! Fish paste in brown bread.’ He sniffed it for confirmation, then looked across to Wren, still peering into his panniers. ‘What have you got?’ he demanded.

  ‘Marmite.’ Wren replied dully.

  ‘Jeez.’ Rhyllann repeated. Wrinkling his nose he bit into the sandwich, the pungent filing smearing the roof of his mouth, coating his teeth with a slimy film. He swallowed miserably, forcing it down, already debating about the next mouthful.

  ‘Joke!’ Wren held two plain white bags aloft in either hand – grease turning the paper translucent. Rhyllann caught a wonderful whiff of ‘Pasties!’ and lunged at Wren, swiping at his grinning face, snatching two of the bags.

  Propping the bikes against the wall, they sat on a grass
verge to bury their faces into the pasties. Chucks of chewy peppery meat mingled with fluffy potatoes and swede, strands of oily onions, wrapped in a pastry that melted into a satisfying stodginess. They grunted with pleasure, then sucked their fingers clean of grease. Before eating their seconds more slowly savouring every mouthful.

  ‘Next time check the saddle bags before you nick the bikes.’ Rhyllann scolded, still annoyed at having been tricked into eating fish paste. He got up to inspect Wren’s bags again, rewarded by a slab of saffron cake and a large bottle of orange squash.

  ‘Suppose coke would be too good to be true.’ He complained half heartedly.

  ‘I bet my bike belonged to fatty in the pink lycra.’ Wren said reaching over for his share of cake. Adding ‘Saffron’s more valuable than gold.’

  Rhyllann didn’t bother to re-examine his panniers. He felt disgusted with his cyclist, and hoped the bartender ended up slapping him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The two hills identified as Brown Willy and Roughtor now lay behind them.

  ‘Should we start heading back to the moor brawd? Looking for the Folly?’

  Wren nodded, swinging a leg over his bike.

  With a contented stomach and new energy pumping through him, Rhyllann jumped onto his bike, eager to see how quickly the lightweight racer could gobble up the miles on this lovely sunny day. He travelled a few yards before a jarring clatter followed by a dull thud brought him screeching to a halt.

  Wren and bike lay entangled on the road.

  ‘What happened – did you fall?’

  ‘My foot Annie – I’m sorry – It just went.’

  Wren's eyes were screwed in pain, and he grasped his leg just above the damaged foot with both hands, as though to touch it would be agony. Dragging Wren clear from the bike frame, Rhyllann rustled through his pockets. He gazed down at the empty bubble strips which had contained extra strength painkillers.