Hare hunt
The hare ran and ran over the moors and through the fields. Her fur was the colour of winter acorns; her eyes shone like melted chocolate, her nose moved knowingly and her long soft ears were full of curiosity.
Sir Rose Price lived in the village of Kerrowe in the parish of Zennor, he loved to hunt. Sir Rose’s dogs smelled a hare and their bodies quivered with excitement, their tails wagged and they barked and barked. The dogs chased the hare a long way through fields and ditches till they came to the edge of the village. When they could smell the hare and almost taste the hare, it ran down a drain and they could not follow.
The hare sat panting for a long time, she had out run the dogs but they had tired her. Tomorrow she would be sure to avoid them.
Next morning was wild and wet, the sea wind whooshed through the lanes and opened its strong arms to devour everything in its wake. Sir Rose saddled his horse regardless and whistled to his dogs, he was on a mission to catch that hare.
Now, usually the hare curled up on such a day and kept warm, but on this day, she couldn’t ignore her rumbling belly. She wanted to find the sweetest grasses and herbs to eat. She left at dawn and made a form in the grass. She was lying down with her ears flat munching a clump of grass, so she didn’t immediately hear the hounds until they were almost on top of her.
The hounds raced through the rain, they held their noses and eyes to the ground hunting, not wanting to face the rain head on. Sir Rose was in a temper, he had only wanted to ride for an hour but they had been searching for the hare since dawn. Then, he spurred his horse on in surprise for the hounds had something.
‘You must have that hare,’ he barked.
She ran for her life out of her safe space and across the farmer’s fields. She ran and ran her long legs straining, her feet just gripping her nose dripping with rain. She knew she could out run one dog with ease but she could smell two or three dogs behind her and hear the voice of the horrible hunter cheering them on.
‘Let’s have her,’ cried Sir Rose. And his dogs leapt after the hare, they were tired and they were wet and they began to slip in the mud at the gate at the edge of the village. And as his dogs were slipping and sliding, Sir Rose raised his telescope and tracked the retreating hare until it ran down the very same drain.
On the third day, Sir Rose was more determined than ever. He had been awake most of the night plotting how he would catch the hare and he wasn’t going to be defeated.
The hare was sure she could out run the dogs, she had done it twice before, why not today. She must nibble just a morsal of the sweetest herbs and the juiciest grasses. When the sun rose, the hare ran and ran she enjoyed the wind ruffling her coat and tickling her ears, she breathed in the smell of the sea and she felt freer than ever before.
Sir Rose saw the hare run past, he saw how carefree she was and how unaware of him lying in wait. He signalled for his dogs to chase her and this time he knew he would win.
She smelt the dogs before she heard them. There were many more than before, if one tired or got stuck in the mud another would take its place and run her down. All she could do was run and run she did, her paws pounding the earth, her ears scenting the direction, her fearful brown eyes darting to find the only way for her to go home. She was so close to the drain that had provided her safety twice before when the shot rang out and she felt a searing pain.
‘I have her,’ cried Sir Rose. ‘I have shot the hare.’
The dogs barked and barked as they chased the hare the same place, they always chased the hare, down the drain.
‘Get her you miserable dogs,’ cried Sir Rose in vain.
Sir Rose looked at the old cottage in front of him and he looked hard at the drain.
‘Let’s go inside,’ he said to the dogs. He leapt off his horse, strode up to the wooden door slightly ajar, pushed it open, bent his head and went in.
To his astonishment, seated at the long wooden table was a woman sat drying her long brown hair. Her face was red with blood, it oozed down her cheeks and fell in a pool on the slate floor.
‘Can I help you, Sir Rose?’ she said, a tremor in her voice.
‘I don’t think you can,’ said Sir Rose backing out of the door.
Sir Rose hauled himself back into the saddle and turned his horse away, his pack of hounds following.
‘I have shot a witch,’ he said to himself. ‘I will surely be ill wished.’