rel="nofollow" href="#litres_trial_promo">15. Errwood
“And for to passe the tyme thys book shal be plesaunte to rede in, but for to gyve fayth and byleve that al is trewe that is conteyned herein, yet be at your lyberté.”
WILLIAM CAXTON
31 JULY 1485
It was bleak on Mottram road under the Edge, the wooded hill of Alderley. Trees roared high in the darkness. If any people had cause to be out in the night, they kept their heads deep in their collars, and their faces screwed blindly against the Pennine wind. And it was as well they did, for among the trees something was happening that was not meant for human eyes.
From a rib of the Edge a shaft of blue light cut the darkness. It came from a narrow opening in a high, tooth-shaped rock, and within the opening was a pair of iron gates thrown wide, and beyond them a tunnel. Shadows moved on the trees as a strange procession entered through the gates and down into the hill.
They were a small people, not more than four feet high, deep-chested, with narrow waists, and long, slender arms and legs. They wore short tunics, belted and sleeveless, and their feet were bare. Some had cloaks of white eagle feathers, though these were marks of rank rather than a protection. They carried deeply curved bows, and from their belts hung on one side quivers of white arrows, and on the other broad stabbing swords. Each rode a small white horse, and some sat proudly erect, though most drooped over the pommels of their saddles, and a few lay irrevocably still across their horses’ necks, and the reins were held by others. All together they numbered close on five hundred.
Beside the iron gates stood an old man. He was very tall, and thin as a young birch tree. His white robes, and long white hair and beard flew with the gale, and he held a white staff in his hand.
Slowly the horsemen filed through the gates into the glimmering tunnel, and when they were all inside, the old man turned, and followed them. The iron gates swung shut behind him, and there was just a bare rock in the wind.
In this way the elves of Sinadon came unnoticed to Fundindelve, last stronghold of the High Magic in our days, and were met by Cadellin Silverbrow, a great wizard, and guardian of the secret places of the Edge.
“Eh up,” said Gowther Mossock, “what’s this?”
“What’s what?” said Colin.
“This here in the Advertiser.”
Colin and Susan leant forward to look where Gowther’s finger pointed to a headline near the middle of the page.
PLUMBING THE DEPTHS
Speculation has been aroused by the discovery of what appears to be a thirty-foot well, during excavations in front of the Trafford Arms Hotel, Alderley Edge.
While workmen employed by Isaac Massey and Sons were digging to trace a surface water drain they moved a stone flag and discovered a cavity. The lowering of a weighted string showed that the depth was thirty feet, with fifteen feet of water. The well was in no way connected with the drain, and although the whole of the covering was not removed it was estimated that the cavity was about six feet square with stone walls covered with slabs of stone.
It has been suggested that at one time there was a pump in front of the hotel and that excavations have revealed the well from which water was pumped.
Another theory is that it may probably be an air shaft connected with the ancient mines, which extend for a considerable distance in the direction of the village.
“The funny thing is,” said Gowther when the children had finished reading, “as long as I con remember it’s always been said there’s a tunnel from the copper mines comes out in the cellars of the Trafford. And now theer’s this. I wonder what the answer is.”
“I dunner see as it matters,” said Bess Mossock. “Yon’s nobbut a wet hole, choose how you look at it. And it con stay theer, for me.”
Gowther laughed. “Nay, lass, wheer’s your curiosity?”
“When you’re my age,” said Bess, “and getting as fat as Pig Ellen, theer’s other things to bother your head with, besides holes with water in them.
“Now come on, let’s be having you. I’ve my shopping to do, and you’ve not finished yet, either.”
“Could we have a look at the hole before we start?” said Susan.
“That’s what I was going to suggest,” said Gowther. “It’s only round the corner. It wunner take but a couple of minutes.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Bess. “I hope you enjoy yourselves. But dunner take all day, will you?”
They went out from the chip shop into the village street. Among all the parked cars, the Mossocks’ green cart, with their white horse, Prince, between the shafts, stood thirty years behind its surroundings. And the Mossocks were the same. Bess, in her full coat, and round, brimmed hat held with a pin, and Gowther, in his waistcoat and breeches – they had seen no reason to change the way of life that suited them. Once a week they rode down from Highmost Redmanhey, their farm on the southern slope of the Edge, to deliver eggs, poultry, and vegetables to customers in Alderley village. When Colin and Susan had first come to stay at Highmost Redmanhey everything had seemed very strange, but they had quickly settled into the Mossocks’ pattern.
Gowther and the children walked at Prince’s head for the short distance up the street to the De Trafford Arms, a public house built to Victorian ideas of beauty in half-timbered gothic.
A trench about three feet deep had been dug along the front of the building, close against the wall. Gowther mounted the pile of earth and clay that stood beside it, and looked down into the trench.
“Ay, this is it.”
Colin and Susan stepped up to join him.
The corner of a stone slab was sticking out of the trench wall a little way above the floor. A piece of the slab had broken off, making a hole three inches wide: that was all. Susan took a pebble, and dropped it through the gap. A second later there was a resonant ‘plunk’ as it hit water.
“It dunner tell you much, does it?” said Gowther. “Con you see owt?”
Susan had jumped into the trench,