THE WHITE BADGER OF CAIRN KENIDZHEK
THE EARTHSTOPPER IN DOUBT
IT is with some misgiving that I venture to insert this tale, inasmuch
as the telling involves mention of a place so weird that readers strange
to the Land’s End district may be incredulous of its existence.
For to this day an evil repute clings to Cairn Kenidzhek amongst those
best fit to judge its character—to wit, the few dwellers round the base
of the rugged hill on which it frowns. Within half a mile or so of it,
there are three small farmhouses, counting the one on the lower moor by
the quaking bog where Jim Trevaskis used to live, and from the
occupants, if you first win their confidence and are betrayed by no
“furrin” accent, you may learn some of the strange occurrences that take
place about it.
With bated breath they will tell you that on pitch-dark nights the pile
of rocks is at times lit up with an unearthly light, and that now and
then, especially when trouble is brooding and the death-watch has been
ticking in the “spence,” they hear, as they lie awake, the stony hill
ring under the stroke of galloping hoofs. Whether these and other eerie
happenings, around which legends have shaped themselves, can be
explained on scientific grounds, matters not to them, for the Celt of
the countryside turns a deaf ear to new-fangled notions and clings to
the traditions of his fathers. But of all the haunting memories of the
Cairn, that which inspires the greatest dread is associated with the
disappearance of two men who were last seen toiling up the hill at the
close of a wild winter’s day. No legend is this coming down from a
remote past; for Dick Shellal, Trevaskis’ farmhand, who could count up
to forty with the help of his fingers, had heard his great-grandfather
say that the mystery was talked about when he was a boy as if it were a
thing of yesterday.
On the December night when our tale opens, Trevaskis himself, as was his
wont in stormy weather, bedded up the cattle early, piled the furze on
the fire though the wind was westerly, and—a thing he would never have
done by day—permitted Shellal, who scamped the job in his hurry to get
indoors, to put the wheel of an old donkey cart on the “riffled” thatch
of the pig’s “crow.” Hours later, when his master had at length fallen
asleep, and Shellal could hear him snoring through the “planchen,” he
himself lay wide awake on his straw pallet listening to the moaning of
the wind, and, tempted during a temporary lull to gratify his curiosity
and see whether anything was abroad, sat up in bed and peeped through
the corner pane of the attic window. Angry clouds coursed across the
face of the moon, and the sky was nearly as dark as the earth; but
whilst he looked there was a rift in the black veil, and against the
silver disc he got a glimpse of the jagged crest of the Cairn. Lowering
his gaze at the sight of it, he followed the vague outline of the murky
cone of the hill, and then with the quickness of thought, buried his
shock head under the bedclothes. Coward! Let him lie there with
chattering teeth, and with knees doubled up to his chin. The light that
scared him, though it is so near the edge of the bog, is no pixie’s
light, no lantern held by shadowy hands; the feeble rays he saw, flicker
on the path of as human a being as ever trod the earth. He should have
known who it was, for there is but one man whose lonesome duty could
bring him there in the small hours of the morning, when the watch-dog
sleeps, and the fox is tyrant of the farmyard. Yes, it is Andrew who
threads his way in and out amongst the rush-clumps near the lip of the
treacherous quagmire. But what is he doing there? Why has he not taken
to the rising ground at his usual point, a furlong back, where the
herbage is scant, and scarce hides the stony surface? Surely he must
have missed his way, or he would not be following the widely circuitous
base to reach the fox-earth in the valley on the far side of the Cairn.
* * * * *
[Illustration: CAIRN KENIDZHEK. [_Face page 88._]
* * * * *
It is not so. No, given to taking short cuts though he is, he prefers on
this night to keep on the rim of the haunted slopes, and as near the bog
as foothold will allow. Level-headed as he is in most things, the taint
of superstition is in his blood too, and it is fear, excited by the
story he heard two hours ago, that dictates the path he follows.
Dropping in at the “Jolly Tinners” at Trewellard for a glass of beer
before starting on his round, he found himself an involuntary listener
to what he would rather have missed. On pushing open the door, he was
surprised to find some half a dozen miners in the bar, and wondered at
the cause of their silence. They were seated on a form in front of a
fire, but their attention was apparently taken by an aged miner, for
their heads were turned his way. Andrew, who feared there had been loss
of life in the mine, stole into a seat opposite the old man, who, to his
dismay, related the story of the two men lost upon Cairn Kenidjack, for
so he called it. Thrilling was every word he said, even when dealing
with the well-known facts—the sighting of the strange sail, the landing
at the Cove, the path taken by the men across the moor, their
conversation with the miners near the Cross, the spot near the Cairn
where they were last seen in the gathering gloom, the lurid light that
lit up the rocks, the finding of the broken claymore. But when with
trembling voice he threw out dark hints of what most likely befell the
missing men at nightfall, a deathlike silence fell on his rugged
listeners, and so unnerved was the Earthstopper that he started at the
creaking of the signboard, and shrunk from the thought of the journey
before him. The tale ended, Andrew would have called for a quart of
strong ale, but that he was short of cash and would not ask the landlord
to put his name on the slate, “no tick” being the custom in the parish
of Pendeen. Yet, for the sake of the company and the brightness of the
room he stayed on and, not knowing the gossip of the mining village,
strove, but in vain, to change the current of his thoughts by putting
questions about the “bal” and even about the ponies in the submarine
level, which extends more than a mile under the sea. At turning-out
time, he put the cat that had fallen asleep on his knees gently on the
floor, and lit the lantern. Leaving the inn, he went up the road with
one of the miners who lived on the edge of the moorland, and when the
wind slammed Jan Jose’s door behind him, Andrew, oppressed with a
feeling of loneliness he seldom experienced, left the track and set out
across the gale-swept waste leading to Kenidzhek, with uncle Zackey’s
version of the mystery vivid in his brain. On the way he stopped two
fox-earths, his tramp till then being void of incidents, save for the
startled cry of a snipe that sprung from his feet near the edge of a
marsh, and the scream of an owl that glided past him where, to avoid
some waste heaps, he swung round by a mine-ruin. He had not, however,
proceeded three furlongs from the spot where Shellal saw his light,
before he got a fright which, for an instant, paralysed his steps and
all but took his breath away. “Good Lor’! whatever es et?” he gasped as
something white crossed his path. His first thought was that _his_ fate
had overtaken him, and that he would disappear as mysteriously as the
two men of Zackey’s yarn. Recovering from the shock and feeling the
ground still under his feet, he moved on, his stumbling steps betraying
his agitation. “Couldn’ be a whi—a white hare; no, no, was too big for
that and et didn’ loup along like a hare. Was et a livin’ crittur at
all? Was et—rubbish!” “Pull yourself together, man,” said a voice
within, “go back and see if the thing left any track.” Though the sweat
stood in big drops on his face, and the gale which met him in the face
impeded his steps, he conquered his fears so far as to go back. The
thing had passed up the slope, he remembered, near the Giant’s Quoit,
for against that he had momentarily leant for support; and there he bent
over the ground, his face blanched, his eyes wild but eager as if they
would devour the bare places between the tussocks that skirted the
trickling water. Two paces above, on the margin of a shrunken pool made
by the runnel, and clean-cut as in plaster, the light of the flickering
flame fell on the track of a badger. “Good Lor’!” he exclaimed, as the
footprints met his astonished eyes; and then hurriedly retraced his
steps. The farther he got from the spot, the more strongly reason
asserted itself over superstition. He argued thus with himself: “White,
wadna? sartinly: the track of a badger, wadna? I should say so—” This
with the trace of smile, for he had never seen more clearly-cut
footprints. “Have I seen a white badger, I wonder? Auld Dick wance said
as much and was laafed at for the rest of his days. No, et caan’t be,
and yit ’tes hard to believe et edden. Sperrits doan’t maake
badger-prints in the mud. How many glasses o’ beer did ee have at the
‘Tinners’? Only wan, worse luck? Es et saafe to tell the Squire? The
Caastle waan’t hould un, he’ll be in such a pore.” It must be explained
that Sir Bevil took the keenest pleasure in collecting curious specimens
of the fauna of the district. In the entrance hall at the Castle were a
cream-coloured otter, a grey fox, and a yellow seal, but as yet there
was only a grey badger in a case below three pied Cornish choughs. And
here let me mention an incident which bears on the story, inasmuch as it
serves to explain the Earthstopper’s caution and hesitancy, despite his
intense eagerness to report what he has seen. Some four months after the
capture of the otter, he was standing under the Cairn near the Castle,
at the edge of the brake which hounds were drawing, his eyes strained to
catch a view of a fox. A slight rustle in the furze, and a brisk waving
of Cunoval’s stern, had attracted his attention, or the animal he got a
glimpse of might have escaped his notice. As it was, he saw only the
body and tail of the creature as it flashed across a narrow opening
between the bushes, but whatever it was, its coat and brush were as
white as snow. Great was his excitement, but greater far was his
chagrin, on looking over his shoulder as he ran in the direction of Sir
Bevil, to see the snow-white creature climbing the stem of a fir that
rose out of the brake. Of course, had he known that the Squire had
brought home a big Persian cat on his return from Plymouth the week
before, he could not have fallen into such an error as to believe that
he had seen a white fox; cats, foreign or indigenous, being, unless
their ears are cropped close, such inveterate poachers.
This experience and his narrow escape from making a fool of himself
dwelt with the Earthstopper, and occurred to him more than once before
he had completed his round. His work done, he has plenty of time to
reconsider the evidence in cold reason now that the powers of darkness
have crept back to their lairs. He is sitting in the lewth with his back
against one of the boulders of a stone circle, set like a coronet on the
brow of a hill commanding the steep slope over against him, down which
the hounds will come on their way to the meet.
The sun that reddens the East has lifted the veil of night from the
valley, revealing the smoke rising from a few chimneys where
white-washed homesteads dot the countryside. Some cows, released from
milking, are waiting for a boy to open the gate of a meadow; a flock of
geese is making its way to a pool in the bottoms. The Earthstopper takes
no notice of them, of the cosy rickyard, of the grim cairn beyond, or of
the distant bay for all its roseate hue and lovely setting. His thoughts
are centred on the ghostly thing that crossed his path, and as he cannot
but believe, left a badger’s footprints on the edge of the runnel. In
all his wanderings he has never met with anything to excite his interest
and imagination so much, or to cause him such anxiety. He feels that he
ought to tell the Squire, but by doing so he runs the risk of incurring
the ridicule that had fallen on Dick Hal. He has every confidence in Sir
Bevil’s discretion, but he knows that somehow, secrets leak out of
Castles as freely as they do out of cottages. How unfortunate it was
that owing to the wildness of the night Vennie had to be left to keep
his grandchild company! The dog would have flown at the thing if it were
a living creature, and that would have dispelled the slight misgiving he
feels that the prints might have been those of a grey badger which had
passed up the hill earlier. But in that case what could he have seen? A
witch? or the lost soul that is said to wander there? No, no, the sun is
too high in the heavens for him to heed old men’s tales. His mind is
made up, he will risk everything and tell the Squire before the day is
out, and the sooner the better for he will know no peace until his
secret is shared. His decision made, he knocks the ashes from the pipe
he has been smoking and, choosing a sheltered spot, lies down on the dry
fern, and with a mossy stone for his pillow soon falls asleep, for he is
tired after his long round and the buffeting of the wind. A couple of
hours later he awakes with a start. Has he overslept himself? He looks
at the sun. It is not mid-day, but still the hounds may have passed;
Troubadour may have found him in the hollow where he lay, may have
licked his face and gone on, without his being any the wiser. He scans
the hills around, but can see no horsemen silhouetted against the sky;
the few cattle in the valley are grazing undisturbed; he listens but he
can hear no tell-tale sound, no toot of horn, no bark of farm-dog, only
the voice of the dying gale, the faint rustle of dried bents, and the
whistle of the golden plover. He runs to a gap he knows of at the far
end of the croft, but finds in the mud there no track of horse or hound,
and then, on looking across the valley, he sees the hounds coming down
the steep lane where it skirts a stunted plantation, the space between
the huntsman and the whippers-in flecked with the white markings of the
pack. The meet is at a small village which he cannot see from his
station, but he waits where he is, knowing that the cover below him is
the first to be drawn. And now he begins to think of his report and to
turn it over on his tongue. It runs smoothly enough until he comes to
“white badger!” It is not the word white or the word badger that scares
him, but the two together. “White mouse, white rat, white ferret, white
cat, white otter, white elephant, whi—white badger.” Yes, white goes
naturally enough with all but badger. Dare he tell the Squire after all?
He becomes irresolute. He walks to and fro across the heathery space
enclosed by the stones, and finally moves half-way down the hill and
takes his stand behind a big boulder. Hardly has he gained it when a
whipper-in gallops past him to take up a position on the far side of the
stone circle; then Sir Bevil comes up the croft on the grey mare, and
from his favourite spot, which is some twenty yards away from where
Andrew is, watches the working of the hounds. Seeing after a time that a
find is unlikely, Andrew half resolves to go, there and then, and
unburden his mind. Twice he left the shelter of the rock and as often
retreated, but not before Sir Bevil had remarked his hesitating
behaviour. A third time he ventured a little further, and then, if he
were about to retire again, the Squire’s voice checked him.
“Do you wish to speak to me, Andrew?”
“Yes, sir, I do and I doan’t.”
“No one trapping foxes, I hope?”
“No, sir, leastwise, not this side the country,” said Andrew, walking up
to him.
“You’ve bad news of some sort, I fear.”
“No tedn that nither, sir. Et’s like thes—I was coming down-along round
the foot of the Hootin’ Cairn, soon after midnight, when summat white
crossed the ground afore me.”
“What was it?” said Sir Bevil with a smile, the eeriness of the place
and the superstitious fear of the Earthstopper occurring to him.
“Thet’s just the point, sir.”
“Was it twenty paces ahead of you?”
“Lor’ bless your life, sir, ’twas touchin’, under my feet, so to spaake.
’Twas a darkish night, for all the moon was nearly full, but the thing
showed up as white as a ghost, and the sight of un gov me a bra’ turn,
the more so being where I were.”
“Is that all you have to say?—I see the hounds are moving off.”
“Only thes, sir; on second thoughts, I went back all of a quaake to see
ef the thing left any track.”
“Well, did you find any?” said Sir Bevil, rather excitedly; till then he
had not seen what the Earthstopper had been driving at.
“Iss, sir.”
“What was it, my man, what was it?”
“The track of a badger—of a heavy badger, the prent was that deep.”
“You believe then, Andrew, that you have seen a white badger, a white
badger,” said the Squire, repeating the words deliberately and
emphatically, as was his wont on the bench at crucial points of a
witness’s evidence, and looking the while straight into the
Earthstopper’s unflinching eyes.
“Iss, sir, I do; but aifter thet I wouldn’t care to tell anyone savin’
yoursel’.”
“Be at the Castle at nine o’clock to-morrow morning,” said Sir Bevil,
somewhat peremptorily, and then galloped off after the hounds, leaving
Andrew staring open-mouthed after him.