ON BONE RUNNERS
'Heigh! Cheap Jack girl!'
Zita was out enjoying the crisp, frosty air, on the frozen soil,
sparkling under the winter sun.
The November frost had continued, and canals and rivers were iced over
as well as dykes and drains. God's plough was in the soil—that is what
country folk say when the frost cuts deep into the earth. Where God's
plough has been, there golden harvests are turned up to gladden all
sorts and conditions of men, and golden harvests turn to metallic gold
in the pockets of the farmers.
Every fen man, woman, and child can skate. As soon as a child has found
its legs, it essays to slide, and when it can slide, it attempts to
skate. Fen skating is inelegant. Speed alone is considered, and legs
and arms fly about in all directions. With scorn does the fen-man
contemplate the figuring of the fine gentleman on the ice.
In winter, skating matches come as thick as do football matches
elsewhere. Parish is pitted against parish, fen against fen, islet
contests with islet; even the frequenters of one tavern are matched
against the frequenters of another.
During a hard frost, locomotion for once becomes easy and speedy in the
Fens. Men and women skate to market, children to school, and smugglers
run their goods from King's Lynn.
Zita had gone to the river side to see a sight that was novel to her.
As she stood watching the skaters, Mark Runham came to the bank side,
his cheeks glowing, his fair hair blowing about his ears, his eyes
sparkling as though frost crystals were in them.
'I say, Cheap Jack, get on your patines and come.' Skates are termed
_patines_ in the Fens.
'If you mean skates, I have none. Besides, I do not know how to use
them.'
'Not got patines? Not know how to use them? Then take a ride in my
sleigh. I'll run you along. Stay here a few minutes till I have brought
it.'
He was gone, flying down the river like a swallow, and in ten minutes
he had returned, drawing after him a little sledge, and stayed his
course on the frozen surface of the Lark before Zita.
'It's fine fun,' said he, with a voice cheery as his smile. 'I'll
run you where you like to go; to Rossall Pits if you will—to
Littleport—down to the sea—up to Cambridge—to the end of the
world—anywhere you will.'
'Take me for a short distance only.'
'Then seat yourself in the sledge. We shall go as the wind.'
Zita descended the bank to the ice.
'Look!' said he; 'do you see how my sleigh is made? It is set on the
leg-bones of a horse. It runs on them in prime style. They wear as
steel, and slip along better.'
With her face radiant with happiness, Zita placed herself in the little
sleigh.
Then with a merry 'Whoop!' off he started down the river. The wind
rushed in Zita's face, sharp and fresh, and drove the blood to her
cheeks.
They passed many 'patiners,' men and boys. There were few women out.
Later, when the sun set, they would skate along the frozen surface to
the tavern. The tavern is an institution in the Fens more frequented
than elsewhere, and frequented without scruple, not by men only,
but by women as well. There is a reason for this. The fen-water is
undrinkable. There are no springs in the Fens. Those who live near
the rivers derive thence their tea water; river water is potable and
harmless when boiled, that which is drawn from the peat is neither.
Consequently the inhabitants of the Fens are compelled to drink
something other than water, and instinctively seek that something other
at the public-houses. When the woman's work-day is over, she dons her
patines and is off to the 'Fish and Duck,' or the 'Spade and Becket,'
the 'Pike and Eel,' or the 'Sedge Sheaf,' to moisten her dust-dry clay.
As Zita flew along the ice, she laughed for joy of heart. Never had
she travelled so fast. Her wonted pace had been that of the snail, for
she had made progress in a heavily-laden van, drawn by a depressed and
stolid horse. She was whirled past one of the main pumps for throwing
the water of the loads into the river, and before she conceived it
possible, she had passed a second. And these engines, as Mark told her,
were two miles apart. Jewel's fashion of travelling was very different
from that of Mark. Along the smoothest and most level road he had been
accustomed to crawl, and then, after having made his pulses throb and
his sweat break out, to stand still, with head down, to revive himself.
Then nothing would induce him to proceed till he considered himself
refreshed, when he would stumble on for a couple of miles, and again
pause. But Mark flew along as though he would never know exhaustion,
and there was no bringing him to a standstill.
After several vain attempts to arrest him, Zita succeeded. He stood
beside her sleigh with a smile on his pleasant face, and with the steam
blowing from his nostrils.
'You must not go too far,' said Zita. 'We have come a long way from
Prickwillow.'
'What! are you tired? You have not been dancing on sketches?'
'I do not understand your meaning.'
'Sketches?—does that word puzzle you as did patines? They are what
some folk call stilts. I can run on them like a crane. But sketches are
cumbrous, and, when the fen is soft, tire one speedily.'
'Let us return now.'
'No indeed. You have nothing to call you back. That fellow Drownlands,
old scoundrel,—I beg your pardon,—will not be angry with you and
thrash you, I suppose?'
'He is not at home. He has gone abroad for the day.'
'Then come along. We will visit Newport.'
'Please do not take me much farther.'
'Why not? Are you not enjoying the run?'
'I love it.'
'Then away we go. You are not afraid of travelling, with me as your
horse?'
She looked straight into his bright, honest face, and laughed. 'No—you
are too good for any one to fear you.'
'How do you know that?'
'You carry honesty in your eyes, and "good boy" written across your
brow.'
'It is time for me to run,' laughed Mark, 'or my head will be turned.'
He buckled himself to his task, pranced from side to side, swinging the
little sleigh to right and left, in his light-hearted frolic, and then
away he went, running the sleigh with Zita in it straight along the
canal.
The flatness, the monotony of the Fens, the absence of unshackled
nature, the treelessness of the region, the lack of everything that can
arrest the changing lights and passing shadows, combine to make the
district one to send a chill into the mind of the visitor. Flat as the
sea, it is devoid of its diversity of tint and tumultuous or glassy
beauty. Nevertheless, the fen exercises a charm over the mind and holds
with a spell the heart of the native. He can live nowhere else. He will
not emigrate. He feels bound to spend all his days in the fen. Only
when the vital spark expires does his body leave the turf to repose in
the clay of the islet graveyards. That the farmer and landowner should
love the fen is not marvellous, because of the richness of the soil and
the profits they make out of it; but why the labourer should cling to
the spongy turf is not so explicable. He may be discontented, and be a
grumbler, but he is discontented with his lot, and envies the taverner
or the smuggler on the Fens, grumbles at the hardness of his work or
the lowness of his pay; but he is not discontented because the fen is
so flat, and he has no word against its hideousness, or, at least, its
uniformity.
One reason why the labourer in the Fens does not think of leaving
it may be that he uses tools there different from those employed
elsewhere, and he would have to learn his trade anew, employ unfamiliar
tools, and be subjected to ridicule when handling them awkwardly. It
is strange, but true, that those men are more naturally prone to leave
their homes who inhabit mountainous lands than such as dwell in level
districts.
How far was Mark going? How Zita flashed past the windmills, some of
which had their sails in motion! A little rising ground showed, with
some trees clustered on it—that must be Littleport.
'Mark,' said Zita suddenly, 'I want to ask you a question.'
'Say on,' said he, and relaxed the speed at which he was spinning her
along, and finally came to a standstill. How pretty she was, with her
glowing cheeks, her cherry lips, the light of the winter sun in her
soft hazel eyes and in her rich, burnished, chestnut hair! How pretty
that hair was now, in some confusion, puffed out of its order, the
coppery strands on her brow, one down her cheek! The wildness of her
appearance thus untidied by the wind made her more than ever charming.
Mark looked with eyes that could not be satiated with looking.
But it was not merely her beauty that struck him. It was the exuberant
happiness that seemed to be bursting forth at her eyes, running out of
her little head in every shining hair, glowing in those bright-tinted
cheeks, burning in those carnation-red lips.
'Well, my dear little Zita, what is it?'
'Mark, it is something I have thought about and have puzzled over. It
seems strange to speak about it now—now when I am so joyous—and it is
connected with things so sad to me and to you.'
'But what is it, little rogue?'
'Mark, that terrible night when your father and mine died'—. She
paused.
'Well, Zita?'
'Then—before his death, I mean—before the death of my own dear daddy,
and I can't say whether it was before or after yours was drowned—I
heard such a strange, such an awful sound.'
'Where?'
'In the sky—above; like the barking of dogs. It was just as though a
hunter was going by with his pack. Shall I tell you what I thought it?
It was just as if the dogs had smelt the fox, and gave tongue. Was it
not dreadful? I could see nothing; I could hear—that was all.'
'I think nothing of that,' said Mark. 'I know our fen-folk say it is
the devils running after a human soul. They have snuffed it from the
bottomless pit, then the Great Hunter of Souls opens the kennel door,
and out they burst, yelping, snapping, panting, and come after it.'
'Oh, Mark!'
'But if the soul be very nimble, it runs before them, runs on the
wind, swift as an arrow, and slips in at heaven's gate, and then the
evil spirits yelp and bay and bark outside. But it is all fudge and
nonsense. I believe that the sound comes from the wild geese.'
'I shall ever think of this. Oh, I hope I shall never hear that
dreadful sound again. My dear father—no—he would certainly escape
those hounds. They would never catch him. For him the Golden Gate would
be opened, and the dogs be shut outside. He was so gentle, so kind, so
true. Oh, I loved him so—so much!' And thereupon the brightness was
gone out of the sunny little face, and it was bathed in tears.
'Put all this aside. Think no more of it.'
'They were in full pursuit when I heard them.'
'The geese? And you are a little goose if you think more of this.'
'Mark, may I never hear that sound again!'
'Or, if you do, Zita, may I be near you to laugh your fears away. No,
not laugh—kiss them away, as I do now.'
'Mark! you _are_ a naughty boy! I did not think it of you.'
The roses had come back, and the glow was returned, and in one cheek
deeper than the other.