THE FORM IN THE WOOD
It had snowed slightly in the early morning, and enough snow lay on the
ground to take the track of a hare.
The ground told quite a lot of things to Patsy Rooney as he made his way
across Glen Druid Park from his father’s cottage to the little village
of Castle Knock, which lies beyond the park a mile to the west, where
the Tullagh road meets the road to Kilgobbin.
Out in the open spaces the great feet of the crows had left their mark
clear cut in the snow. Crossing them you could see the lesser traces of
the ringed plover, and all sorts of little birds had left tiny
footprints where the snow lay thin and white as a sheet on the borders
of the beech woods.
All kinds of rare birds came to Glen Druid Park, for the place had been
deserted so long that there was no one to trouble them, except Patsy’s
father, who was the keeper, and who lived in the keeper’s cottage close
to the Big House.
The Big House had been deserted for years, but it was deserted no
longer, for only that autumn Lady Seagrave had taken it, and she and her
family had already moved in; and there were, as I have hinted, to be
great doings at Christmas, and the whole country-side was talking of the
wonderful things that were to happen when the “quality” arrived.
By the “quality” the country people meant the guests who were coming
over from England. Lords and ladies were reputed to be coming, and
bringing their hunting horses with them, and there was a rumour that a
bishop was coming, too. Patsy was anxious enough to see the lords and
ladies, but he was more anxious still to see the bishop; what such a
thing was like he could not in the least imagine. He could have asked,
but he didn’t: firstly, because he was a person of such little
importance that no one would have been bothered answering him; and
secondly, because he did not want to spoil the sight when it came by
knowing what it would be like beforehand. He thought it was some sort of
animal.
He was going through the beech woods now at a “sweep’s trot” to keep
himself warm. He had an old stake plucked from a fence in his hand, and
as he ran he would every now and then twirl the stake round his head and
give a “whoop” that sent the startled birds fluttering through the
branches and the rabbits scuttling through the withered fern.
He was not going through the thick of the wood, but down a broad drive
that was the shortest cut to the village; and he did not twirl the stake
round his head and whoop for the fun of the thing, but to keep up his
courage. For the drive was just the place where the “carriage” was
always met.
Patsy’s uncle had seen the “carriage,” or said he had. So had a lot of
other people. It was a hearse with plumes, driven by a man without a
head, and it was supposed to haunt the grounds of Glen Druid Park,
sometimes even in daylight.
The horrible thing about it was that when the man without the head saw
you, he made straight for you; and, if he overtook you, down he would
get and bundle you into the vehicle and drive off, and then you were
done for.
The snow on the drive, like the snow on the grass of the park, showed
all sorts of little footprints. Tracks of hares and rabbits and the
trail of a stoat, Patsy knew and could distinguish them all. Though he
could neither read or write, he knew the habits and names of all the
wild animals and birds that were to be seen in the woods and ways
around; he knew all the tales about the fairies that lived under the
ferns in the glens, and the cluricaunes that cobbled the fairies’ boots.
He had never seen a cluricaune or a fairy, but he believed in them,
notwithstanding the fact that he had a very sharp and practical mind
where the ordinary business of life was concerned.
Suddenly Patsy came to a stand close to the trunk of a great beech tree.
He had caught a glimpse of something in the wood on the right-hand side
of the drive.
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