From Hereabout Hill

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  Also by Michael Morpurgo

  Arthur: High King of Britain

  Escape from Shangri-La

  Friend or Foe

  The Ghost of Grania O’Malley

  Kensuke’s Kingdom

  King of the Cloud Forests

  Little Foxes

  Long Way Home

  Mr Nobody’s Eyes

  My Friend Walter

  The Nine Lives of Montezuma

  The Sandman and the Turtles

  The Sleeping Sword

  Twist of Gold

  Waiting for Anya

  War Horse

  The War of Jenkins’ Ear

  The White Horse of Zennor

  The Wreck of Zanzibar

  Why the Whales Came

  For Younger Readers

  Conker

  Mairi’s Mermaid

  On Angel Wings

  The Best Christmas Present in the World

  The Marble Crusher

  First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Mammoth

  This edition published 2007 by Egmont UK Limited

  239 Kensington High Street, London W8 6SA

  ‘From Hereabout Hill’ is reproduced by kind permission of Christian Rafferty copyright © Seàn Rafferty

  This collection copyright © 2000 Michael Morpurgo

  ‘The Giant’s Neckace’ © 1982 Michael Morpurgo first published in The White Horse of Zennor, Kaye & Ward Ltd, 1982

  ‘My Father is a Polar Bear’ © 1999 Michael Morpurgo first published in Family Tree, Mammoth, 1999

  ‘What Does It Feel Like?’ © 1994 Michael Morpurgo first published in In Between, Methuen Children’s Books, 1994

  ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’ © 1979 Michael Morpurgo first published in The Storyteller (under the pseudonym Emma Langland), Ward Lock Editions, 1979

  ‘Muck and Magic’ © 1995 Michael Morpurgo first published in Muck and Magic, Heinemann Young Books, 1995

  ‘Silver Ghost’ © 1995 Michael Morpurgo first published in Ghostly Haunts, Pavilion Books Ltd, 1995

  ‘Letter from Kalymnos’ © 1997 Michael Morpurgo first published in All for Love, Mammoth, 1997

  ‘The Beast of Ballyloch’ © 1997 Michael Morpurgo first published in Beyond the Rainbow Warrior, Pavilion Books, 1997

  ‘In Ancient Times’ © 1999 Michael Morpurgo first published in Centuries of Stories, Harper Collins Publishers Ltd, 1999

  Cover illustration copyright © 2007 Lucy Davey

  The moral rights of the author and cover illustrator have been asserted

  ISBN 978 1 4052 3335 4

  eBook ISBN 978 1 7803 1175 3

  7 9 10 8 6

  www.egmont.co.uk

  www.michaelmorpurgo.org

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  For Miriam

  Contents

  Foreword

  The Giant’s Necklace

  My Father is a Polar Bear

  What Does It Feel Like?

  The Owl and the Pussycat

  Muck and Magic

  Silver Ghost

  Letter from Kalymnos

  The Beastman of Ballyloch

  In Ancient Times

  From Hereabout Hill

  by Seàn Rafferty

  From Hereabout Hill

  the sun early rising

  looks over his fields

  where a river runs by;

  at the green of the wheat

  and the green of the barley

  and Candlelight Meadow

  the pride of his eye.

  The clock on the wall

  strikes eight in the kitchen

  the clock in the parlour

  says twenty to nine;

  the thrush has a song

  and the blackbird another

  the weather reporter

  says cloudless and fine.

  It’s green by the hedge

  and white by the peartree

  in Hereabout village

  the date is today;

  it’s seven by the sun

  and the time is the springtime

  the first of the month and

  the month must be May.

  Foreword

  Writers and miners have something in common, I think. Daily we search for and hope to find the rich seams we need. Some writers discover a seam so productive that they simply keep digging the way the seam leads them. My problem is that I am too easily bored. I find a rich seam, dig like crazy, and then move on to a new seam, a different seam. I may return to the old one later, I often do.

  This somewhat impatient and immature way of mining for my stories is reflected in this collection of tales. And there is a good reason for it, a good excuse, anyway. All of these stories, except one, have been written at the behest of someone else, a friend or an editor. So I’ve been digging away contentedly in my seam, when some story mining expert (editor) comes up with a proposal that I might write a short story about such and such. ‘Stop your digging there,’ she says. ‘Look over there and follow that seam. It looks promising.’ Whether I do as I’m told entirely depends upon who’s doing the telling.

  It was Miriam Hodgson who so often came up with proposals that I should explore new areas. That is why this book is dedicated to her – one of the truly great story mining experts. She knows where the gold runs deep and true, how a writer gets at it, and she’s good on the smelting too. She likes these stories, which makes me hope and believe that you will too.

  Michael Morpurgo

  June 2000

  PS ‘From Hereabout Hill’ was written by a dear friend and wonderful poet, Seàn Rafferty, who lived in a cottage on the farm until his death in 1993. The ‘Hereabout Hill’ he writes of was his hill and is my hill, the place I live, the place I write my stories.

  The Giant’s Necklace

  So, a mining story to start with. For many years I used to go every summer to Zennor. I read Cornish legends, researched the often tragic history of tin mining in Penwith, wandered the wild moors above Zennor Churchtown. I wrote a book of five short sto
ries called The White Horse of Zennor. This is the first.

  The necklace stretched from one end of the kitchen table to the other, around the sugar bowl at the far end and back again, stopping only a few inches short of the toaster. The discovery on the beach of a length of abandoned fishing line draped with seaweed had first suggested the idea to Cherry; and every day of the holiday since then had been spent in one single-minded pursuit, the creation of a necklace of glistening pink cowrie shells. She had sworn to herself and to everyone else that the necklace would not be complete until it reached the toaster; and when Cherry vowed she would do something, she invariably did it.

  Cherry was the youngest in a family of older brothers, four of them, who had teased her relentlessly since the day she was born, eleven years before. She referred to them as ‘the four mistakes’, for it was a family joke that each son had been an attempt to produce a daughter. To their huge delight Cherry reacted passionately to any slight or insult whether intended or not. Their particular targets were her size, which was diminutive compared with theirs, and her dark flashing eyes that could wither with one scornful look, her ‘zapping’ look, they called it. Although the teasing was interminable it was rarely hurtful, nor was it intended to be, for her brothers adored her; and she knew it.

  Cherry was poring over her necklace, still in her dressing gown. Breakfast had just been cleared away and she was alone with her mother. She fingered the shells lightly, turning them gently until the entire necklace lay flat with the rounded pink of the shells all uppermost. Then she bent down and breathed on each of them in turn, polishing them carefully with a napkin.

  ‘There’s still the sea in them,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘You can still smell it, and I washed them and washed them, you know.’

  ‘You’ve only got today, Cherry,’ said her mother coming over to the table and putting an arm round her. ‘Just today, that’s all. We’re off back home tomorrow morning first thing. Why don’t you call it a day, dear? You’ve been at it every day – you must be tired of it by now. There’s no need to go on, you know. We all think it’s a fine necklace and quite long enough. It’s long enough surely?’

  Cherry shook her head slowly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Only that little bit left to do and then it’ll be finished.’

  ‘But they’ll take hours to collect, dear,’ her mother said weakly, recognising and at the same time respecting her daughter’s persistence.

  ‘Only a few hours,’ said Cherry, bending over, her brows furrowing critically as she inspected a flaw in one of her shells, ‘that’s all it’ll take. D’you know, there are five thousand, three hundred and twenty-five shells in my necklace already? I counted them, so I know.’

  ‘Isn’t that enough, Cherry?’ her mother said desperately.

  ‘No,’ said Cherry. ‘I said I’d reach the toaster, and I’m going to reach the toaster.’

  Her mother turned away to continue the drying-up.

  ‘Well, I can’t spend all day on the beach today, Cherry,’ she said. ‘If you haven’t finished by the time we come away, I’ll have to leave you there. We’ve got to pack up and tidy the house – there’ll be no time in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ said Cherry, cocking her head on one side to view the necklace from a different angle. ‘There’s never been a necklace like this before, not in all the world. I’m sure there hasn’t.’ And then, ‘You can leave me there, Mum, and I’ll walk back. It’s only a mile or so along the cliff path and half a mile back across the fields. I’ve done it before on my own. It’s not far.’

  There was a thundering on the stairs and a sudden rude invasion of the kitchen. Cherry was surrounded by her four brothers who leant over the table in mock appreciation of her necklace.

  ‘Ooh, pretty.’

  ‘Do they come in other colours? I mean, pink’s not my colour.’

  ‘Who’s it for? An elephant?’

  ‘It’s for a giant,’ said Cherry. ‘It’s a giant’s necklace, and it’s still not big enough.’

  It was the perfect answer, an answer she knew would send her brothers into fits of laughter. She loved to make them laugh at her and could do it at the drop of a hat. Of course she no more believed in giants than they did, but if it tickled them pink to believe she did, then why not pretend?

  She turned on them, fists flailing and chased them back up the stairs, her eyes burning with simulated fury. ‘Just ’cos you don’t believe in anything ’cept motorbikes and football and all that rubbish, just ’cos you’re great big, fat, ignorant pigs . . .’ She hurled insults up the stairs, and the worse the insult the more they loved it.

  Boat Cove just below Zennor Head was the beach they had found and occupied. Every year for as long as Cherry could remember they had rented the same granite cottage, set back in the fields below the Eagle’s Nest and every year they came to the same beach because no one else did. In two weeks not another soul had ventured down the winding track through the bracken from the coastal path. It was a long climb down and a very much longer one up. The beach itself was almost hidden from the path that ran along the cliff top a hundred feet above. It was private and perfect and theirs. The boys swam in amongst the rocks, diving and snorkelling for hours on end. Her mother and father would sit side by side on stripey deck chairs. She would read endlessly and he would close his eyes against the sun and dream for hours on end.

  Cherry moved away from them and clambered over the rocks to a narrow strip of sand in the cove beyond the rocks, and here it was that she mined for the cowrie shells. In the gritty sand under the cliff face she had found a particularly rich deposit. She was looking for pink cowrie shells of a uniform length, colour and shape – that was what took the time. Occasionally the boys would swim around the rocks and in to her little beach, emerging from the sea all goggled and flippered to mock her. But as she paid them little attention they soon tired and went away again. She knew time was running short. This was her very last chance to find enough shells to complete the giant’s necklace, and it had to be done.

  The sea was calmer that day than she had ever seen it. The heat beat down from a windless, cloudless sky; even the gulls and kittiwakes seemed to be silenced by the sun. Cherry searched on, stopping only for a picnic lunch of pasties and tomatoes with the family before returning at once to her shells.

  In the end the heat proved too much for her mother and father, who left the beach earlier than usual in mid-afternoon to begin to tidy up the cottage. The boys soon followed because they had tired of finding miniature crabs and seaweed instead of the sunken wrecks and treasure they had been seeking. So, by teatime Cherry was left on her own on the beach with strict instructions to keep her hat on, not to bathe alone and to be back well before dark. She had calculated she needed one hundred and fifty more cowrie shells and so far she had only found eighty. She would be back, she insisted, when she had finished collecting enough shells and not before.

  Had she not been so immersed in her search, sifting the shells through her fingers, she would have noticed the dark grey bank of cloud rolling in from the Atlantic. She would have noticed the white horses gathering out at sea and the tide moving remorselessly in to cover the rocks between her and Boat Cove. When the clouds cut off the warmth from the sun as evening came on and the sea turned grey, she shivered with cold and put on her sweater and jeans. She did look up then and saw the angry sea, but she saw no threat in that and did not look back over her shoulder to Boat Cove. She was aware that time was running out so she went down on her knees again and dug feverishly in the sand. She had to collect thirty more shells.

  It was the baleful sound of the foghorn somewhere out at sea beyond Gunnards Head that at last forced Cherry to take some account of the incoming tide. She looked for the rocks she would have to clamber over to reach Boat Cove again and the winding track that would take her up to the cliff path and safety, but they were gone. Where they should have been, the sea was already driving in against the cliff face. She was cut off. In a
confusion of wonder and fear she looked out to sea at the heaving ocean that moved in towards her, seeing it now as a writhing grey monster breathing its fury on the rocks with every pounding wave.

  Still Cherry did not forget her shells, but wrapping them inside her towel she tucked them into her sweater and waded out through the surf towards the rocks. If she timed it right, she reasoned, she could scramble back over them and into the Cove as the surf retreated. She reached the first of the rocks without too much difficulty; the sea here seemed to be protected from the force of the ocean by the rocks further out. Holding fast to the first rock she came to and with the sea up around her waist, she waited for the next incoming wave to break and retreat. The wave was unexpectedly impotent and fell limply on the rocks around her. She knew her moment had come and took it. She was not to know that piling up far out at sea was the first of the giant storm waves that had gathered several hundred miles out in the Atlantic, bringing with it all the momentum and violence of the deep ocean.

  The rocks were slippery underfoot and more than once Cherry slipped down into seething white rock pools where she had played so often when the tide was out. But she struggled on until, finally, she had climbed high enough to be able to see the thin strip of sand that was all that was left of Boat Cove. It was only a few yards away, so close. Until now she had been crying involuntarily; but now, as she recognised the little path up through the bracken, her heart was lifted with hope and anticipation. She knew that the worst was over, that if the sea would only hold back she would reach the sanctuary of the Cove.

  She turned and looked behind her to see how far away the next wave was, just to reassure herself that she had enough time. But the great surge of green water was on her before she could register either disappointment or fear. She was hurled back against the rock below her and covered at once by the sea.