Shadow On The Fells. Eleanor Jones
could no longer make a living? James and Doreen had lived and worked there with the sheep for decades, but when their son had opted for an easier life there was no way they could afford to keep the farm.
Still, her sense of unease grew. Tourists messed with the way of things, coming up here to upset the sheep with their stupid dogs and lack of knowledge of the land and its traditions...and now it seemed they were about to infiltrate her personal space. She had always assumed that way up here they were far too isolated to have to worry about holiday rentals in the vicinity. Apparently, she’d been wrong. Though hikers crossed her land occasionally, it was nothing compared to the chaos people could create if they had accommodation right up on the fells.
Of course, that barn roof had almost caved in, she told herself, clinging to a tentacle of hope. Perhaps they were just fixing the place up.
With a heavy sigh, she turned her mind to the job at hand, heading on up the steep, rugged slope with the dogs at her side. Totally focused and eager to get to work, they sniffed the wind, tails wagging in anticipation.
The black-and-white-faced fell sheep moved closer together as they noticed the distant approach of the woman and dogs. Hefted here by their mothers and their mothers before them from time immemorial, it was ingrained into their makeup that this part of the fell was their space, their land. They knew every inch of land here, and totally aware of the invisible boundaries of their territory, they rarely moved away from it. If forced to leave, the fell sheep would overcome almost any obstacle to return to their “place,” taking down drystone walls as they clambered over them in their quest to come home.
Chrissie knew the sheep well, each face familiar to her. They were hardy, tough and wild, easily scared but fiercely protective of their lambs. She respected that, and so did the dogs.
Not wanting to panic the animals, Chrissie stopped for a moment, letting them settle before beginning the outrun—the wide sweep around the flock. Then she raised her hand for Tess’s attention. “Come bye,” she called. “Come bye.” She gave Tess the signal to run wide of the flock, clockwise. Fly trembled for action, waiting for her cue as her partner ran, low and silent, urging the sheep to move closer together.
“Away...away out,” Chrissie called to Fly, and the eager dog ran wide of the flock counterclockwise. The dogs disappeared, eaten up by the vast space of the fell, and then gradually they came back into view behind a dozen or so outlying sheep who were trotting quickly, heads up and eyes wide with apprehension as the collies herded them toward the flock.
“Easy,” yelled Chrissie. “Slow down.”
A long, low blast on her whistle and both dogs dropped to the ground, allowing the sheep time to huddle together before they began the task of moving the flock steadily down the hillside.
Both Tess and Fly were used to the procedure, barely needing a command from Chrissie as they worked together, reading the reactions of the sheep and going wide or moving closer as the white mass trickled down the steep slopes, jumping over craggy outcrops and negotiating sharp drops and ravines.
They were almost home when it happened, in sight of the open gate that led to the lower, fenced-in land where the ewes would stay for the lambing.
For a fleeting second Chrissie thought it was a crazy sheep racing toward the flock. Then with a sinking heart, she realized that it was a big, cream-colored dog, almost as fluffy as the sheep. That was where the likeness ended, though. The dog was big and fast; it looked fierce as it raced madly toward them, intent on trouble. Its pink tongue waved from the side of its mouth and its ridiculous ears flapped against its head. Tess and Fly stopped in their tracks, looking anxiously at their mistress.
“Lie down,” she shouted, and they dropped to the ground as one, whining their objection to the unwanted intruder and the interruption of their routine.
The sheep began to panic. They were accustomed to the quiet way the border collies worked and respected their boundaries. This was something different. Huddling close together, they started to run back up the fell, but they were too late; the big dog leaped into their midst, barking loudly and scattering them as they fled for the safety of the higher slopes.
Chrissie screamed at the dog. “Get away! Get out of here!” But the wind took her voice as the dog wreaked havoc with the flock before chasing after one small ewe that had split off from the rest.
Chrissie saw them heading for where the rough grass gave way to rocky scree just above an outcrop. She started to run, but she was too far away...
It was just as the ewe disappeared over the ledge that Chrissie saw the man.
PARKING UP IN FRONT of the gray stone farmhouse he now called home, Will Devlin grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat and climbed out of his newly acquired Range Rover. The satisfaction he felt as he took in his surroundings was shaken as a heavy banging floated over from the barn. So the men he’d hired must be here to fix the roof, he realized, and suddenly he wished he’d left it a bit longer before getting the builders in.
He’d only just moved into the farmhouse a few days ago and found himself enjoying the isolation of the place so much that he hated the idea of it being infiltrated by hammering and loud voices and music. This morning, when he went to the bank in town, all he’d been able to think about was getting back to the peace and silence of his new home. Strange, really, when just six months ago he’d reveled in the busy buzz of the city.
When a tall, gray-haired man approached, his hand extended, Will took it briefly.
“Jim Wentworth,” said the man. “I’ll be supervising the work here. You must be Mr. Devlin. All we can do at the moment, of course, is redo the roof before it falls in, but I have the plans with me, and I wondered if you wanted to look them over before we put them before the local council. Roger Simmons, your architect, asked me to bring them along. He says he’ll drop by later today to see if you have any comments.
Will’s response was immediate. The whole idea of workmen buzzing and banging about the place depressed him. “I can’t right now,” he said, turning abruptly away. “Maybe later.”
Will hurried into the house, breathing in the silence as he closed the old oak door behind him. But that only made him feel stifled. He’d go for a walk up the fell, he decided. That should clear his head.
The farmhouse backed onto a small garden, fragrant with wildflowers, and beyond that was the vast space of the open fell. Well out of sight of the builders, thought Will thankfully as he headed out through the back door, not bothering to get changed. He stopped for a moment to take in the scenery that never failed to move him, breathing in the cool, fresh air and willing nature’s yawning silence and the sweet scents of spring to refresh his zest for life.
Why had he left it this long to return to the Lake District hills? He had come here on holiday just once, with his parents when he was small, but its beauty and isolation had lingered in the back of his mind all this time, reemerging when his life became too much for him to bear. Yesterday had been his birthday—thirty-five years—but he felt as if he’d lived forever. And he had, if you counted all the drama he’d been involved with in the past ten years.
Calling for Max, the big daft labradoodle he’d bought on a whim when he decided to move here, he went through the rickety garden gate. The dog bounded ecstatically around him as he headed up toward the open fell, enjoying the clear air and drinking up the silence. Already he had hope that the beauty and tranquility of this place might heal his hardened soul and gradually eradicate all the cruelty and brutality that had consumed his life.
At twenty-five, a young and ambitious lawyer, he’d been honored to be offered a job with Marcus Finch. After he won his first big case, his reputation had spread. At first he had basked in the glory, pleased to be termed a hotshot defense lawyer who could get anyone acquitted if he put his mind to it. Playing with words like a cat with a mouse had been his forte.
Eventually, though, his mind had become