Outside, she heard a hunting horn,
loud and sharp across the village. Amily sidled towards the doorway. She could
see light through a gap in the planks, but that was not enough. She opened the
door a crack. Maybe she could watch them from here? She might just be able to
catch a glimpse of what was going on. But she couldn't see anything. The fence
that kept in the pigs was blocking her view. She opened the door wider, and an
icy blast of wind whipped it out of her hands. It banged crash against the side
of the hut. Behind her the fire crackled into life and the baby opened his eyes.
Amily did not notice. She fought for control of the door. She wedged it with a
stone, so that it still looked closed at first glance. She slid out and across
to the corner of the pig fence.
Amily threw
herself into the grass that lined the fence. It was crackly with the first
frost of the season and Amily shivered. It was always cold and windy up here.
The village was built on the flat top of a hill, a hill that looked as though
someone had sliced the tip off with a sword. Amily knew that in a sense they
had. One of her father's stories told of his grandfather's grandfather, who had
come to this hill as a small child. He had been there when they had dug and
burrowed and carved away the top, stone by stone, until it was flat and smooth
and ready. The hill had been chosen because it was high and from it you could
see for many miles across the forests and the river valleys. No-one could creep
up to this hill without being seen. It was a good hill.
From where she lay, Amily
could see ten or twelve round huts with their pointy thatched roofs scattered
roughly around a circular space of grass. Splodgy brown goats, tethered to
thick posts, were grazing. A couple of fowl scratched beside her friend Kenneth's
hut. She could see the tall earth ramparts around the edge of the village which
kept them all safe. Near the gate in the ramparts, the men were standing in a
group. They were still and listening. Their long blond hair was blowing so hard
in the wind Amily could hardly see their faces. Then a gust revealed her
father, on the far side, standing between the horse and Arlen the hound, who he
was holding by the scruff of his neck. Arlen's teeth were bared and he fought
against her father's grasp. Arlen liked hunting, but he did not like waiting.
There, beside her father, was Col, her brother. Amily gritted her teeth. This
was the second time he had gone on the hunt, and he was only seven, one winter
younger than her. He was shuffling his feet, bored by the Druid and his
incantations, impatient to be off. She would not have been so insolent.continue with short stories online Amily
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