Tivington Nott Read Online Free Page A

again, dismounting and leading him forward, giving him a good look, he makes it clear we aren’t going that way. Ever!
    It was about then that I decided to let him take over. Thundering along on the sound heather of the table-lands suited him just fine. But getting among the bogs and drainage ditches and old broken bits and pieces of sheep fencing, the worst of which was downed wire hidden among the bracken, was not something that interested him at all.
    And it wasn’t courage he lacked.
    He had too much sense. Too much instinct for himself and for his own preservation. I could point him down the steepest combe and it wouldn’t worry him. He’d pick his way without fear. Alert to every danger. Then one day, when there was a brief lull before the beginning of the harvest, I took him out early. Had him ready and saddled up in the yard before daylight so we could get away straight after milking, taking my breakfast with me and heading for the remote streams at the headwaters of the Barle. Taking Kabara to visit the lonely spot where I had discovered the soiling pit of the Tivington nott.
    By midday we were there. Out on the tops. Then down through the steep larch woods rising up on either side of us and at the bottom a black and peaty wallow. The air rich with the stench of wet earth and rotting vegetation.
    Private here. Unvisited. The depth of the wood, where the great stag-without-horns rolls and soils, cooling his body in the black mud, away from any eyes but those of the wilderness.
    As we step forward, entering the dim glade, there’s a whiff of mint hanging in the still air. He has moved out silently ahead of us, crushing the wild herb that grows on the edge of the stream as he stepped away. I can see his slot there, the brown mud still circulating slowly where it has filled with water. And a tiny whirlpool where his dew claws have shifted a pebble.
    Kabara’s senses are stretched to the limit here. Picking up the smell of the male deer close by. A slight tremor of expectancy running through his withers, transferring his readiness to me. There is a balance now in the horse, as if his hooves are not quite touching the ground, an alertness that almost tempts me to action. To leap miraculously into the dark forest after the deer . . .
    I keep still.
    Watching.
    But we are not going to see the nott. He is in the shadows, watching us I dare say. I examine each dark patch of shade with care, letting my gaze rest for a moment on every uncertain shape amongst the gloomy conifers. But I can’t tell where he might be. A knowing survivor. Somewhere between sixteen and twenty years old, Morris has told me. Surviving now by infinite skill and care. Old for a red stag. He’s eluded the hunt on numerous occasions. Tricked them. And created a legend for himself. Many consider him dead. And none of them know he has moved to these woods or they’d come after him again. It is their practice always to take a nott stag whenever one presents himself, for they fear that notts will breed and diminish the elegance of the species.
    I’m not about to tell them where he is.
    Tell them nothing. They’re the locals. And he’s a long way from Tivington now. They chased him once too often and he shifted his ground right out of the district, crossing the Beacon and the Quarme and the Exe and setting himself up way over here.
    I discovered him by chance and swore Morris to secrecy. Being from Wiltshire makes the secret easier for him to keep. A local couldn’t hang onto such a hot piece of information for long. To harbour a stag for the hunt is the ambition of every yokel in this neck of the woods. And keeping the whereabouts of the Tivington nott a secret would burn a hole in their brains. Simple as that. You couldn’t trust them with it.
    The Tiger would give money to know it!
    They’ll find him anyway. One day. Of their own accord. And when they do he’ll be on the run again. Sooner or later, when the Arctic weather is tightening his