Retold by Martin Maudsley
Not
that long ago, many country folk in rural Dorset had to supplement their poorly-paid
income from labouring on farms by foraging for food and hunting
wild game in woodlands and common land: birds and deer, rabbits and hares;
whatever fare was there for the taking; always seasonal, not always legal. In
the village of Littlebredy there was a group of four men, four farmworkers, who
in the evenings hunted together – not with guns, they couldn’t afford them, nor
with nets that needed constant repairs – but with with hounds. Each man had his
own dog – a Longdog (an old Dorset
breed) – and in that ancient alliance, between human-kind and canine, the hunting
was a success; more often than not there was something to take home for the
pot.
On
days earmarked for hunting, after toiling in the fields from dawn and before setting
out with their dogs at dusk, the men were in the habit of leaving some their own
farm-working tools and agricultural equipment at the cottage of an old woman
who lived by herself in the Valley of Stones. Her house, and indeed the woman
herself, were so old and mysterious they seemed to have been there as long as
the ridgeway’s ancient stones and monuments. Well, there were some in the local
villages, suspicious and small-minded, who called the old woman a witch -
blamed her for all manner of malaises and mishaps. But there were others, too,
who beat a path to her door; who came to her for help in the secrecy of night. And
to all who came she listened with gentle wisdom, before offering herbal remedies
or healing words. The hunters themselves rarely saw the old woman, she was
often out at dusk, but they respected her and always made sure they left her a little
loaf of freshly-baked bread by way of thanks for looking after their tools.
One
evening, when the men were out hunting, just after harvest-time, they caught a
glimpse of a mysterious and magical creature – a pure white hare – racing over an
open field and before darting down the valley then disappearing into a copse of
trees. Well, they never got close to catching that hare; she was too cunning
for the hunters and too fast for their dogs. But men, sometimes, can be proud and
arrogant, and these men wanted to prove themselves as the best hunters. Over
the following days and weeks the hunters talked more and more of the elusive white
hare, and their burning ambition to catch it. They bided their time, and laid
their plans, like a spider weaving a web to catch a fly…
Soon
the pieces of their plan fell into place. On a moist and misty evening in September,
with a Harvest Moon rising huge and orange above the ridgeway, the white hare
was spotted nimbling along the edge of the copse. Some of the men sent their
dogs running through the trees to flush the hare out into the open. When the
hare saw the dogs she sturted and then ran
like lightening, zig-zagging across the adjacent field - ears flat against her
body, spine arching and stretching, back legs reaching beyond the front legs as
she pushed forward - her pace quickening all the time. Soon she’d outdistanced
the chasing dogs. But with the hounds behind her, she headed towards the only remaining
escape from the field – an open gateway in a thick hedgerow of hawthorn and
holly. The hare reached the gap ahead of the hounds. But there, hiding, on the
other side of the hedge, were two more men with two more dogs. As the white
hare ran past the dogs were leased from their leashes…
…The
still evening air was suddenly pierced with the sound of snapping teeth,
frenzied snarling and then a high-pitched, spine-tingling squeal. The dogs
ripped and wrenched, they bit and broke. Eventually the hare was tossed into
the air like a ragged doll; white fur flecked with red. She landed. Not back on
the ground, nor in the jaws of the dogs, but atop of the hedge. And although
badly hurt, and severely weakened, she summoned her remaining strength to
scamper painfully along the vicious vegetation of spikes and spines, until she
reached the safety of the woods and disappeared into the darkness of the trees.
Men
and dogs searched and sniffed for an hour, without sight or scent of the hare,
until the hunters finally admitted defeat. The dogs were taken back to their
tethers, and the men made their way to the old woman’s cottage to retrieve
their tools. When they arrived the door of the cottage was ajar, unusual, and
as they peered inside their faces drained of colour. There, lying on the floor
in a mangled heap, with torn clothes and broken, bleeding body, was the old woman.
Filled
with horror, the men grabbed their tools and ran from the cottage, pursued by
fear and guilt. All of them left. All except one, the youngest of the hunters.
The young man stepped inside the door. He bent down to the old woman and
realised that she was still breathing. Wrapping her in a woollen blanket, he lifted
her body, as light as bird, onto the bed and then held her head as he gave her sips
of water from a clay cup. All night long he stayed by her bedside. Eventually,
in the pale morning light, she opened her bruised eyes and was able to speak in
short breaths. She told the young man how to make a medicinal tea from hot
water and dried herbs in jars on the shelves around the room. He followed her
instructions, carefully and correctly, and in between brewing healing potions, he
went to fetch fresh food from the village. He stayed in the cottage for two
weeks, tending the old woman until she’d regained some of her strength and her
wounds were beginning to heal. Then she sat up, looked at him with smiling eyes,
and released him from his duties…
From
that day on the hunters of Littlebredy vowed never to hunt the white hare again.
Even today, long after the old woman’s death and her cottage long since crumbled
into broken rocks amongst the Valley of Stones, the story is still remembered.
And there are some Dorset folk that still gather each year, at dusk on a mild September’s
evening, in the hope of catching a glimpse of long ears and flashing fur - the
white hare, racing across the ancient fields around the ridgeway. If you’re
lucky, you might see her too…
