This tale is set vaguely in the easternmost of the three villages of the Test River Valley that make up The Wallops (west to east: Over_, Middle_, and Nether_). I have taken great liberty with the village and the region, for which I apologize. There is no such promontory as Barking Tor (no nearby, noteworthy hills at all, to speak of), no such shop as Birdie's Books and Brews (a private residence is across the street from the Post Office), nor High Street in Nether Wallop, etc. etc. It is, however, a marvelously verdant landscape, and all three villages have charm aplenty to please the most jaded traveler.
Periodically, an author is accused of rushing the ending. Sometimes the accusation simply exposes the reader's insistence on having every single thread tied off in lieu of enjoying the story as the author told it. But there are times—and I must confess this too often applies to my stories—when the comment ("accusation" seems too harsh to apply to all instances) is justified.
Speaking only for myself, a sense of urgency starts building as a story approaches completion—"Hurry, hurry, finish so you can publish and read the comments." It takes a strong will to resist the temptation to cut corners on the original plan and get the damn thing out the door. Sometimes I resist, but too often I don't and conjure some deux ex machina
or other shortcut device. I've tried to avoid that pitfall here, but it might be that I simply didn't have a complete story plan to begin (or end) with.
--§§--
HENRY PRINCE sat pecking away on his laptop at his favorite table in front of the bay window in Birdie's Books and Brews. "Brews" didn't refer to beer, but rather the eclectic collection of teas (bulwarked by a widely admired robust coffee) that Bernadette Robbins—Birdie to her friends and customers—brewed and offered to those who came to peruse her printed works.
Birdie dealt in both new and used volumes, but the growing popularity of ebooks meant she'd had to raise the prices of her teas, coffees, and assorted biscuits and teacakes to offset the falloff in book sales. She was a bit birdlike, tall and thin with sharp features, and wore her hair pulled back into a somewhat severe chignon. She had kind eyes, though, and Henry knew she could be charming and witty when the mood struck her. He thought she might be a decade or so younger than his 64 years.
Henry—he preferred Hal—wasn't reading an ebook, he wasn't so churlish as to indulge in Birdie's
bête noire
whilst occupying her premier table. He was writing yet another short story, his chief means of occupying time since he left behind Iowa's muggy summers and chill winters for England's milder, if occasionally drearier, climes. Weather permitting, he occasionally altered his routine for a walkabout.
One morning while browsing through Birdie's used offerings, he came across a vintage Ordnance Survey map of walking trails in Hampshire. It showed several interesting hikes in the vicinity, including one that led to the summit of a modest rise called Barking Tor. Curious, he asked Birdie where the name came from.
From her perch behind the cash box, Birdie looked up from her weekly
Test Valley Tattler
and shrugged. "Dunno, 'tis always been called such. Mighta been wild dogs or wolves about once, but na'more. Nice enough hike, though, t'be sure." She went back to her newspaper, Hal back to perusing the map. He bought it when he paid for his tea and cakes, thinking he'd hike up to Barking Tor the following day.
Bright and early the next morning, he popped in to Birdie's for a cup of her stout coffee. He also bought a couple of teacakes, which he carefully wrapped in a paper napkin and stowed in his rucksack. Thus provendered and carrying his map, he set out on his hike to Barking Tor.
As the map indicated, it was a fairly short walk, a bit more than an hour. The way was quite level until the final 15 minutes or so, when the footpath started switching back and forth up the hill. It led through a belt of oak about half-way up, continued through a patch of gorse, then finally wound through stunt grasses to the top. A copse of evergreens stood at one end of the summit.
The view, if not spectacular, was worth the climb. Patchworks of variegated green fields stretched away on three sides, distant villages visible to the north and west. The view back toward the Wallops showed that he had come something less than two miles as the crow flies. At a smallish level spot on the summit, the tumbledown remains of a picnic table spoke of earlier admirers of the bucolic views.
As he sat leaning against the remains of the picnic table munching his teacakes, Hal thought what a peaceful place this would be to spend time. Perhaps he could jury-rig enough repairs to the table so he could sit here with his laptop and write. The calm atmosphere lifted his spirits a bit; he wondered if it might also lift the spirit of his stories.
Over the next week, Hal carried a few tools up Barking Tor and managed to cobble together a writing table about half the size of the original picnic table. The first time he sat, opened his laptop, and resumed work on his current story, a sense of accomplishment lifted his spirits yet further.
It was during a run of beautiful late summer days he first noticed a woman riding a bay through a break in the woods half-way down the hill. He saw her again few days later. This time a little girl sat in front of her. She stopped to observe him, but he continued typing away so as not to let on he had seen her, which might encourage her to ride up and start a conversation.
A week after that she rode up straightaway to the stand of evergreens with the little girl. She lifted the girl down, then dismounted and tied the reins loosely to a low-lying branch so the horse could browse.
She was attractive, looked to be in her late 40s or early 50s. The jodhpurs and bulky sweater disguised her figure, but she removed her helmet and shook out a mass of beautiful golden hair streaked with the occasional silvery gray. Her cheeks were flushed with the efforts of riding and post-riding chores, her eyes the blue of a clear English sky.
While the woman stowed her helmet, the little girl gamboled up to Hal without removing hers. She spoke before the woman could restrain her.
"Hello my name is Annie I am almost five years old why are you up here what are you doing?" The words tumbled out, driven by the irrepressible curiosity of a four-year-old.
Bemused by her verbal assault, Hal took an immediate liking to her. "Writing. What are you doing?"
"Riding."
He grinned. "You're writing, too? With what? I don't see anything—"
"No, no, silly, ri-
ding
, not ri-
ting
. On a horse." Her giggle gave Hal an unexpected burst of pleasure.
Before the woman could intervene, Annie continued her interrogation "What are you writing? And why up here on the mountain? What if it rains? How do you get here?"
Hal answered her questions without pausing. "Stories. Because it's so pretty. I only come when the weather is nice. I walk." Annie quickly sorted the answers.
"What sort of stories? Yes, it is very pretty up here. We ride only on nice days, too. It's too far to walk."
"Stories for adults, about adult things." That was more than he'd ever said about his writing to anyone.
"Would you write a story for me?" He never expected he'd be asked that. He struggled to find an answer, giving the woman time to get involved.
"Annie, that's not polite. And you should take off your helmet to give it a chance to air out." Annie took off her helmet, but hung on to it and didn't leave Hal's side.
Hal winked at the woman, whom he assumed to be the girl's mother, then looked at Annie "What sort of story would you want?"
Annie didn't hesitate. "A story about dinosaurs!"
