Festival Competition Winners 2007
Short Story Adult Winner
The Mystery at Piles Mill by Sue England
High on the moor, the sea breeze gusted. Big Red sniffed suspiciously. Long years had brought wisdom that recognised threat from the salt-laced air. He worried for the safety of his charges.
Young Blood, full of pent-up energy, was eager to be crowned king. He spent many solitary hours roaming the moor, learning its ways, waiting for the moment when he would challenge Big Red’s authority, but here, under a broody sky, he was restless, edgy. At days end Young Blood found himself in the woodland above the mill. He stood motionless, alert to every squeak and squirm, nostrils flaring with the heavy scents of dusk. He watched Man Beast cross the yard to enter his wood dwelling. Something was wrong. Never before had Man Beast worked so often at night inside this building accompanied by banging and the soft thrum-thrum of a worrisome machine. Young Blood often spied him cutting wood, carving, whittling, whistling as the sun shone down. Sometimes others of his kind stood by, talking, touching, even taking wood away, but always visible, always. A tremor of concern crossed the young stag’s brow as he melted away into the shadows.
He sensed the herd before he saw them. Big Red stood apart on a rocky outcrop.
“Something is amiss at the old mill, King” said Young Blood, bowing before his leader. “For several days I have observed the Man Beast behaving curiously…it is right you should know.”
Big Red stared into the distance collecting his thoughts. He was aware of the longing burning in the veins of the stag stood before him, desire that made him impetuous and often foolhardy, but he trusted Young Blood implicitly, his instinct was sound, his heart true and loyal. Mystery at the Mill, hostile scents in the air, unwelcome change to the natural order.
“You have done well Young Blood, this is disturbing news indeed. I sense troubled days ahead for all moorland creatures. We must learn more, I shall summon Owl and Fox to help us.”
And Big Red threw back his head and roared.
The cry echoed across hill and coombe, cranny and crag, into the very essence of the moor. Badger snuffling in leaf litter stopped in his tracks, so too Hare and Weasel, Mole and Mouse, spider stopped spinning. Rabbit ran ragged. The night creatures were on their guard whilst Owl and Fox travelled swiftly, recognising the cry for help.
Under a starless sky, a foursome united in concern, sharing thoughts, exchanging ideas, inching towards a plan. Different strengths, different missions. Fox and Owl, stealthy, wily, sent to reconnoitre the mill; with strength and stamina, Young Blood was appointed messenger, sent out to talk and learn. He criss-crossed the moor tirelessly dedicated to his task. The seashore called Big Red, an alien world where waves break on shingle, where Gulls and Gannet were rightful and respected masters.
“Two days, my friends” said Big Red, “we meet again in two days and hope to resolve this mystery that threatens.”
The wood carver smiled to himself. The chooks were agitated, squawking their anxiety, but he knew they were safely penned, just as he knew that a large dog fox had been slinking back and forth in the undergrowth for some considerable time. He had also heard the toot-toot of an owl swooping back and forth among the outhouses. The woodsman shook his head and smiled again as he entered the barn and closed the door. The wild wit of moorland animals never ceased to amaze him. Away from prying eyes, he primed the generator and continued his task.
Owl and Fox were agreed, the Man Beast was cutting wood, more wood than they could imagine, hammering, banging, building and this information they took back to their companions. Young Blood had travelled far and heard whispers from many quarters. From Scar, wizened, whiskery and revered amongst the ponies, he learned of the coming of Nina, a terrible force that would bring meltdown. Nina would bring torrent, tempest and Nina would laugh as the world died weeping. What could this mean? Three heads turned expectantly towards Big Red.
“I have spoken with Gull and seen for myself; there is unrest on the flats where the water meets the land. The tides are troubled, the air carries messages of artifice, and where once there was a shingle barrier, now there is none. My friends, what is happening to our world, I cannot tell, but the signs are momentous, something beyond our knowledge. We must stay alert, primed for attack and warn our friends to do the same. Young Blood, Owl, Fox … thank you … watch and wait…”
But the attack didn’t come. Instead insidious shifts were absorbed into the daily round leaving fruatration and fear in their wake. The woodsman at the mill shared these fears knowing the sins of man would soon be punished. But he was prepared.
Without warning, on the cusp of winter, thunder and lightning split the heavens and rain fell changing the landscape for ever. Days rolled into weeks without the storm abating … then Gull waas sighted heralding disaster.
“Nina is here, save yourselves, the water is rising … RUN!”
There was panic on the hillside. Only one animal understood. One last time Big Red threw back his head and roared, “FOLLOW ME!” And every creature that heard and trusted followed the great stag down to the mill where the wood carver was waiting.
The barn had disappeared. In its place stood a gift for the innocent. The animals faltered, but urged by Big Red, they trooped one by one into the ark. The floodwaters licked at the great boat as it strained at its mooring. They were aboard, safe, no time to spare. As the tethers were cast, lightning filled the sky.
“Wait.” Screamed Young Blood.
Water swirled in the copse where Big Red bowed his head.
“It is time Young Blood, you are ready.”
And he turned away to meet his fate.
Poetry Competition First Prize
Bossington Hill by Jen Dennet
Bossington Hill is my inspiration –
Place of blisters and perspiration,
Place of joy and exaltation.
Browned or purpled or greened,
I shall never be weaned
From your ample breastiness.
In Exmoor, you play a vital part –
The moor’s bosom and, to me its heart.
Second Prize
Exmoor as she is spoke by Pamela Rayner
Some things about Exmoor are queer.
Porlock Weir is minus a weir
Of course, there is Turkey but that stands for t’other Quay
Making everything perfectly clear – I think.
Badgworthy’s said Badgery; who would have guessed.
Selworthy’s not Celery, even in jest
Selworthy’s a village said just as it’s spelt.
On a lovelier spot your eye never dwelt
Making Exmoor the best in the West – I know.