Dartmoor...The Saving

By Barry Burton

Dartmoor is the last area of wilderness in England. The standing stones have stood for over 4000 years. Among those ancient stones live the Dini. Now just two feet tall, their bodies no longer able to bear children, the Dini are dying out. Only ten survive on the moor.

They believe that they are descendents of the Celtic tribe, the Votadini, who were great warriors and horsemen. Led by their kinsman warlord, whose battle name was Artos (now remembered as King Arthur), they defeated the Saxon invaders. The witch Demetia, responsible for the treacherous downfall of Artos, sought to punish his loyal kinsmen and cursed the Votadini. Generation by generation they have shrunk in size.

After 1,000 years, the Dini were forced by the cruelty of the Biguns to live in hiding in the wild places. But staying hidden is growing difficult as modern-day Biguns pour into the wild places to enjoy their stark beauty. Is it time to stop hiding and fight back?

A series of strange events arouses the suspicions of Dartmoor Ranger Bob Johnson. Is he going mad or can there really be tiny people living on the moor? If he is going mad then he's not the only one - there's a crazy old man who thinks he's the reincarnation of Merlin. Is it Ranger Bob's rôle to save them? Is there an even bigger task for him? Inspired by the Spirit of Artos, Bob becomes Robert Edgar Johnson, Guardian of the Earth, Companion of Kings. Maybe, just maybe, he can help to save us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barry Burton
• Release date: May 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781905856145

Barry Burton

Barry Burton has lived near Dartmoor for forty years and throughout that period has spent a great deal of time walking over the moor studying both the environment and the myths associated with this atmospheric area. His two Dartmoor novels are set in current times, use real locations, and feature perfectly normal people who find themselves caught up in extraordinary events. They draw on Celtic legends and current environmental concerns. They are unlike any book you have ever read. Dartmoor...The Saving developed cult status in print format. It has been used in school, not only to encourage reading, but as the basis of local history and natural history studies. The international appeal of the story is such that it is currently being used in Germany as an aid in teaching the English language. You can read extracts from Press reviews at the front of the Smashwords edition. His third novel will be published during 2012 and is another highly original work.

Book preview

What the Press had to say about the print edition of

Dartmoor…The Saving

I was riveted! I spent a whole weekend reading – couldn’t put it down.

Muse Magazine

Looking for the next Lord of the Rings? This fantasy tale set on Dartmoor might just fit the bill.

The Western Morning News

I got so involved with the characters that I found myself sitting up at night reading it.

Radio Devon

The next time I walk the moor I know I may not be alone. Slowly but surely this book grips you, like a snake crushing your bones.

Dartmoor News

Will enchant and capture its readers.

Tavistock Times

After the first few pages I was hooked and could not put it aside until the very end. Slowly but surely this book will ensnare you – you will believe! Excellent – buy it.

Dartmoor Matters

The struggle and the story gather momentum, in the Celtic tradition. So get the book and read on. You won’t be disappointed.

Herald Express

Unlike anything you may have read before. I highly recommend this book.

Fantasy Book Reviews

Dartmoor…The Saving

Barry Burton

A tale of today that magically links the Arthurian legends, the struggle for survival of a tribe of tiny people and the ecological disaster that threatens us all.

Smashwords edition published by Moorhen Publishing

ISBN 978-1-905856-14-5

Copyrightholder Barry Burton

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents Page

Dartmoor National Park

The Dartmoor Dini

CHAPTER 1 – a pony saved, a hat lost and gold pouched

CHAPTER 2 – the brothers

CHAPTER 3 – from the comfort of Erbyn to Foxtor Mires

CHAPTER 4 – Samhain

CHAPTER 5 – the Droller’s tale

CHAPTER 6 – the morning after

CHAPTER 7 – bad news

CHAPTER 8 – an expedition

CHAPTER 9 – two surprises for Ranger Bob

CHAPTER 10 – the hunt

CHAPTER 11 – the February freeze

CHAPTER 12 – poor Erbyn

CHAPTER 13 – time to move on?

CHAPTER 14 – danger and devilment

CHAPTER 15 – great news!

CHAPTER 16 – ponies and pixies

CHAPTER 17 – taken for a ride

CHAPTER 18 – discovery!

CHAPTER 19 – a surprise for Jane

CHAPTER 20 – the Western Isles

CHAPTER 21 – problems

CHAPTER 22 – Companion of Kings

CHAPTER 23 – nailed!

CHAPTER 24 – the royal visit

CHAPTER 25 – new beginnings

Dartmoor National Park

The Southern Moor

The Dartmoor Dini

Carn: 39 years of age; married to Eppie. They live in a cave in Wistman’s Wood. The most accomplished horseman of the tribe.

Eppie: 39; married to Carn. A very talented artist.

Tegid: 28; the smallest of the Dini. Hates the Biguns intensely and lives by stealing from them.

Nudd: 33; of nervous disposition. He lives rough with his younger brother, Tegid.

Gilda: Reputed to be over 100 years old. Brewer of potions and practitioner of their ancient rites. She lives alone in a mine in Chase Wood.

Bran & Enid: Teenage couple; youngest of the Dini. They live in Vitifer Mine.

Lugus & Issel: A couple in their 50’s. They live in Bush Down Mine, the usual meeting place of the Dartmoor Dini.

Erbyn: 35; amiable; likes his food. He lives alone at Dartmeet.

Plus:-

The Droller: Storyteller of the tribe; one of the Welsh Dini. He travels to Dartmoor with Trader Joe to entertain the Dini at the Feasts of Samhain and Beltaine.

CHAPTER 1 – a pony saved, a hat lost and gold pouched

The earth shook with the pounding of hooves. The air was filled with the shouts of men, the barking of excited dogs and the whinnying of frightened foals seeking their mothers.

It was the first week in October; the pony drift – the annual round-up of the wild Dartmoor ponies – had begun. Many of the stallions and mares would be returned, but most of the foals would go to market.

Autumn was browning the bracken, but it still stood tall. Where the bracken grew thickest Carn and his pony, Gog, lay on the ground. Carn kept the pony’s face covered while he whispered into her ear. He held a ball of finely chopped comfrey, mint and clover that he gently rubbed over her muzzle and into her mouth.

A dog crashed through the bracken only yards away. Gog’s legs kicked. The instinct to run with the herd, away from the noise, almost overcame her – but Carn was a descendant of the ancient Celtic tribe, the Votadini. For thousands of years his ancestors had been expert horsemen with the ability to understand and control the instincts of horses. Gog calmed under his influence.

The noise of the drift died away as the ponies were driven south. For another twenty minutes Carn kept Gog hidden in the bracken.

Carn had first found Gog as a young foal standing miserably by the body of her mother, killed by a car driven too quickly along the unfenced moorland roads. He had provided the company that she needed, gently training her to fulfil the role he needed. He had now kept her out of the drift for three years. She was tiny, clearly from Shetland stock, not the sort that would be returned to the moor after the round up. It was Carn’s little joke to name her after a giant. Small as she was, she suited him very well.

Like all of the Dini, Carn was just two feet tall.

Carn pulled up the hood of his grey-brown deerskin cloak and eased himself up onto a granite slab to take a careful look around. They had been lying on the steep western slopes of Longford Tor in the broken ground between the two areas of stunted oaks that comprise Wistman’s Wood. The growth of trees, beginning on the river bank, extends part way up the steep valley side. Above the trees the boulder-strewn slopes of tussocky grass and bracken continue up to the summit, where great, grey blocks of the underlying granite burst through the thin layer of peaty soil to form one of the tors that dominate the Dartmoor landscape. It was a crystal clear day with blue sky overhead, but towering clouds were building in the west: rain was not far away.

Carn left Gog with a handful of pony nuts and worked his way down through the bracken until he reached the West Dart. He filled his drink bottle then drank it dry. His skinny body trembled. He would never have kept the pony calm if he had allowed his own fear to show, but now that the danger had passed, his hand shook so much that the bottle rattled against his teeth. He sat for a few minutes, watching the stream, breathing deeply, then he moved downstream into the trees. Scrambling over the tumbled chaos of granite and tree roots to the middle of the wood, he hesitated for a moment in front of the gap between two great boulders and then eased his thin frame through into the small cave that lay behind. There he found his wife, Eppie, anxiously awaiting him.

You’ve been a long time. Did you save her?

He managed a big smile and put a comforting arm about her shoulders. Yes, she should be safe now, the drift is well away.

Carn knew that Eppie had been more worried about him than Gog. It was dangerous getting so close to Biguns, especially when there were over-excited dogs about.

Hungry?

Carn nodded. He was usually hungry these days. He followed Eppie into the next cave.

All of the other Dini on the moor lived in old mine workings, but Eppie found them cold, damp, miserable places. She much preferred this curious wood of miniature oaks, feeling reasonably safe there. Although increasingly often Biguns seemed to be finding reasons to blunder about the place, it had the advantage that it was not far to the Biguns’ gardens in Princetown – useful for fresh food.

Eppie had found a narrow opening leading into an outer cave. They had brought in stones to create steps at the back that allowed them into a second cave, now their living room, which itself had openings off into two smaller caves.

The smallest was perfectly dry with just enough space to sleep on a bed of rabbit skins piled upon a thick mattress of dried heather.

The other small cave was their food store. Eppie disappeared into it, returning with a bowl of cold rabbit stew and a chunk of bread made with sweet chestnut flour.

Carn settled into one of the two tiny wicker seats.

Eppie sat near him. She sat in silence for a while, but then could not stop herself saying, I wish you wouldn’t do it. You’re not as young and quick as you were. They’ll catch you, I know they will.

No they won’t. You know what they’re like – if they’re looking for a pony, it’s only a pony that they see. Anyway, neither of us is as young as we used to be: we need a pony to get about.

Eppie couldn’t argue with that. They were both nearing forty years of age. It was a hard life on the moor; the years were taking their toll and they had to get about to survive. That would be difficult without a pony, especially in the winter when a blizzard could quickly bring snow that, small as they were, didn’t have to be very deep before it caused them real problems.

Flickering candles caught Eppie’s eye. Wind’s getting up.

Carn nodded, There’s rain on the way.

A drop of water fell from the roof into a can on the floor.

Already here, nodded Eppie, smiling.

Through the jumble of rocks above their heads, a couple of small, connecting gaps ran up to the surface. They formed a useful escape route for smoke, but let in rain. It never amounted to much and they kept two aluminium drink cans, discarded by Biguns, to catch the drips.

They moved into the outer cave where, leaning against the granite, they stood side by side looking out through the opening at the rain. Carn instinctively put an arm around Eppie’s shoulders pulling her against him. He could feel that she was still tense from the anxieties of the morning.

Hair no longer grew on the chins of the male Dini. They both had short-cropped, dark brown hair, dark brown eyes and sharp features, but they were easy to tell apart. Carn’s face had a rugged look, broader, strong-jawed, more lined by the weather and the years. His hair had flecks of grey. Eppie was more delicately built, her face unmistakably feminine. She had always been as nimble although she lacked Carn’s wiry strength.

The stunted oaks of Wistman’s Wood provided little by way of a canopy to interrupt the rain that was splashing off the rocks before running in a thousand tiny streams down to swell the West Dart.

For a few minutes they shared the cosy feeling of being in the dry watching the downpour outside.

Did it look like being enough to do any good? Eppie asked.

"Could be. If it keeps coming down this hard, it will soon do us a lot of good."

Eppie watched for another couple of minutes and then said, Good weather for cooking: I’ll get on with some.

She moved back into the living room, got a fire going in the little iron stove, built with scrap metal recovered from Bush Down Mine, then went to the food store, returning with acorns, burdock roots, whortleberries, the puffball she had found early that morning and the trout caught the night before.

Although they used only the driest wood that produced hardly any smoke, Eppie still liked to be careful. Apart from the smoke, there were the smells of food cooking, but in heavy rain there was little chance of Biguns being near enough to detect it.

Carn soon detected it. He had only recently eaten, but his nose still twitched.

He watched the deluge with growing satisfaction.

This could be very good. Very good, indeed.

*

Two miles to the northwest, Bob Johnson was not sharing Carn’s satisfied view of the weather.

An hour and a half earlier, as Bob was getting out of his Dartmoor Ranger’s Land Rover in the car park of the Postbridge Information Centre, he had been approached by two walkers concerned about an injured sheep they had spotted close to the waterfall on the East Dart.

Bob was well aware that sheep are prone to a natural lameness that can look more serious than it actually is, but the walkers felt that the ewe could have a broken leg.

Normally, Bob would have phoned the farmer to pass on the message, but today he knew that the farmer and his family would be involved with the pony drift. He decided to take an early lunch and see for himself. Putting his sandwiches in one pocket, his coffee flask in another, he set out.

Leaving the car park by the side gate, Bob headed up the old drift lane towards Broad Down following the track that for hundreds of years had been used by herdsmen to move stock across the moor. He could have saved the first half a mile by driving around to the nearby house, but it was a sunny morning and his route formed part of a popular walk described in a leaflet supplied at the Information Centre. He would enjoy the walk and it would give him the chance to check the condition of the fences, walls and stiles along the way.

It was uphill all the way to the top of Broad Down. Well before he got there, Bob had removed his hat and carried his coat over one shoulder. Broad Down was one of his favourite spots, with stunning views from the top. To the north lay the High Moor; to the west he could see beyond the town of Princetown, with its famous jail, to Cornwall; to the east lay the forests of Bellever, Soussons and Fernworthy; to the south the lower tors of the southern moor merged into the rolling Devon countryside carved by the river valleys heading to the sea. Bob treated himself to a cup of coffee while he enjoyed the view and got his breath back.

There were clouds gathering in the west, but he felt sure that he would be back in Postbridge before they arrived.

He moved on to the edge of the north facing down slope where he scanned the area through his binoculars. The pony drift had already been through the valley below. The only livestock he could see were a few cattle and sheep.

Bob followed the track down to the waterfall and crossed the river on the huge granite slabs at the top of the falls before climbing a little way up the slope on the other side. Walking in the downstream direction, he passed through the cattle to the area where the sheep were gathered. There were more than he had thought, but as he walked among them, they all moved off without any signs of lameness.

As he looked back across the river, Bob spotted a small group of sheep on the other side. They were so close to the bottom of the steep slope that he had missed them when looking down from the top. Bob made his way to the bank on his side of the river, clapping his hands and shouting. This produced a reaction in all but one of the sheep – one that appeared to be lying down.

Bob thought that it might have been injured when panicked by the pony round-up. He walked back upstream to the waterfall, re-crossed and made his way back down on the other side. The sheep didn’t move until he was barely five yards away when it clambered to its feet giving him a baleful look before trotting away.

‘All right,’ said Bob, ‘I give up.’ He would phone the farmer that evening to tell him what had happened.

Bob sat on a rock, ate his sandwiches and washed them down with a second cup of coffee. It was chilly enough sitting there in the shade to make him pull on his hat and coat. The slope at his back blocked the sun and there was a nip in the wind blowing through the valley. Bob stood to face the near-vertical slope: as he looked up a dark cloud slid over the crest above him.

Despite pressing on as quickly as the climb permitted, well before he reached the top the rain started. The cloud bank had arrived from the west far sooner than he had expected. He struggled on to the top where he paused for breath. The wind had really picked up, driving the rain into him. His hat, whipped from his head by a gust of wind, sailed out across the valley. Horrified, he watched it spinning slowly down towards the river a hundred feet below. He lost sight of it. At that instant the horizontal rain battered into him like a fire hose: he wasn’t going down again, not even to search for his favourite Tilley hat. As he trudged back he cursed himself. The hat came with straps that would have kept it firmly on his head if he had bothered to sort them out.

By the time he got back to Postbridge he was soaked. Just as Carn was commenting to himself on the very satisfactory nature of the weather, Bob Johnson, feeling water trickling down his back as he rummaged in the Land Rover for a spare hat, was having less positive thoughts about the same topic.

*

The rain blew over quickly enough for the day to end in sunshine. Wistman’s Wood glowed in the golden autumn light.

Carn and Eppie slipped out of their home to sit under a rock overhang that gave them shelter from the water dripping from the branches above. The water, still streaming over every surface, caught the light giving a shine to both trees and rocks. The thick moss layers that had soaked up water like a sponge glowed a fat, intense, emerald green. Each delicate fern frond was edged with tiny sparkling water droplets. Even the long hanging shrouds of pale grey-green lichen, seemed to be giving out light.

Eppie sat with her sketchpad on her knees. The pad, charcoal and pencils all looked awkwardly large, but she handled them with great dexterity. As Carn watched, the scene around them appeared on the paper. She had a talent that amazed him. As she worked, he gazed at her in fond admiration, a little smile on his face.

In half-an-hour it was finished. Even though it was in black, shades of grey and white, Carn could sense the wetness, the colours, the textures. Somehow, the rocks looked hard, the moss soft. He thought it was perfect and said so. Eppie was clearly pleased with it.

More importantly, Trader Joe would like it and it would gain them vital supplies. They were becoming more dependent on Eppie’s sketches. The increasing number of Biguns on the moor was making their gold mining difficult.

Maybe tomorrow they would have a good day.

*

It was the middle of the night when Carn reluctantly struggled from their warm bed. He clambered out of the cave to make his way down to the West Dart for fresh water. Following the heavy rain, the swollen stream bounced from stone to stone, surged from pool to pool: sparkling in the moonlight it seemed to have a life of its own, to be gripped by a sense of urgency, a determination to reach the sea as soon as possible.

Carn looked about him. The sky was clear now with an almost full moon lighting the moor. Travelling would be easy, but it was a chilly, autumn night.

He washed in the cold water. Teeth chattering, he filled the large plastic bottle before struggling back up to the cave where Eppie had prepared a cold breakfast.

When they had eaten and Eppie had packed more food for later, they gathered their equipment then headed up through the trees, emerging onto the narrow track that runs along the top edge of Wistman’s Wood.

Eppie sat on a rock. She looked back down the hill behind her and then at the tor rising in front. She sighed, I’m sure this slope gets steeper.

And the rocks are getting bigger – or maybe we could be getting older, said Carn with a rueful smile.

Speak for yourself! cried Eppie, jumping to her feet, I’m ready for anything.

Good. Let’s see if we’ve got a ride. Carn cupped his hands about his mouth and made a loud churring, whirring noise.

Any Biguns within earshot, at least any Biguns with some knowledge of birds, would have thought they were hearing the distinctive call of a nightjar, but it was Carn’s way of calling Gog.

After a minute or so, Carn started to give the call again. There was an immediate answering whinny. Eppie smiled to herself, wondering if she imagined a hint of exasperation in it, as if Gog were calling, I heard you! I’m coming as quickly as I can!

A few moments later, the tiny grey pony appeared over the top of the slope above them and made her way down. She gave a welcoming snicker and nuzzled Carn, seeking the tasty morsel she knew he would have for her. He fed her a carrot.

Turning her head to Eppie, Gog gave her a friendly, but firm nudge. Eppie was forced to take a step backwards and toppled over the rock behind her. Unable to free her hands because of the equipment she was holding, her legs waved briefly in the air before she disappeared into the bracken behind with a loud crash.

Carn hurried round to find Eppie wedged into a space between two small rocks, her little legs still waving above her, laughing helplessly.

Relieved to find her unhurt, Carn got her upright. They sat in the bracken chuckling and peering out to see if the noise had attracted any attention. They needn’t have worried. The nearest Biguns were sound asleep in the farmhouse, half a mile away.

Their equipment consisted of two iron bowls, two lambskins neatly rolled up and several strong sticks tied into a bundle.

With the help of the rock to stand on, they hung the equipment across Gog’s back. Eppie climbed up, Carn mounted behind her and they set off, with Eppie still chuckling.

They had about three miles to go, the moon lighting their way with a pale, clear light.

They followed the course of the West Dart northwards, heading for the eastern slopes of Rough Tor. Half a mile beyond Rough Tor they swung eastwards, still following the contour, until, after riding for an hour, they reached Sandy Hole Pass on the East Dart River; there they met up with four Dini who had arrived from the opposite direction.

Enid, who was keeping watch, called out to them as they approached. They passed the gear down, before sliding off Gog to exchange hugs with Enid. Carn gathered up the gear and made his way down to the river, leaving Eppie and Enid chatting.

At the side of the tumbling river were Bran, Enid’s husband, and an older couple, Lugus and Issel.

Glad to see you, said Carn, We were hoping that you’d decide to come here, rather than on the Teign.

We thought we’d save you lie-a-beds some time, smiled Bran. We know you old-uns find these cold nights a struggle.

Bran and Enid, being still in their teens and the youngest of the Dartmoor Dini, liked to regularly remind the others of this fact.

"And now we are here, the real work can start, said Carn, on whom the age jokes had long since worn thin. What’s that great thing on your head?"

Bran removed the hat and proudly held it out for inspection. I found it on the way here. It was just lying on the ground. It’s got a secret pouch in it – see if you can find it.

Lugus, Issel and Bran crowded around Carn to watch as he inspected the wide-brimmed headgear, the grin on Bran’s freckled face getting bigger as Carn tugged at each seam in turn.

Sensing Bran’s eagerness to show off his discovery, Carn winked slyly at Issel and, as slowly as he could, he painstakingly checked all over the hat twice more until Bran, unable to contain himself any longer, snatched it off him crying, Let me show you!

He tugged at the Velcro strip along the bottom edge of the label to reveal a hidden pocket from which he drew a small plastic envelope holding a piece of paper bearing Bigun writing.

How did you know that was there? Carn asked.

I could feel there was something inside the top of the hat, so I just kept tugging until I found out how it opened. Bran held out the piece of paper, shining his torch on it. I wonder what it says.

Hmm, said Issel, returning Carn’s wink, It’s probably a Bigun curse on whoever steals the hat.

I didn’t steal it! protested Bran, his face full of concern, I fou…

He stopped when the others burst out laughing and, after a moment’s hesitation, he joined in.

The laughter brought Eppie down to join them. What’s so funny?

Bran has a fine new hat, explained Issel. Bran held it out for Eppie’s inspection.

Eppie smiled, Are you sure it’s big enough?

It fits – if I wear it over my hood.

To demonstrate Bran pulled the hood of his cloak over his ginger hair and pulled on the hat, arranging the strap under his chin.

Very fine, nodded Eppie, and if it rains we’ll all be able to shelter under it.

I was thinking, said Lugus, that if you don’t mind standing up all night, we could have the Feast of Samhain outside this year and all gather under your hat.

They all laughed again, but it triggered off a coughing fit in Lugus that was so severe they all looked at him in concern. When it eventually subsided, Carn got them moving with, Time for work.

They took off their cloaks to keep them dry and wearing only their thin one-piece tunics they waded into the cold moorland river.

Their technique was simple, but effective. The river, swollen by the heavy rain, scoured gold from the ancient moorland granite. The heavy grains collected in the sediments on the river bed. Water levels fell quickly once the rain stopped, so not long after a storm the Dini were able to work the river.

They worked in teams, stretching the lambskins over the river bed then using their sticks to stir the upstream sediment. The river carried the particles onto the lambskin. Then they used their sticks to rake the lambskin, the lighter particles washing out, the heavier ones settling further into the wool.

The heavy, waterlogged skins were then dragged to one of the many small waterfalls where they were held in place so that the water ran through, washing out the collected sediment. The skins were raked to make sure that nothing was left, with an iron bowl in place to catch the water. The water quickly filled the bowl and overflowed while the heavy grains collected in the bottom.

When they finished with each skin, Carn took the bowl and tipped most of the water out. Then he skilfully swirled the remaining contents, allowing the lighter material to escape over the edge of the tilted bowl, leaving only the heaviest sediment. More water was added and the panning continued until a few specks of gold were all that remained in the bowl.

The moonlight was bright enough for all stages except this last one, when Eppie shone a small torch into the bowl so that the glittering gold could be seen clearly.

The tiny amount of gold was carefully transferred to a leather pouch and the whole process repeated.

It was cold, uncomfortable work and, at first, they regularly changed the lookout to give each of them the chance to straighten their back and warm fingers blue and cramped with cold.

To take their minds off the discomfort, they chatted as they worked: they talked of what was happening on the moor; of their successes at food gathering; of close encounters with Biguns; and of Samhain, the Celtic feast that takes place on 31st October, when the Dini got together, told tales, mainly of evil spirits and ghostly happenings, sang songs, ate too much and drank too much – an occasion they looked forward to with much enthusiasm.

Lugus and Issel, being some ten years older than Carn, found the work particularly hard. Lugus looked unwell, his persistent cough rattling through his chest. Issel tried to protect him by taking on more than her share of the work. Seeing this the others did the same, with the result that Lugus spent the whole of the last hour as lookout, sitting forlornly on a rock. After each cough, he took a sip from a plastic bottle.

They worked for a full three hours. It was exhausting, but productive. With a few more sessions like it there would be enough gold to buy supplies from Trader Joe.

When they were packed up, with the gold shared out, Issel called to Lugus, but the bottle had contained one of the witch Gilda’s more potent remedies and Lugus was fast asleep. A good shaking roused him. Struggling to get his words out amidst a fit of coughing, he conceded that he had ‘just closed his eyes’.

No harm done. They had not been disturbed and their good luck continued. The sky clouded over, the temperature rose a little and, by the time they were ready to leave, fog shrouded the moor. They would be able to ride home with little fear of detection, despite the approaching dawn.

Carn and Eppie, after waving goodbye to their friends, wrapped themselves in their cloaks and sat on a rock to eat the food that Eppie had brought. It was only then that Carn realised just how much his wife was suffering from the cold. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she tried to get food to her mouth.

Come on, he said. This is no good. Let’s get you back and we’ll eat when we’ve warmed up a bit.

They rode back to Wistman’s Wood by the same route. They sat pressed tightly together on the little pony’s back, Carn’s arms wrapped around his wife. All of the way back he could feel Eppie trembling against him. The damp was as bad as the cold. With their wet tunics beneath their cloaks and the swirling fog soaking them from the outside, they rode in miserable discomfort, hoods pulled low over their faces, grateful for the little warmth from the pony beneath them.

Back in their cave, Carn lit a fire while Eppie found dry tunics for them. He watched as Eppie crouched over the fire, trying to warm both herself and a pan of food. He looked at her in anguish. The face that he loved was pinched with cold, the lips as blue as her hands. The shaking hands rattled the spoon against the pan. How could he expect her to go on doing this?

Cold as he was, Carn couldn’t bear to watch and he left the fire to go to the cave entrance, where he stood glaring out into the murky morning.

Food’s ready! called Eppie.

When he hadn’t moved after a minute, he felt an arm around his waist and heard Eppie say, softly, Come on. It’ll be all right. We’ll both feel better with hot food inside us.

They ate the meal in silence and were soon wrapped in rabbit skins on their bed, but Carn couldn’t sleep. As he felt Eppie’s cold body next to his, an anger was growing inside him.

CHAPTER 2 – the brothers

Of the ten Dini still living on Dartmoor, six were the three couples working hard to survive their difficult life on the moor. Tegid and Nudd were brothers and had a different way of life. Tegid was the younger by a few years, but where he led, his brother was usually obliged to follow.

When they were children, high spirits, combined with a mischievous sense of adventure, had meant that Tegid had been the one who was usually in trouble. When he was twelve he was caught up in a dreadful incident that changed him. He was still mischievous, still had the sense of adventure, but from that moment on he had hated the Biguns with an intensity that alarmed his more placid brother.

Tegid was not prepared to spend hours in cold water to gain tiny amounts of gold. He believed that the Biguns were responsible for the miserable existence of the Dini: they owed him a living – so he took what he felt he was owed. Tegid and Nudd lived by stealing.

As Carn and the others were getting to sleep after their early morning gold-panning session, Tegid was just waking up and the fog he found displeased him.

From spring to autumn the brothers slept rough, finding whatever shelter they could, in woodland, among the old mine-workings or in the rocks at the top of tors – anywhere close to the easy pickings offered by careless Biguns.

One of their favourite warm weather areas was the rough ground opposite the Warren House Inn, stretching from Birch Tor to Soussons Wood. This area was once the centre of intensive tin mining and close to two hundred men, women and children lived and worked here. It was a popular area with current day Biguns as well. From the late spring to early autumn the inn was busy and the two small car parks often full. Two broad tracks led from the car parks down to the stream, close to which were clear patches of springy, green turf that made good picnic sites, where adults could sit watching their young children play in the water.

The Birch Tor, Vitifer and Golden Dagger mines all lay within this area that was once dominated by the giant water wheels that powered the crushing machines. With the mineshafts, the channels known as gerts that were dug for ore near the surface, the great heaps of rock waste, the remains of buildings and the whole lot covered by bracken and heather, it was easy for Tegid and Nudd to operate right under the noses of Biguns with little fear of detection.

At least, Tegid had little fear of detection; Nudd was not so sure.

Tegid was the smallest of the Dartmoor Dini, scarcely twenty inches tall with a wiry body full of restless energy. He moved quickly over the rough ground, never seeming to tire. He wore a cloak and hood of rabbit fur, whatever the weather, being so convinced of the stupidity of the Biguns that he had no doubt at all that, should they catch sight of him scampering across a patch of open ground, they would think that they had seen a rabbit.

Nudd was taller and plumper than his brother. Slower in body and in wits, he lived in a state of almost constant anxiety. Their way of life was not one that Nudd would have chosen for himself.

From a vantage point on Birch Tor or from the edge of Soussons Wood, Tegid would spot a potential target and set off at a pace. Despite his best efforts to keep up, Nudd would frequently lose sight of Tegid then have to find a high spot from which he would cautiously peer through the heather, hoping to spot some movement of his brother. There were times when he didn’t look too hard. He would stealthily make his way back to wherever they had spent the previous night and patiently await the return of Tegid, who would show up eventually, waving trophies of watches, binoculars, cameras, compasses, anything, in fact, small enough for him to carry, and then deride Nudd for his failure to play an active part.

From time to time, when Nudd felt he really needed a break from the strains of living with his brother, he would let Tegid disappear in pursuit of some quarry then make for Bush Down Mine, where he would take advantage of the hospitality of Lugus and Issel for a couple of relaxing days, until Tegid came to seek him out.

They had spent the night at the Golden Dagger Mine at the top of an airshaft that had been cut up from the main adit. This spot lay at the edge of Soussons Wood in an area of very rough ground that was fenced off. The patch of ground offered many tumbles of rocks and overhangs where they could tuck themselves away for an uncomfortable night.

On that foggy morning Tegid woke to find himself damp, cold and stiff.

The warm summer weather had continued into the autumn, keeping the Bigun visitors coming and persuading Tegid to stay in that area; but now the weather had changed: there was a nip in the air that couldn’t be ignored.

Tegid leaned across to give the sleeping form of Nudd a good shake. When this had no effect, he pulled the cloak from his brother, snatched the hat from Nudd’s head and proceeded to slap him about the face with it until Nudd sat up and crawled out of reach.

Come on, come on! cried Tegid. Things to do.

What things? Nudd was forcing his eyes open with his fingers. It’s cold.

Exactly. Time to move on before we find ourselves waking up, froze solid. I’ll take the stuff to Bush Down Mine for safekeeping, while you get breakfast ready and get everything packed up. Sure you’re awake?

To remove any doubt Tegid gave his brother another couple of buffets about the head; then he heaved a heavy sack onto his back and set off to cover the mile to the Bush Down Mine. Despite the heavy load he carried, Tegid made good time and was back within the hour.

That lazy pair were still asleep. Said they’d been up half the night after gold. More fool them, if it’s true. Lugus is coughing all the time.

He’s had that cough all summer, said Nudd, passing his brother a bowl of hot porridge. Doesn’t seem to be getting any better.

Don’t know how Issel puts up with it. If I was her, I’d soon have a bag over his head and no mistake.

Nudd sighed. Tegid heard it and scowled. "Unless you want to see me in a really bad mood, you’ll be ready to get out of here as soon as I’ve eaten."

Where are we going? asked Nudd.

Hexworthy Mines. We’ll have a month there, before any snow arrives.

Nudd groaned, opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. Once his brother had made his mind up, there was no changing it. It was more than six miles to the Hexworthy Mines. Six miles of tough going, carrying a heavy pack, struggling to keep up.

Tegid glared at him, well aware of his reluctance, but in no mood to be patient. He quickly stuffed his pack, swung it onto his back and walked briskly away. Nudd, grabbing his things, scrambled after him.

Can we..., started Nudd, but his brother was too far away. Nudd pursued him, but only caught up at