The Hollow Land by Jane Gardam Page B

the snow fluttered steadily and softly and determinedly down, silencing the whole world.
    â€œThis dale were cut off for six weeks in 1947,” said Bell. “My dad couldn’t go to school, all that time. Till Easter. They kept putting this place ont’ wireless—aerial photographs in the newspapers and prayers in churches.”
    They rounded a bend, very slowly, and stood completely still—for the road was not there. Instead of it, a great sweeping drift of snow flowed across before them and looped up to the wall. But the wall had gone, too. As they stood, wiping over their faces every minute and peering at the drift, it grew dimmer and dimmer and the feathers flew so fast you could scarcely see between them.
    â€œWell, they’ll come for us,” said Bell. “They’ll probably be on their way. From Nateby. They’ll have started.”
    â€œYes. If they can get through,” said Harry.
    â€œAye, if they can get through.”
    A worse sort of cold had started to grow inside Harry and his legs, which had until now been stiff and numb, felt loose and floppy. “What shall we do, Bell?”
    â€œDo? Well—” He felt very much older than Harry as Harry asked him. At the same time he felt very young indeed. He peered into the dark and his legs, too, began to feel odd. Then he said, “I think I can see a light.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œOver there. Look. A lil’ flicker.”
    â€œI can’t see it.”
    â€œI can. Come on. Over off t’ road. Hold to the bike to keep together. Come on now and push. Fetch over here now away from that drift.”
    The bike, with them behind it, careered over a hump and began to slide fast down a smooth snow slope to the level ground. Harry saw a light, too, and in a minute both of them heard the tinkle of a little stream which sometimes was the broad river at Wateryat Bottom.
    The light grew, and all at once they bumped right up against something—against a head and a juddering, shuddering mass, the clink of a metal wall. A black, wet, hairy, miserable old face peered forward at them and then gave a great sobbing scream.
    â€œIt’s a pony,” said Bell in a voice that might have said,
It’s God’s own favourite guardian angel
.
 
“It’s a pony tied up. It’s the gypsies.”
    Then the dogs began—perhaps half a dozen of them by the racket, turning both vans to sounding boxes. “Shout,” said Bell. “Shout above them or they’ll eat us.”
    They both yelled and beat at the van side. Hysterical barks of dogs answered.
    Nothing happened otherwise.
    â€œThey’re not in,” said Harry beginning to cry. “They’re not answering. We’ll die.”
    â€œGit yelling,” said Bell, and again they roared and thumped. “They wouldn’t leave lights on for dogs.”
    â€œIt’s maybe ghosts,” said Harry. “Or magic. We can’t get to them, like the Hand of Glory. We might be meant to throw milk over or something.” He sat down and crawled under the van, putting the icicle bouquet at a distance right under the van wheels.
    â€œ
Yell
,
 
will yer,” said Bell, “and don’t talk so fancy.”
    They yelled again and from above them at last there was a slow bumping and thumping noise and a groaning, grumbling sort of voice. They were human words, though they didn’t sound very welcoming. They rose to a shout and the dogs were quieter for a moment. Then steps could be heard by Harry above his head and a fumbling and scraping at the door beside Bell’s ear. “Yell again!” cried Bell—and the barks and snarls and grunts from inside mingled with their own high shouts.
    And other shouts.
    And toots.
    And furious noises.
    Through the snow, coming down across the Wateryat behind them, there was a dark cluster moving, with a light. With several torches. “Hi!” the cluster