The White Horse of Zennor by Michael Morpurgo

talk to Mad Miss Marney.
    â€˜She’s a strange one,’ Kate’s mother always said. ‘Just like her mother was, from what they say. And of course you never know with people like that. It runs in thefamily. You never know. Just keep away from her, that’s all.’
    Kate had always been intrigued by the lost house and she longed to catch just a glimpse of Mad Miss Marney. Every time she passed the house she would pause and look for signs of life, but the place always looked deserted and empty. She thought often enough about climbing over the fence and snooping around the back of the house, but she thought that that would be wrong – it was private after all. What she needed was an excuse to go and knock on the door; so when just such a chance presented itself, she took it eagerly.
    She had spent a long summer’s afternoon on the moor trying to catch lizards as they basked on the rocks, but with no success for they were always too quick for her. So she was down-hearted and cross with herself as she began the long walk home down across the moor. She was crossing the track just below the lost house when she noticed something shiny on the dry black soil of the track. As she looked it moved and flapped to life. She froze where she stood and then crept closer. Whether it was a rook or a crow or a raven she was notsure; but it was lying on its side and trying desperately to move away from her using its wings as legs. But the effort of it was too much and the bird keeled over and lay still. It struggled only feebly as Kate picked it up and cradled it to her chest. Angry black eyes glared up at her as she stroked the glistening feathers on the top of its head. She stood for a moment wondering what she should do; and then she felt the blood sticky on her hand. Mad Miss Marney’s house was close by and she had the perfect reason to knock on the door – she knew she had to find help if the bird was to live.
    The door of the house opened before she had time to knock and standing in front of her was Mad Miss Marney, and at once Kate regretted her boldness for Miss Marney looked anything but pleased to see her.
    â€˜What do you want?’ she said in a rasping voice. ‘I’ve had children up here before coming knocking on my door and running away before I even get there. But I saw you coming up the path, so you haven’t got time to run, have you? What d’you want?’
    Taken aback, Kate held out the bird almost in self-defence.
    â€˜I found this,’ she said. ‘And I don’t know what to do because it’s bleeding. I think it’s been shot or something. It can hardly move, but I thought you might be able to help. Sorry if I bothered you.’
    She was a tiny bent old lady, hardly taller than Kate herself. She leant heavily on her stick and Kate noticed that her finger joints were all swollen and twisted. Her hair, a whispy silvery-white was pulled up in a bun on her head and the skin around her lips was puckered with age.
    â€˜People are always shooting,’ said Miss Marney. ‘The things people do for a bit of fun. Don’t understand people. Never have done. Come on in child. Bring it in, bring it in. Don’t just stand there. I’m not about to turn you into gingerbread. I would but I don’t like it – can’t take sweet things any more.’
    Kate followed her into the house, looking around her as she went. There were books everywhere. The very walls seemed to be made of books. They stood now in the kitchen, and here too there were books instead of plates on the Welsh dresser.
    â€˜Well, what did you expect child, cauldrons and black cats, pointed hats and broomsticks?’
    â€˜No Miss Marney, honest,’ Kate lied, and then she changed the subject quickly. ‘It’s bigger than I thought it would be inside, the house I mean. And I’ve never seen so many books in all my life.’
    Miss Marney put the bird down on its