Old Mara
By Andy Morris
The Hunters Lodge was a rural country inn that had survived for many years at the side of a lonely New Forest road amid the rolling pastel hills of pink and purple heather. The pub was considered ‘charming’ by the locals and proved to be a popular stopping point for hikers, walkers, horse riders and cyclists.
Sunlight reflected off the brass plating on the large Victorian clock that hung on the far wall. Perched beneath the clock looking like a mangy scruffy-looking crow was Joe Butterfield. Joe was a font of useless information regarding old wives tales and any kind of superstitious nonsense. On most days the eccentric old coot with the mischievous twinkle in his eye dawdled about the village warning of the perils of walking under ladders or of black cats crossing one's path. Philip Chase, successful businessman and newcomer to the New Forest had looked on in bemusement as Joe had marched over to a couple who were picking wild blackberries and warn them, in complete sincerity, that the 29th September was Michaelmas Day and people shouldn’t go picking blackberries on that day because the devil had been out and spat on them all! So, it was despite Philip’s better judgement that he made Joe Butterfield revisit one of his stories again; that of Old Mara.
The old man made the most of being in the spotlight as he carefully placed his pint of Ringwood Best onto the bar and cleared his throat theatrically before addressing the handful of patrons currently enjoying a quiet drink.
“Old Mara was a witch what roams these parts” Joe began loudly in the manner of an old sea captain telling a tall tale. “Now, what you’ve got to remember is she’s not a good witch like that Sybil Leek or Gerald Gardner. No, Old Mara is bad news. Some say she still roams the New Forest until she comes across a horse or pony. Then she climbs onto its back and rides it over the moors and through the villages all night. She will push her mount onwards faster and faster until it gets the point of exhaustion and then she’ll simply abandon it and slip away into the countryside. In the morning the owner comes to find his animal worn out and covered in sweat, looing totally haggard. And you know, interestingly enough; that’s where the expression haggardcomes from. It means hag-ridden. You see?” he smiled the gap-toothed grin that made him look even more absurd than usual. “You wanna be careful with her, mind”, Joe cautioned again, putting his grubby hand on Philip’s stylish ‘Moss’ blazer. The former executive quickly snatched his arm away and took a small step away from Joe and the bar. His blazer probably cost more than Joe makes in a month and he didn’t want his grubby paws anywhere near it.
“I’ve seen her myself; Old Mara, once upon a time” Joe continued undeterred. “And it’s not something I’ll forget in a hurry either.” Philip had heard enough. This wasn’t helpful. It was a clear fact that he came from a far superior background to most of these people and he was used to moving in much more sophisticated circles than this.
Before coming to the New Forest he’d enjoyed a very successful stint in the city. Then, as uncertainty had loomed once again on the financial markets he had decided to take early retirement. His colleagues had all looked on in envy as he left the cut and thrust of the city to ‘get back to nature’.
He’d purchased his cottage in the heart of the forest; a comfortable little place that had set him back a cool million. He’d been in the New Forest for just over two weeks and he had decided he was going to do everything: He was going to learn to ride, learn to shoot and buy a yacht; really experience the countryside as the locals did - albeit in more luxury and with top of the range gear. He also fancied a go at breeding racehorses. He’d already invested in two stallions and purchased a local stable situated just a short walk from his one and a half acre property and it was his two horses that someone had been tampering with.
He'd gone down to the stables yesterday morning and discovered they looked completely exhausted; tired, out of breath and panting. He'd called the vet who found nothing physically wrong with them other than the fact they'd been run too hard. Philip explained he'd found them like this but the vet had eyed him suspiciously and suggested someone had taken them out during the night? Impossible, Philip had argued, but there was no other explanation.
He had been explaining the situation to the landlord of The Hunter’s Lodge; Bernard, a big beefy chap with ridiculously oversized sideburns and not an ounce of cheer or good humour within him. He had just got to the vet’s diagnosis when Joe Butterfield’s familiar gravelly voice had weaselled up behind him and offered the legend of Old Mara as a possible explanation.
“Well, thanks for that. Erm, I’ll make sure I bear that in mind” he remarked with as much sincerity as a politician addressing a naïve schoolchild. Keen to leave the company of Joe Butterfield and his distinct lack of style or class Philip swaggered towards the exit.
He was far too sensible to put any stock in Joe Butterfield’s rambling tale. Small villages, he reflected, breed small minds and it truly was a sad indictment of a society that curiosities like Joe Butterfield were allowed to happen, especially in this day and age. How anyone could live life the way he did was just unbelievable. He'd never been the theatre or travelled around Europe. Joe liked to boast that his family had always lived in the New Forest and he could trace them all the way back the eleventh century: Back beyond 1079 when William the Conquer had first declared all of this land to be his royal hunting ground. In fact, Philip wouldn’t be surprised if Joe had never actually set foot outside the Forest in his long sixty-odd years. Yet for some reason, the locals seemed to have a lot of respect for him. Despite his weird customs, he knew the Forest well and he was employed as one of the local agisters.
Agisters, Philip had been interested to learn, managed the animals in the forest, checking on their welfare, collecting ‘marking fees’ from owners and rounding them up in the autumn ‘drift’. As an agister, Joe was supposed to be on call 24 hours a day which was interesting because whenever Philip visited The Hunters Lodge Joe was always there propping up the bar and spinning some pointless yarn about the behaviour of sheep or predicting the weather with dandelion clocks.
Still, Joe provided a great source of amusement. Last weekend Philip had some of his mates down from the city for a long weekend and he had been satisfied to see they were impressed with the size and the cost of his new country pad. He showed them the Forest, his racehorses then and took them to The Hunters Lodge where he’d had the pleasure of introducing them to Joe Butterfield. It had been a priceless encounter. Philip’s timing had been spot on, as always, and they walked in to catch this sage advice:
“First thing in the morning, on the first day of May” Joe’s eyes had sparkled as he suggested in all seriousness. “Young girls should go out into the garden and wash their faces in the morning dew. The dew in May has magic properties, see and it’ll give them a beautiful complexion all year round.” Encouraged by their interest and too dim-witted to realise they were actually laughing at him; the silly old fool regaled them with more of his folklore before the raucous banter of the city boys could be suppressed no longer. Finally, Joe must have realised they were all poking fun at him because he went quiet after that and slopped off into a corner of the pub to sit by himself beneath the large Victorian timepiece hanging on the wall. It was all in good humour and if he couldn’t take a joke that was Joe’s problem, no one else’s.
Philip smiled at the memory as he briskly made his way homeward before the rain came down. He passed a couple of lycra-clad cyclists in high visibility jackets that had stopped at the side of the road to consult their map. He called a cheery greeting to them and, noticing their top-of-the-range cycles and the professional clothing they wore, decided he should get a bike as well to add to his growing list of hobbies. A swell of pride brought a smile to his lips as he considered all of his own achievements over the years. The locals had been electrified with his list accomplishments and eye-watering bonuses he’d earned in the City. Compared to most people Philip was talented but next to the people around here he was not only talented; he was elite. He'd had to fight for everything he had and on the bloody battlefield of corporate investments, he took no prisoners. Which was good because tonight; he decided he was personally going to take care of his equine assets. Someone had been tampering with them and if the locals weren’t going to take it seriously he was more than capable of dealing with it himself. He’d wait until nightfall then go down to the stables to deal with his problem.
It had started to drizzle when he got home and now the rain lashed down on the windscreen of his pristine F-Type convertible Jaguar. The wipers swished valiantly as the powerful headlights cut a path through the downpour. He traversed the winding roads carefully, this time actually sticking to the forty miles per hour speed limit as he made the short trip to his private stables. Just in case things got a little out of hand - for all he knew it could be some gipsy family that had been taking his horses - he had his brand new twelve-gauge shotgun in the back of the car. So far he’d only used it for clay pigeon shooting but it would be good to make anyone think twice about going near his property again. No one messed with Philip Chase and got away with it, especially not some backward country bumpkin who had probably never worked a day in his life!
Philip parked the Jag at the side of the sheds so it wouldn’t be seen from the road and made his way across the gravel driveway into the stables. Inside the rain drummed on the wooden roof in a fast percussion. Philip shook his head to clear the rain from his hair. It was slightly warmer in the stables and the strong earthy scents of sawdust and straw lent a reassuring warmth to the building. On his left, the horses brayed quietly in their stalls but paid him no attention as he silently passed by. Feed buckets were neatly stacked at the far end of the building and he made his way towards a stool that stood next to them. It was going to be a long night so he’d come prepared: A copy of Nigel Farage’s latest autobiography downloaded onto his Kindle and a small bottle of fine single malt should help pass the time.
As the evening wore on the rain outside eased off. The hours passed without incident until a nervous whinny and stomping of hooves brought Philip awake with a start. The hour was late and the darkness in the stables was so thick it was almost solid. The animals whinnied again unseen against the blackness and Philip could imagine them tossing their heads back in agitation at some unseen threat nearby. He dropped his Kindle to the floor and sprang to his feet. It was game on! Straining his ears, hoping to hear the sound of voices or footsteps outside he heard nothing except the distant cry of bats skittering over the moors. There was no doubt the horses were aware of something out there but the night wasn’t revealing what it was just yet.
Always one to seize the initiative, Philip confidently strode out onto the gravel driveway. His boots quietly crunched on the ground but not loud enough to alert anyone to his presence. Overhead the moon and stars were intermittently obscured behind scudding clouds. He could see very little in any direction, certainly, no sign of the little oiks that he was sure must be out there somewhere. The darkness was near pitch and all around him the tall fir trees that enclosed his stable and paddock swayed like giant black phantoms, silhouetted against the deeper blackness of the night. There was a reason people had streetlights he thought testily, still looking around for signs of trouble.
Then, there it was; movement on the hill to his left. He tensed, ready for anything. Just visible in the dim moonlight something was stirring. Then he heard the pounding gallop of hooves running over the untamed hillside and he relaxed a little. It was just some wild pony running through the copse. Then he noticed a figure on top of the pony. There was something very oddabout the rider but before he could process it he became aware of another sound rushing over the gorse and bracken. It was coming from the figure on the pony. Shrill and piercing and as wild as the deepest parts of the New Forest the sound had a disorientating effect upon Philip. He watched in fascination for several moments at the pony and its mount charging over the gentle hillside, changing direction and then racing towards his position.
That was when he realised he’d left the bloody gun inside the stable. He briefly considered going back and retrieving it but decided against it and quietly cursed. The demented howls grew louder heralding the approach of some crazed madwoman atop the feral pony. Philip had never been spooked by anything in his life but the harsh sound was full of psychotic lunacy; a mixture of cruel laughter and hopeless anguish cut through his alpha confidence and shook his resolve. Philip realised in alarm that the dreadful sound had him rooted to the spot and for the first time in a long time Philip almost questioned his decision to come out here, but the moment quickly passed.
The woman continued her shrieking, laughing and screaming in an undulating unending cacophony. Despite the heavy darkness, Philip could see her quickening her pace as the tattered rags she wore blow out behind her. Likewise, her wild grey hair was tossed frantically in all directions adding to her nightmare visage. She would reach him in moments and with this chilling realisation, Philip was finally spurred into action.
He wouldn't have time to return to the stable to retrieve his gun. Also, the Jag offered no protection either. Obviously, this couldn't be some supernatural legend but whether it was Old Mara or not, this woman was having some kind of breakdown and he didn’t want to risk drawing attention to his beloved baby and have her damage the paintwork in any way. Her psychotic screeching was becoming harsher, more intense; almost penetrating and at last, he decided the best option open to him was to leave.
He walked briskly out onto the road feeling his ears curling as he tried to ignore the shrieking presence behind him. His casual stride quickly became a jog before he abandoned all pretence and openly ran back down the lane. Everything around him was so black that he was running blindly, ploughing a course into the darkness that he hoped was still the road and not some tree or hedge. His hands were cautiously held out before his face so if his sense of direction did fail him he’d at least have some warning before ploughing into a tree or hedgerow. The overwhelming sense of self-preservation had taken over any sense of refinement he had left. The clattering of hooves grew sharper and Philip suspected she’s left the bridleway and was now on the road behind him. He was in good shape and was confident that he’d make it to the security of his cottage just as long as he managed to stay on the road and not run into anything. He pelted down the shadowed lane as fast as he dared go. Behind him, the screaming witch continued to follow, continued to scream. She was getting closer. Philip increased his pace, running full pelt, pushing himself faster and faster, no longer caring if he ran into a bramble thicket or fell into a ditch. The hideous cries were bearing down on him, surely someone must hear this racket and come and investigate? Philip surged onwards through the night until he came to a wooded path he recognised. He swerved to his right, knowing the low hanging bough should slow the woman down. He ran bent over to avoid hitting a low hanging branch himself. The cackling howls of receded slightly and Philip knew he'd stretched his lead and with any luck, this short cut would see him home without incident.
At last Philip reached his cottage. There were no neighbours living nearby, no one to raise the alarm and summon help. He felt very alone as he heaved open the heavy wooden gate and rushed up the decorative driveway. There was no time to shut the gate properly behind him. As he tore through the garden Philip was suddenly blinded by the security light that blazed as bright as day as he crossed its sensor. Behind him, the horse’s hooves stomped loudly on the tarmac. The madwoman was catching up with him again and she was so very close now. Philip didn’t know where she was and he daren’t look back in case she was too close. She must be almost on top of him. Yet somehow he managed to open the front door without incident. Still blinking the dazzling light from his eyes he dived in, slamming it shut behind him. He expected to hear the woman banging and hammering on the door, trying to break in but there was nothing.
Philip sank down onto the polished wooden floor breathing hard, while he tried to figure out what had just happened. Joe Butterfield’s gravelly voice cycled through his head recounting his superstitious nonsense. It couldn’t have been Old Mara out there, Philip refused to entertain anything that old weirdo said. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and took control of his breathing. At last, he managed to shut out Joe’s irritating drawl but what he couldn’t shut out was the terrible screams that continued to echo through his head. Philip slowly got to his feet and padded upstairs where he risked a careful glance through the curtains of a bedroom window. Looking out onto the front garden he was relieved to see no sign of the maniac on his property and a quick check out of the other windows confirmed she had gone. Satisfied he was alone Philip made his way into the drawing-room where he poured himself a large glass of whiskey and finished in one swallow. Then he had a second and a third before plodding back to his bedroom feeling very tired and more than a little shaken.
When Philip managed to pull himself from his uneasy sleep the sun was shining in through the open curtains picking up dust motes drifting over his bed. It was late and his legs ached from the sudden burst of unplanned exercise. He couldn’t help casting a cautious, but necessary look around his bedroom before he left the snug security of his bed and headed into the bathroom.
After he showered he went straight back to the stables where he was relieved to the Jag was fine. It was where he'd left it and there were no visible marks or scratches. As he retrieved his gun and kindle he saw that both horses also appeared to be in good health as well. They greeted him by sticking their heads over the top of the stable doors in anticipation of breakfast. He fed them and led them out into the adjacent field for a run-around. Satisfied all was okay with his equine investments Philip returned home to lock his gun back in the cabinet.
The grey clouds had gone now revealing a postcard scene of blue sky and warming sun. Despite this, a restless sense of unease gnawed at Philip over his encounter last night. It would be useful to try and walk it off so he headed over to The Hunters Lodge for a late breakfast, even though he didn’t feel in the least bit hungry.
The pub was quiet as usual and the hefty antique clock on the wall ticked loudly in a steady rhythm; the beating heart of this little forest inn. After glancing around to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard Philip quietly recounted his tale to the discreet, albeit unsociable, landlord. He felt more than a little foolish asking the barman for his opinion but as the humourless publican silently mulled it over Joe Butterfield sidled up to him to offer his wisdom. Strangely, today Philip felt more neighbourly towards the local agister.
“I was just saying to that gentleman over there” Joe indicated a balding figure ducking below the top of his copy of the New Milton Advertiser, “about Cuckoo’s.”
“Cuckoo’s?” Philip echoed in confusion.
“Yes. Not a lot of people know this: If you hear a cuckoo sing on the 14th April - which is St Tiberius Day - you should turn over all the money in your pockets, spit and not look at the ground. If you are standing on soft ground when you do this” Joe professed. “Then you will have loads of good luck. But,” a note of warning entered his voice. “If you’re standing on hard ground when you do it you'll be cursed with bad luck. That fellow didn't know that but now he does, so that's all right. Anyway, then I heard say you had a run-in with Old Mara last night" Joe's weather-beaten face stretched in an expression of marvel mixed with worry. “You shouldn’t have gone straight home you know. Now she knows where you live.”
"Whomever she is she's been damaging my property, trespassing and threatening me. I’m going to go to the police this afternoon” Philip decided.
“Won’t do you no good” Joe cautioned in the irritatingly narrow-minded way of his. “Police can’t catch Old Mara. No one knows where she goes in the daytime or where or when she’ll pop up next. The police would soon do you for wasting their time.”
“We’ll see about that.”
"You need to be very careful because mark my words, she'll be back.” Philip looked closely at Joe to see if he could detect any hint of humour or deception, but like yesterday there was none. Even Bernard was nodding sagely at the old man’s advice.
"OK, so what do I do to get rid of her," Philip asked sarcastically, still trying to resist Joe’s theory. “Pick a handful of toad-weed, hang it from an oak tree and dance around it on the next full moon?” the sense of neighbourly patience had quickly dissolved like the early morning dew.
“Its horseshoes that Old Mara’s after” Joe explained with a flash of annoyance.
“As she rides over the forest she’s looking for horseshoes. Don’t ask me why, but she likes them. She can’t get them from the Commoners livestock herself, so she looks for lost ones lying around in the heather. Give her a horseshoe and she’ll leave you alone. That’s my advice.” Joe concluded that knowing twinkle in his eye.
“A horseshoe?” Philip repeated. There was a horseshoe hanging above his front door. In fact, most of the houses around here had horseshoes over their front doors. If he took his horseshoe down and left it out for her it wouldn’t cost him anything and it would save him any potential loss of face by trying to explain Joe’s legend to the police. It was worth a try at least. Joe wished him luck and held out his hand but Philip declined to shake it. Instead, he swanned out of the pub feeling a little more balanced than when he’d entered.
That evening Philip arrived back at the cottage and prised the old rusty horseshoe out of the wooden beam over the front door. He left it on the road at the bottom of the driveway. If this character wanted it she could have it, but if he ever saw her near his horses or his house again he’d make sure she never came back.
Outside the wind had picked up again. It’s loud howling reminiscent of that terrible shrieking from the previous night. And just like last night the hideous wailing pursued the successful businessman into the sanctuary of his sleeping mind. Only the sound grew louder and harsher, first intruding on his dreams and then breaking them apart. The noise became a barrage. It deafened his sleeping brain so much so that it was almost physical, almost choking. That’s when a part of Philip’s unconscious mind realised what was wrong - He couldn’t breathe!
His panicked thought brought him jolting awake. His eyes snapped open to find the nightmare had followed him from his dreams into the waking world. Old Mara, was in his bedroom! Crouching on top of him, nose to nose, her hideous wrinkled face leered down at him as she perched on of top his chest. Tremendous pressure was piled on his body and he couldn’t move. He tried to struggle but she was pinning his arms down with supernatural strength. Philip tried to tell her to get off, he tried to shout for help but the lack of air in his lungs rendered his voice useless. Mara tossed her head back howling and cackling then bent low just inches from Philip’s face. She pursed her mouth and for a moment he worried those cracked grey lips were going to kiss him but instead the witch inhaled deeply as if she were taking a drag off an invisible cigar. Philp gasped desperately but it was no use. He felt his breath leaving his lungs again, being sucked out by the witch. More wild, maniacal bursts of unnatural laughter echoed around the bedroom, filling Philip’s head as he struggled to cling onto consciousness as his body begged for oxygen. Old Mara drew another long chocking inhalation and Philip realised he knew he couldn’t hold on for long. He was losing consciousness and couldn’t hold onto anything at all. From the corners of his eyes, darkness swelled. He clutched at the bed covers, twisting in desperation. His chest felt as if it would burst and he gulped and panted but he was denied any air in the vacuum he now found himself in. Spiky pain racked his oxygen-starved muscles. Between her breaths, Old Mara continued her wild screaming and her demented laughter taunted him in his pitiful desperation. It was too much. He couldn't bear it but still, the agony continued. Still, her banshee cries reverberated around the room and through his head. Philip’s fingers curled into claws as every muscle in his body went into spasm. Joe Butterfield had said Old Mara rode horses to the point of exhaustion. Surely he was at that point now? Surely she must stop before she killed him? Only she wasn’t ready to stop. The torment, the gradual weakness and the clawing suffocation went on and on until eventually, after what felt like hours of acoustic torture, something finally broke inside Philip. Something very important and very valuable gave up. A vital component failed and Philip Chase stopped fighting. He stopped breathing and at that moment all the successes and the amazing achievements he had enjoyed throughout his life suddenly ended.
*******
Earlier that day after the flash city boy had left The Hunters Lodge Bernard had turned to Joe Butterfield who was still sat at the bar nursing an almost empty pint glass.
“Ere, I’ve been wondering, Joe” Bernard began in that jovial tone that he couldn’t bring himself to use whenever a certain arrogant banker was in the pub. “The way I remember the story about Old Mara; she wasn’t looking for horseshoes - she hated the damn things! I’m sure it’s horseshoes that stop her from entering people’s homes? That’s why everyone around here has them over their doors - to keep her out. But, if there’s no horseshoe there, then there’s nothing to stop her from entering a property.”
“Oh” replied Joe raising his bushy eyebrows in mock recognition. “Is that right? I told that Philip Chase the opposite.” Joe Butterfield looked thoughtful for a moment. “I'm such a dim-witted old coot, aren't I? I do hope nothing happens to him tonight because he wassuch a nice fellow!” Joe’s mischievous smile provoked a diplomatic chuckle from the landlord. “How about another drink, Joe? This one’s on the house.”
Sunlight reflected off the brass plating on the large Victorian clock that hung on the far wall. Perched beneath the clock looking like a mangy scruffy-looking crow was Joe Butterfield. Joe was a font of useless information regarding old wives tales and any kind of superstitious nonsense. On most days the eccentric old coot with the mischievous twinkle in his eye dawdled about the village warning of the perils of walking under ladders or of black cats crossing one's path. Philip Chase, successful businessman and newcomer to the New Forest had looked on in bemusement as Joe had marched over to a couple who were picking wild blackberries and warn them, in complete sincerity, that the 29th September was Michaelmas Day and people shouldn’t go picking blackberries on that day because the devil had been out and spat on them all! So, it was despite Philip’s better judgement that he made Joe Butterfield revisit one of his stories again; that of Old Mara.
The old man made the most of being in the spotlight as he carefully placed his pint of Ringwood Best onto the bar and cleared his throat theatrically before addressing the handful of patrons currently enjoying a quiet drink.
“Old Mara was a witch what roams these parts” Joe began loudly in the manner of an old sea captain telling a tall tale. “Now, what you’ve got to remember is she’s not a good witch like that Sybil Leek or Gerald Gardner. No, Old Mara is bad news. Some say she still roams the New Forest until she comes across a horse or pony. Then she climbs onto its back and rides it over the moors and through the villages all night. She will push her mount onwards faster and faster until it gets the point of exhaustion and then she’ll simply abandon it and slip away into the countryside. In the morning the owner comes to find his animal worn out and covered in sweat, looing totally haggard. And you know, interestingly enough; that’s where the expression haggardcomes from. It means hag-ridden. You see?” he smiled the gap-toothed grin that made him look even more absurd than usual. “You wanna be careful with her, mind”, Joe cautioned again, putting his grubby hand on Philip’s stylish ‘Moss’ blazer. The former executive quickly snatched his arm away and took a small step away from Joe and the bar. His blazer probably cost more than Joe makes in a month and he didn’t want his grubby paws anywhere near it.
“I’ve seen her myself; Old Mara, once upon a time” Joe continued undeterred. “And it’s not something I’ll forget in a hurry either.” Philip had heard enough. This wasn’t helpful. It was a clear fact that he came from a far superior background to most of these people and he was used to moving in much more sophisticated circles than this.
Before coming to the New Forest he’d enjoyed a very successful stint in the city. Then, as uncertainty had loomed once again on the financial markets he had decided to take early retirement. His colleagues had all looked on in envy as he left the cut and thrust of the city to ‘get back to nature’.
He’d purchased his cottage in the heart of the forest; a comfortable little place that had set him back a cool million. He’d been in the New Forest for just over two weeks and he had decided he was going to do everything: He was going to learn to ride, learn to shoot and buy a yacht; really experience the countryside as the locals did - albeit in more luxury and with top of the range gear. He also fancied a go at breeding racehorses. He’d already invested in two stallions and purchased a local stable situated just a short walk from his one and a half acre property and it was his two horses that someone had been tampering with.
He'd gone down to the stables yesterday morning and discovered they looked completely exhausted; tired, out of breath and panting. He'd called the vet who found nothing physically wrong with them other than the fact they'd been run too hard. Philip explained he'd found them like this but the vet had eyed him suspiciously and suggested someone had taken them out during the night? Impossible, Philip had argued, but there was no other explanation.
He had been explaining the situation to the landlord of The Hunter’s Lodge; Bernard, a big beefy chap with ridiculously oversized sideburns and not an ounce of cheer or good humour within him. He had just got to the vet’s diagnosis when Joe Butterfield’s familiar gravelly voice had weaselled up behind him and offered the legend of Old Mara as a possible explanation.
“Well, thanks for that. Erm, I’ll make sure I bear that in mind” he remarked with as much sincerity as a politician addressing a naïve schoolchild. Keen to leave the company of Joe Butterfield and his distinct lack of style or class Philip swaggered towards the exit.
He was far too sensible to put any stock in Joe Butterfield’s rambling tale. Small villages, he reflected, breed small minds and it truly was a sad indictment of a society that curiosities like Joe Butterfield were allowed to happen, especially in this day and age. How anyone could live life the way he did was just unbelievable. He'd never been the theatre or travelled around Europe. Joe liked to boast that his family had always lived in the New Forest and he could trace them all the way back the eleventh century: Back beyond 1079 when William the Conquer had first declared all of this land to be his royal hunting ground. In fact, Philip wouldn’t be surprised if Joe had never actually set foot outside the Forest in his long sixty-odd years. Yet for some reason, the locals seemed to have a lot of respect for him. Despite his weird customs, he knew the Forest well and he was employed as one of the local agisters.
Agisters, Philip had been interested to learn, managed the animals in the forest, checking on their welfare, collecting ‘marking fees’ from owners and rounding them up in the autumn ‘drift’. As an agister, Joe was supposed to be on call 24 hours a day which was interesting because whenever Philip visited The Hunters Lodge Joe was always there propping up the bar and spinning some pointless yarn about the behaviour of sheep or predicting the weather with dandelion clocks.
Still, Joe provided a great source of amusement. Last weekend Philip had some of his mates down from the city for a long weekend and he had been satisfied to see they were impressed with the size and the cost of his new country pad. He showed them the Forest, his racehorses then and took them to The Hunters Lodge where he’d had the pleasure of introducing them to Joe Butterfield. It had been a priceless encounter. Philip’s timing had been spot on, as always, and they walked in to catch this sage advice:
“First thing in the morning, on the first day of May” Joe’s eyes had sparkled as he suggested in all seriousness. “Young girls should go out into the garden and wash their faces in the morning dew. The dew in May has magic properties, see and it’ll give them a beautiful complexion all year round.” Encouraged by their interest and too dim-witted to realise they were actually laughing at him; the silly old fool regaled them with more of his folklore before the raucous banter of the city boys could be suppressed no longer. Finally, Joe must have realised they were all poking fun at him because he went quiet after that and slopped off into a corner of the pub to sit by himself beneath the large Victorian timepiece hanging on the wall. It was all in good humour and if he couldn’t take a joke that was Joe’s problem, no one else’s.
Philip smiled at the memory as he briskly made his way homeward before the rain came down. He passed a couple of lycra-clad cyclists in high visibility jackets that had stopped at the side of the road to consult their map. He called a cheery greeting to them and, noticing their top-of-the-range cycles and the professional clothing they wore, decided he should get a bike as well to add to his growing list of hobbies. A swell of pride brought a smile to his lips as he considered all of his own achievements over the years. The locals had been electrified with his list accomplishments and eye-watering bonuses he’d earned in the City. Compared to most people Philip was talented but next to the people around here he was not only talented; he was elite. He'd had to fight for everything he had and on the bloody battlefield of corporate investments, he took no prisoners. Which was good because tonight; he decided he was personally going to take care of his equine assets. Someone had been tampering with them and if the locals weren’t going to take it seriously he was more than capable of dealing with it himself. He’d wait until nightfall then go down to the stables to deal with his problem.
It had started to drizzle when he got home and now the rain lashed down on the windscreen of his pristine F-Type convertible Jaguar. The wipers swished valiantly as the powerful headlights cut a path through the downpour. He traversed the winding roads carefully, this time actually sticking to the forty miles per hour speed limit as he made the short trip to his private stables. Just in case things got a little out of hand - for all he knew it could be some gipsy family that had been taking his horses - he had his brand new twelve-gauge shotgun in the back of the car. So far he’d only used it for clay pigeon shooting but it would be good to make anyone think twice about going near his property again. No one messed with Philip Chase and got away with it, especially not some backward country bumpkin who had probably never worked a day in his life!
Philip parked the Jag at the side of the sheds so it wouldn’t be seen from the road and made his way across the gravel driveway into the stables. Inside the rain drummed on the wooden roof in a fast percussion. Philip shook his head to clear the rain from his hair. It was slightly warmer in the stables and the strong earthy scents of sawdust and straw lent a reassuring warmth to the building. On his left, the horses brayed quietly in their stalls but paid him no attention as he silently passed by. Feed buckets were neatly stacked at the far end of the building and he made his way towards a stool that stood next to them. It was going to be a long night so he’d come prepared: A copy of Nigel Farage’s latest autobiography downloaded onto his Kindle and a small bottle of fine single malt should help pass the time.
As the evening wore on the rain outside eased off. The hours passed without incident until a nervous whinny and stomping of hooves brought Philip awake with a start. The hour was late and the darkness in the stables was so thick it was almost solid. The animals whinnied again unseen against the blackness and Philip could imagine them tossing their heads back in agitation at some unseen threat nearby. He dropped his Kindle to the floor and sprang to his feet. It was game on! Straining his ears, hoping to hear the sound of voices or footsteps outside he heard nothing except the distant cry of bats skittering over the moors. There was no doubt the horses were aware of something out there but the night wasn’t revealing what it was just yet.
Always one to seize the initiative, Philip confidently strode out onto the gravel driveway. His boots quietly crunched on the ground but not loud enough to alert anyone to his presence. Overhead the moon and stars were intermittently obscured behind scudding clouds. He could see very little in any direction, certainly, no sign of the little oiks that he was sure must be out there somewhere. The darkness was near pitch and all around him the tall fir trees that enclosed his stable and paddock swayed like giant black phantoms, silhouetted against the deeper blackness of the night. There was a reason people had streetlights he thought testily, still looking around for signs of trouble.
Then, there it was; movement on the hill to his left. He tensed, ready for anything. Just visible in the dim moonlight something was stirring. Then he heard the pounding gallop of hooves running over the untamed hillside and he relaxed a little. It was just some wild pony running through the copse. Then he noticed a figure on top of the pony. There was something very oddabout the rider but before he could process it he became aware of another sound rushing over the gorse and bracken. It was coming from the figure on the pony. Shrill and piercing and as wild as the deepest parts of the New Forest the sound had a disorientating effect upon Philip. He watched in fascination for several moments at the pony and its mount charging over the gentle hillside, changing direction and then racing towards his position.
That was when he realised he’d left the bloody gun inside the stable. He briefly considered going back and retrieving it but decided against it and quietly cursed. The demented howls grew louder heralding the approach of some crazed madwoman atop the feral pony. Philip had never been spooked by anything in his life but the harsh sound was full of psychotic lunacy; a mixture of cruel laughter and hopeless anguish cut through his alpha confidence and shook his resolve. Philip realised in alarm that the dreadful sound had him rooted to the spot and for the first time in a long time Philip almost questioned his decision to come out here, but the moment quickly passed.
The woman continued her shrieking, laughing and screaming in an undulating unending cacophony. Despite the heavy darkness, Philip could see her quickening her pace as the tattered rags she wore blow out behind her. Likewise, her wild grey hair was tossed frantically in all directions adding to her nightmare visage. She would reach him in moments and with this chilling realisation, Philip was finally spurred into action.
He wouldn't have time to return to the stable to retrieve his gun. Also, the Jag offered no protection either. Obviously, this couldn't be some supernatural legend but whether it was Old Mara or not, this woman was having some kind of breakdown and he didn’t want to risk drawing attention to his beloved baby and have her damage the paintwork in any way. Her psychotic screeching was becoming harsher, more intense; almost penetrating and at last, he decided the best option open to him was to leave.
He walked briskly out onto the road feeling his ears curling as he tried to ignore the shrieking presence behind him. His casual stride quickly became a jog before he abandoned all pretence and openly ran back down the lane. Everything around him was so black that he was running blindly, ploughing a course into the darkness that he hoped was still the road and not some tree or hedge. His hands were cautiously held out before his face so if his sense of direction did fail him he’d at least have some warning before ploughing into a tree or hedgerow. The overwhelming sense of self-preservation had taken over any sense of refinement he had left. The clattering of hooves grew sharper and Philip suspected she’s left the bridleway and was now on the road behind him. He was in good shape and was confident that he’d make it to the security of his cottage just as long as he managed to stay on the road and not run into anything. He pelted down the shadowed lane as fast as he dared go. Behind him, the screaming witch continued to follow, continued to scream. She was getting closer. Philip increased his pace, running full pelt, pushing himself faster and faster, no longer caring if he ran into a bramble thicket or fell into a ditch. The hideous cries were bearing down on him, surely someone must hear this racket and come and investigate? Philip surged onwards through the night until he came to a wooded path he recognised. He swerved to his right, knowing the low hanging bough should slow the woman down. He ran bent over to avoid hitting a low hanging branch himself. The cackling howls of receded slightly and Philip knew he'd stretched his lead and with any luck, this short cut would see him home without incident.
At last Philip reached his cottage. There were no neighbours living nearby, no one to raise the alarm and summon help. He felt very alone as he heaved open the heavy wooden gate and rushed up the decorative driveway. There was no time to shut the gate properly behind him. As he tore through the garden Philip was suddenly blinded by the security light that blazed as bright as day as he crossed its sensor. Behind him, the horse’s hooves stomped loudly on the tarmac. The madwoman was catching up with him again and she was so very close now. Philip didn’t know where she was and he daren’t look back in case she was too close. She must be almost on top of him. Yet somehow he managed to open the front door without incident. Still blinking the dazzling light from his eyes he dived in, slamming it shut behind him. He expected to hear the woman banging and hammering on the door, trying to break in but there was nothing.
Philip sank down onto the polished wooden floor breathing hard, while he tried to figure out what had just happened. Joe Butterfield’s gravelly voice cycled through his head recounting his superstitious nonsense. It couldn’t have been Old Mara out there, Philip refused to entertain anything that old weirdo said. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and took control of his breathing. At last, he managed to shut out Joe’s irritating drawl but what he couldn’t shut out was the terrible screams that continued to echo through his head. Philip slowly got to his feet and padded upstairs where he risked a careful glance through the curtains of a bedroom window. Looking out onto the front garden he was relieved to see no sign of the maniac on his property and a quick check out of the other windows confirmed she had gone. Satisfied he was alone Philip made his way into the drawing-room where he poured himself a large glass of whiskey and finished in one swallow. Then he had a second and a third before plodding back to his bedroom feeling very tired and more than a little shaken.
When Philip managed to pull himself from his uneasy sleep the sun was shining in through the open curtains picking up dust motes drifting over his bed. It was late and his legs ached from the sudden burst of unplanned exercise. He couldn’t help casting a cautious, but necessary look around his bedroom before he left the snug security of his bed and headed into the bathroom.
After he showered he went straight back to the stables where he was relieved to the Jag was fine. It was where he'd left it and there were no visible marks or scratches. As he retrieved his gun and kindle he saw that both horses also appeared to be in good health as well. They greeted him by sticking their heads over the top of the stable doors in anticipation of breakfast. He fed them and led them out into the adjacent field for a run-around. Satisfied all was okay with his equine investments Philip returned home to lock his gun back in the cabinet.
The grey clouds had gone now revealing a postcard scene of blue sky and warming sun. Despite this, a restless sense of unease gnawed at Philip over his encounter last night. It would be useful to try and walk it off so he headed over to The Hunters Lodge for a late breakfast, even though he didn’t feel in the least bit hungry.
The pub was quiet as usual and the hefty antique clock on the wall ticked loudly in a steady rhythm; the beating heart of this little forest inn. After glancing around to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard Philip quietly recounted his tale to the discreet, albeit unsociable, landlord. He felt more than a little foolish asking the barman for his opinion but as the humourless publican silently mulled it over Joe Butterfield sidled up to him to offer his wisdom. Strangely, today Philip felt more neighbourly towards the local agister.
“I was just saying to that gentleman over there” Joe indicated a balding figure ducking below the top of his copy of the New Milton Advertiser, “about Cuckoo’s.”
“Cuckoo’s?” Philip echoed in confusion.
“Yes. Not a lot of people know this: If you hear a cuckoo sing on the 14th April - which is St Tiberius Day - you should turn over all the money in your pockets, spit and not look at the ground. If you are standing on soft ground when you do this” Joe professed. “Then you will have loads of good luck. But,” a note of warning entered his voice. “If you’re standing on hard ground when you do it you'll be cursed with bad luck. That fellow didn't know that but now he does, so that's all right. Anyway, then I heard say you had a run-in with Old Mara last night" Joe's weather-beaten face stretched in an expression of marvel mixed with worry. “You shouldn’t have gone straight home you know. Now she knows where you live.”
"Whomever she is she's been damaging my property, trespassing and threatening me. I’m going to go to the police this afternoon” Philip decided.
“Won’t do you no good” Joe cautioned in the irritatingly narrow-minded way of his. “Police can’t catch Old Mara. No one knows where she goes in the daytime or where or when she’ll pop up next. The police would soon do you for wasting their time.”
“We’ll see about that.”
"You need to be very careful because mark my words, she'll be back.” Philip looked closely at Joe to see if he could detect any hint of humour or deception, but like yesterday there was none. Even Bernard was nodding sagely at the old man’s advice.
"OK, so what do I do to get rid of her," Philip asked sarcastically, still trying to resist Joe’s theory. “Pick a handful of toad-weed, hang it from an oak tree and dance around it on the next full moon?” the sense of neighbourly patience had quickly dissolved like the early morning dew.
“Its horseshoes that Old Mara’s after” Joe explained with a flash of annoyance.
“As she rides over the forest she’s looking for horseshoes. Don’t ask me why, but she likes them. She can’t get them from the Commoners livestock herself, so she looks for lost ones lying around in the heather. Give her a horseshoe and she’ll leave you alone. That’s my advice.” Joe concluded that knowing twinkle in his eye.
“A horseshoe?” Philip repeated. There was a horseshoe hanging above his front door. In fact, most of the houses around here had horseshoes over their front doors. If he took his horseshoe down and left it out for her it wouldn’t cost him anything and it would save him any potential loss of face by trying to explain Joe’s legend to the police. It was worth a try at least. Joe wished him luck and held out his hand but Philip declined to shake it. Instead, he swanned out of the pub feeling a little more balanced than when he’d entered.
That evening Philip arrived back at the cottage and prised the old rusty horseshoe out of the wooden beam over the front door. He left it on the road at the bottom of the driveway. If this character wanted it she could have it, but if he ever saw her near his horses or his house again he’d make sure she never came back.
Outside the wind had picked up again. It’s loud howling reminiscent of that terrible shrieking from the previous night. And just like last night the hideous wailing pursued the successful businessman into the sanctuary of his sleeping mind. Only the sound grew louder and harsher, first intruding on his dreams and then breaking them apart. The noise became a barrage. It deafened his sleeping brain so much so that it was almost physical, almost choking. That’s when a part of Philip’s unconscious mind realised what was wrong - He couldn’t breathe!
His panicked thought brought him jolting awake. His eyes snapped open to find the nightmare had followed him from his dreams into the waking world. Old Mara, was in his bedroom! Crouching on top of him, nose to nose, her hideous wrinkled face leered down at him as she perched on of top his chest. Tremendous pressure was piled on his body and he couldn’t move. He tried to struggle but she was pinning his arms down with supernatural strength. Philip tried to tell her to get off, he tried to shout for help but the lack of air in his lungs rendered his voice useless. Mara tossed her head back howling and cackling then bent low just inches from Philip’s face. She pursed her mouth and for a moment he worried those cracked grey lips were going to kiss him but instead the witch inhaled deeply as if she were taking a drag off an invisible cigar. Philp gasped desperately but it was no use. He felt his breath leaving his lungs again, being sucked out by the witch. More wild, maniacal bursts of unnatural laughter echoed around the bedroom, filling Philip’s head as he struggled to cling onto consciousness as his body begged for oxygen. Old Mara drew another long chocking inhalation and Philip realised he knew he couldn’t hold on for long. He was losing consciousness and couldn’t hold onto anything at all. From the corners of his eyes, darkness swelled. He clutched at the bed covers, twisting in desperation. His chest felt as if it would burst and he gulped and panted but he was denied any air in the vacuum he now found himself in. Spiky pain racked his oxygen-starved muscles. Between her breaths, Old Mara continued her wild screaming and her demented laughter taunted him in his pitiful desperation. It was too much. He couldn't bear it but still, the agony continued. Still, her banshee cries reverberated around the room and through his head. Philip’s fingers curled into claws as every muscle in his body went into spasm. Joe Butterfield had said Old Mara rode horses to the point of exhaustion. Surely he was at that point now? Surely she must stop before she killed him? Only she wasn’t ready to stop. The torment, the gradual weakness and the clawing suffocation went on and on until eventually, after what felt like hours of acoustic torture, something finally broke inside Philip. Something very important and very valuable gave up. A vital component failed and Philip Chase stopped fighting. He stopped breathing and at that moment all the successes and the amazing achievements he had enjoyed throughout his life suddenly ended.
*******
Earlier that day after the flash city boy had left The Hunters Lodge Bernard had turned to Joe Butterfield who was still sat at the bar nursing an almost empty pint glass.
“Ere, I’ve been wondering, Joe” Bernard began in that jovial tone that he couldn’t bring himself to use whenever a certain arrogant banker was in the pub. “The way I remember the story about Old Mara; she wasn’t looking for horseshoes - she hated the damn things! I’m sure it’s horseshoes that stop her from entering people’s homes? That’s why everyone around here has them over their doors - to keep her out. But, if there’s no horseshoe there, then there’s nothing to stop her from entering a property.”
“Oh” replied Joe raising his bushy eyebrows in mock recognition. “Is that right? I told that Philip Chase the opposite.” Joe Butterfield looked thoughtful for a moment. “I'm such a dim-witted old coot, aren't I? I do hope nothing happens to him tonight because he wassuch a nice fellow!” Joe’s mischievous smile provoked a diplomatic chuckle from the landlord. “How about another drink, Joe? This one’s on the house.”