Thursbitch

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HE CLIMBED FROM Sooker and the snow was drifting. He held Jinney’s reins to lift her, and Bryn ran round the back of Samson, Clocky and Maysey, nipping their heels so that they would not drag on the train. They passed Ormes Smithy, up Blaze Hill and along Billinge Side.

“O come all ye wych wallers as have your salt to sell.

I’ll have you give good measure and skeer your vessels well.

For there’s a day of reckoning, and Hell will have its share;

Old Nick will take you by your necks,

As Mossy ketched his mare.”

The wind was full in their faces and the horses were trying to tuck into the bank for shelter, but Bryn kept them from shoving their panniers against the rocks. Now it was dark and the snow was swarming into his lanthorn and he could not see for the whiteness; but he knew the road.

“Eh. Jinney. Can you tell me this poser? ‘Luke had it in front. Paul had it behind. Phoebe Mellor had it twice in the middle afore she was wed. Lads have it. Wenches don’t. Yon’s in life, but not in death’.”

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