Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.10

Chapter 10.

Another Moorland Walk.

The next morning dawned bright and blustery, and after another superb breakfast Botswana packed Amanderella off with sandwiches, a slice of fruit cake, and a firm reminder to “keep to the paths and mind the boggy bits”. Amanderella promised she would, tucked her notebook safely into her pocket, and set out to explore a different part of the Moor.

By mid‑morning the wind had begun to rise, tugging at her coat and sending long shivers through the heather. It came in sudden gusts, sharp and hollow, as though the Moor were drawing in a deep breath.

At first she thought it was only the wind slipping through a dip in the ground. But then it came again: a long, wavering moan that rose and fell like someone calling from far below the earth. Amanderella stopped, listening hard. The sound drifted across the Moor, thin and strange, and then faded into the wind.

A few moments later a shorter, gruffer sound followed, a sort of throaty grunt, as if something underground had cleared its throat.

Amanderella thought, “If I was the timid type, that would be very worrying.”

Then, carried on a sudden stronger gust, came a faint tapping, irregular but persistent, like someone knocking gently on a hollow door.

Beneath it all ran a soft whispering, a thin, breathy hiss that rose and fell with the gusts, as though the Moor itself were trying to speak.

Amanderella stopped again, listening hard. The sounds drifted across the Moor in different pitches and rhythms , the long moan, the gruff grunt, the tapping, the whispering , each one fading and returning as the wind shifted.

“So that,” she murmured, “must be the Boggits.”

As she walked on, the sounds shifted. The long moan faded behind her, only to return when the wind swung round. A little further on the gruff grunt came again, louder this time, as though she had stepped closer to its source. When she climbed a low rise the tapping vanished altogether, but at the bottom of the next slope it returned, faint and irregular. Amanderella paused often, listening, turning slowly to see how each sound changed with her position on the Moor.

By midday the wind had settled into a steady bluster, tugging at her hair and sending ripples across the heather. Amanderella found a sheltered spot behind a boulder, unwrapped her sandwiches, and ate her lunch while the strange chorus rose and fell around her. She listened carefully between bites, noting how the moan deepened whenever a gust swept across the valley below.

When the sun began to dip behind a bank of cloud, she brushed the crumbs from her skirt, tucked her notebook away, and set off towards Lollingfolly House.

The wind dropped suddenly, as though the Moor had paused for breath. In the brief stillness Amanderella heard the tapping again, clearer this time, sharper, and coming from somewhere ahead of her.

She walked on, following the faint path between the heather. The ground dipped gently, then more steeply, until she found herself at the edge of a shallow gully. The tapping sounded again, echoing oddly, as though bouncing off something hollow.

Amanderella stepped down into the gully, boots crunching on loose stones. The heather thinned here, giving way to patches of bare earth and scattered rubble. A gust of wind swept past her, and the long moan rose once more, but now it sounded close, very close, and unmistakably from below.

She rounded a clump of gorse and stopped.

Set into the side of the slope was a dark opening, half hidden by fallen stones and a tangle of bracken. A wooden beam leaned crookedly across the entrance, its ends splintered and weathered. The ground around it was littered with old timbers and rusted metal, as though something had once been built here and then abandoned. There, half hidden by gorse and bracken, lay a dark opening in the hillside. A wooden frame surrounded it, weathered and leaning, and beside it lay a heap of old planks that had once covered the entrance.

Amanderella knelt to examine them. “These were moved recently,” she thought, “But who was it?” She brushed away a handful of heather roots. Underneath, she found a scrap of paper, damp but legible.

It read:

University Geological Society, Field Trip Notes
“Removed covering to examine airflow. Very interesting resonance. Will return next term.”

Another gust swept across the gully. The air rushed into the opening with a hollow sigh, producing the long, wavering moan she had heard earlier. A moment later the wind shifted, and a loose board somewhere inside knocked gently against a stone, producing the faint tapping.

Amanderella listened carefully. The gruff grunt came next, a short, deep sound as the wind forced its way through a narrower passage.

“Well,” she said, “that explains the Boggits.”

She stood for a moment longer, watching the bracken stir around the entrance. The mine looked unsafe, and she had no intention of going inside. But she made a careful note of its position in her notebook, marking the dip in the ground, the gorse, and the line of the ridge above.

Then she climbed back up the slope, brushing heather from her skirt. The wind tugged at her coat again, carrying with it the familiar moan and the faint tapping, but now the sounds seemed less mysterious and more like a puzzle she had begun to solve.

By the time she reached the path again, the sun was dipping behind a bank of cloud. She set off towards Lollingfolly House at a brisk pace. The wind still carried the odd moan and whisper, but she felt no fear, only curiosity, and the pleasant satisfaction of having discovered something interesting.

She meant to be back in good time for afternoon tea, and she was.