Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.12

Chapter 12.

 

Look at things differently.

 

The next morning dawned pale and brisk, the Moor lying grey and expectant beyond the village. Amanderella stood on the green with her gloves neatly buttoned and her notebook tucked under her arm. She had walked down from Lollingfolly House after breakfast, her boots making tidy prints in the dew.

Botswana arrived first, bustling across the green with her apron flapping like a startled hen. “I’ve brought sandwiches,” she announced. “And a flask of broth. And a blanket. And a whistle. One never knows.”

The vicar, Septimus Nonshine, followed at a measured pace. Tall, thin, and permanently solemn, he looked as though he had been carved from a church pew. “I am ready,” he said, though for what he did not specify.

Roglan Walloper, landlord of The Cudwick Arms, came last. He strode across the green with the air of a man who had left a perfectly good fire and a half‑finished glass of cider behind. “If those students have been meddling with old workings,” he said, “I’ll give them a talking‑to they won’t forget.”

Botswana glanced over her shoulder. “Filibert Pank said he wasn’t coming.”

Roglan snorted. “Of course he isn’t. He still thinks the Boggits will drag him off by the ankles.”

Septimus murmured, “Fear is a heavy burden.”

“Aye,” Roglan said, “and Filibert carries it like a sack of potatoes.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Thank you all for coming. The mine entrance is not far. We shall walk. Once we reach it, we will close it securely.”

They set off along the narrow lane, the hedges whispering on either side. The vicar walked with quiet dignity. Roglan muttered about irresponsible students. Botswana pointed out every flower, bird, and suspicious tuft of grass as though giving a guided tour.

At last, they reached the place where the lane gave up and the Moor began. The mine entrance yawned darkly beneath a low ridge, the wooden barrier lying crooked in the heather like a broken tooth.

Roglan let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s not how it was left.”

Botswana shivered. “It looks like a mouth.”

“It is simply an opening,” Amanderella said. “Once we replace the barrier, the wind will no longer rush through the tunnels.”

She stepped closer, examining the timbers, the disturbed earth, the faint soot from the students’ campfire. Everything was exactly as she had expected.

And yet.

A faint hum drifted across the Moor. Not a Boggit noise. Not wind. Something softer. Higher. Almost like—

Amanderella straightened.

The boatman she had met in Brazil, Ramone, had once said something that had stayed with her. His voice echoed in her memory: “Look at things differently, Lady Amanderella.”

She turned slowly, letting her gaze travel across the rise of the Moor. The hum came again, carried on the breeze, a thin, wavering note, as though the hills themselves were trying to sing.

Botswana clutched her arm. “There! Did you hear it? Oh, my dear, that’s not wind. Is it Boggits?”

Amanderella’s eyes narrowed with interest. “No. It isn’t. But it matters.”

She looked toward the ridge. “We have been looking at this all wrong. The Boggits are spirits.” She stopped and glanced at Septimus Nonshine.

“Sorry,” she added politely.

He gave a small, understanding nod.

Amanderella went on. “The Boggits are mining spirits. They are not going to come out onto the open Moor to attack people. So, we do not need to worry about them.”

Roglan frowned. “So?”

“But the noises,” said Botswana, her voice wobbling.

“A friend of mine once advised me to look at things differently,” Amanderella said. “And I believe we have just found the Singing Hills.”

All three of her listeners frowned, puzzled.

“You advertise the Moor as a place where people can come and listen to the music of the hills,” she said. “And as long as they stay on the paths and out of the mines, they can stand, sit, lie, picnic, whatever they like, and listen to that.”

She turned to the mine entrance. “We leave that open.”

Roglan stared at her. “The Singing Hills? You mean folk would come all the way out here just to listen to… that?”

The hum drifted again, a thin, wavering note that seemed to slide between the heather and curl round their boots.

Botswana shivered. “It sounds lonely.”

“It sounds interesting,” Amanderella said. “And interesting is what brings visitors.”

Septimus folded his hands. “It is certainly more appealing than tales of vengeful spirits.”

Roglan scratched his chin. “Aye, well, that’s true. Hard to sell cider to people who think they’re about to be dragged underground.”

Botswana brightened a little. “And I could make picnic baskets! People like picnics. Sandwiches, little cakes, a flask of something warm—”

A gust of wind swept across the ridge, carrying the hum with it. This time it rose and fell like a sighing choir.

Amanderella turned towards the sound. “There is a pattern to it. The shape of the hills, the way the wind funnels between them. It is not supernatural. It is geography.”

Botswana looked doubtful. “Geography can be very alarming.”

“Only if one stands in the wrong place,” Amanderella said calmly. “Which is why we shall mark the paths clearly We must not close it. If we block the entrance, the wind will have nowhere to go, and the hills will fall silent. The Singing Hills will not sing at all.”

Botswana looked horrified. “But we can’t leave it open, my dear! Sheep will wander in. Filibert Pank will wander in. I might wander in if I’m not paying attention.”

Amanderella nodded. “Which is why we shall build a barrier that keeps creatures out but lets the wind through.”

Roglan frowned. “A fence?”

“A grate,” Amanderella said. “Strong enough to stop anything with legs, but open enough for the air to pass. We anchor it firmly, mark the path clearly, and put up a sign explaining the danger.”

Botswana brightened. “Oh! I can paint a sign. Something polite but firm. ‘Please Do Not Enter. ‘”

Roglan snorted. “Better than ‘Beware of Boggits’.”

Septimus folded his hands. “A grate is sensible. It preserves the sound while protecting the unwary.”

Amanderella stepped back, listening again to the thin, wavering hum drifting across the heather. “Exactly. The hills may sing, but we must make sure no one tries to join the choir.”

“What do we do with it?” asked Botswana.

Amanderella replied. “We shall make a feature of it.”

Roglan blinked. “A feature?”

Amanderella pointed to the dark curve of the entrance. “Call it the Maw. Put up a strong iron grate to keep creatures out, but leave space for the wind. Visitors will come to see it. They will stand safely outside, listen to the singing, and imagine what lies beneath.”

Botswana’s eyes widened with delight. “Oh! Oh, I could paint a sign! Something tasteful. ‘THE MAW , Gateway to the Singing Hills.’ With perhaps a decorative border of heather.”

Roglan snorted. “Folk love a good name. Better than ‘Old Mine Entrance, Keep Out’.”

Septimus nodded gravely. “Names carry power. ‘The Maw’ suggests depth, mystery, and the unknown, without encouraging foolishness.”

Amanderella added, “And we place a bench nearby. People will sit, listen, and feel they have discovered something ancient.”

Botswana clasped her hands. “A bench! I have one behind the shed. It only wobbles a little.”

Roglan muttered, “Everything behind your shed wobbles.”

Botswana ignored him. “Oh, my dear, this will save the village. People will come from miles around to hear the hills sing and gaze at the Maw.”

Amanderella allowed herself a small, satisfied nod. “Then we had better make it safe, sturdy, and just mysterious enough.”