Oxfordshire Folktales Read Free Page B

a good memory had been forged on its flanks, and passed down the generations, making the young ‘uns especially keen to have their own ‘experience’.
    The cider, the music, the stars – all swirled in her mind. Betty felt like she could float off, but John’s arms softly held her to the earth. His gentle words soothed her, his rough hand smoothing her hair.
    As he cradled her in his arms, John told her how on moonlit nights just like this, the Horse would come down to feed in the Manger – the meadow in the hollow of the hill beneath them. This made Betty shiver and she was glad of his strong arms around her. It had been a rich day in many ways – she’d had a bit too much to eat and drink, and her head was whirling as she found herself slipping into a deep slumber, the sound of Uffington Fair drifting on the night air.

    * * *

    The distant beat of the drums carried her deep into the hillside which seemed to open up and swallow her, until she felt like the land itself. She felt the stirring of every living thing – beetle and ladybird, mole and vole, rabbit and hare, fox and badger, swine and stag – moving above her and inside her. So much life! Sowing and growing, mating and decaying – an endless cycle that stretched back a long, long time.
    The drumming became the thudding of horse hooves, and suddenly she was above ground, galloping along – a white horse, as pale as moonlight! She ran free across the Downs, along the Ridgeway, its ancient paths glowing in the silver light. Whinnying with joy, she came out onto the open land above the White Horse – which, strangely, was not there. Only a clean swathe of grass could be seen. Her nostrils quivered and she snorted a plume of breath. The landscape was the same, but different. The Castle was surrounded by a palisade of sharpened timbers, dark spikes against the lights of a village inside. The strong wooden gates creaked open and out processed a line of people holding torches, led by drummers and priests and priestesses in white robes, adorned by oak leaves and flowers. They made their way to the side of the hill and the drumming suddenly fell silent.
    As one, they watched as the moon rose in her fullness, flooding the Manger with unearthly light. The robed ones began to speak in a strange tongue that sounded vaguely familiar.
    Betty could catch the odd word, which echoed in the back of her mind like a pebble dropped in a deep well. They turned to her and for a moment she was frightened, thinking they had spotted her, the trespasser; but they hailed her by a strange name: ‘Epona!’ The tribe came forward and placed offerings at her feet – the bounty of the land. And then the priesthood oversaw the cutting of the turf. By their direction, the shape of the Horse was carved out of the hillside, revealing the chalk beneath. The design was stylised and elegant, and resembled the intricate ornaments some wore, or the tattoos revealed as men stripped down to their waists to work on the Horse. Finally, it was complete and the moon-glow bestowed upon it an unearthly sentience. Betty felt the spirit of her horse pour into it. The Goddess was happy and lay upon the bed they had prepared for her. She felt soothed by the songs the tribe sang, the fellowship that flowed around the gathering – a circle of love, binding them together.

    * * *

    Betty awoke, blinking, yawning and rubbing her eyes. The ghost of the sun could be sensed through the mist, which lay like a white sea over the Vale. Somewhere, a cock crowed and around her lay the huddled shapes of villagers, looking like no more than bundles of clothes by smouldering fires.
    She was a little disorientated at first, and unsettled by her vivid dream. But it was all right. John still held her in his solid arms, snoring lightly.
    Below her, the White Horse of Uffington lay; a reassuring permanence on the landscape. It was old, very old, and yet it had survived. The people of the Vale of the White Horse had