I wrote this short narrative late last year. It follows two (fictional!) people hoping to film Hen Harriers. With current events I thought you might like to see it. I should probably add that neither it is all fictional, from the characters to the events. I hope you enjoy :)
The Morning Sun peered over the gentle ridges of the purple moor, casting an amber glow over the place. John and Annie’s hushed whispers did not radiate from their hide- the only sounds in this rugged and wild landscape were of the gargling Curlew and the mystical Golden Plover. Here, the Weather had a mind of its own. It twisted and turned like a mighty river, changing without warning: gales, snowstorms, hail, torrential rain, wind, scorching sun, clouds, mist, and calm. Storms didn’t slowly brew; they liked to lie in wait before bubbling and boiling unpredictably like a volcano that had laid dormant for hundreds of years. Today’s drizzle began to pat delicately on top of the hide, waking up its residents.
“Morning,” whispered Annie, her curly brown hair falling clumsily to her shoulders as she sat up in her sleeping bag. “Tea?” asked John in reply, his ancient weathered hands fumbling around with tea bags and sugar. Annie was a young Wildlife Film maker, sent to this top secret English location by the BBC. John, who worked for the RSPB, had travelled here with Annie as her aide and guide. As John was busying himself with the stove, Annie began to set up her heavy camera equipment, positioning the lenses through hidden slits in their khaki hide. She moved the equipment with surprising ease for a young woman. The satisfying tinkle of spoons on china echoed through the hide, only to be broken by a much prettier sound. “Listen,” said John, his old head cocked to one side in admiration, “A Lapwing.” The song flooded into their ears, seeming to cascade out the bird’s throat like wine out a bottle. A smile spread along Johns eyes. He always smiled like that, did John. Although his lips never spread into a grin, it was always clear that he was smiling, despite his heavy scarring.
Together, John and Annie’s eyes left the confine of their cramped hide and drifted thorough the hidden slits, into the treeless landscape beyond. They were on the hunt for a phantom-like bird; the Hen Harrier. During the last few days they’d had glimpses of their prize but that was all their sightings were, fleeting glimpses. Although he yearned for more, John thought this was how it should be. Harriers were those special ghosts that shouldn’t be easy to find. Meetings should be exciting, leaving you breathless. Annie however wished for a great view. She was hoping to get the mother of all views by getting footage of a sky dance.
“Look,” cried Annie, her young hands pointing at a distant shape in the sky. “A male, wow!” She panned the camera round and zoomed right in. “It’s starting to hunt,” whispered John as it began to quarter over the heather, turning elegantly yet unpredictably. You’d expect her to struggle to keep up with its agile movements but it was no match for Annie; she was a professional. It pivoted one more time on its silvery wings before dropping down into the undergrowth like a marionette.
It wasn’t long before the Hen Harrier reappeared once more, clutching its prize (a vole) in its sharp yellow talons. It rose into the air but then- bang! The bird fell back down, broken and crumpled. “No!” shouted John and Annie in unison, “it’s been shot!”
“What can we do John? John, please, c’mon we need to do something!”
“Let’s look for the bird and see if we can find the b*****d that did it,” replied John.
“You’ve found him.” Wheeling round John and Annie’s eyes met a silhouette standing in the doorway, a rifle clutched in his hand.