Hare’s Children

by J.E.Mountney

© J.E.Mountney

Hereward walked home slowly, thinking about the day’s work and the work still to be done. The ploughing was hard, the ground soggy with the spring rains. His horse had thrown a splint and been declared unfit for work. So Hereward, who had been pulling the plough himself, was bone-tired and didn’t notice the shallow depression. He tripped over the cowering leverets, sending one bouncing along the ground squealing for its mother.

Hare heard it and reared up before Hereward who started back, afraid of the huge creature shadowing the land in front of him. He apologised and bowed and scraped and Hare knew he hadn’t meant to hurt the little one. Besides, it was already playing with its litter mates and the incident was forgotten. But he wanted to work a small mischief to remind Hereward to watch his step. He sneezed, once, twice, three times, and the drops of his essence fell about Hereward like rain. And Hare knew him and saw all his thoughts mirrored in the drops.

“Go back to your village,” he said, in a voice like summer thunder. “But know this. I shall lay an obligation on you to atone for your carelessness. The first being you meet, be they old or young, rich or poor, male or female, beautiful or ugly, they will be your mate and you will cleave to each other for ever.”  By this means Hare thought to cause distress to the young man for he had seen his betrothed in the liquid mirror. She was the exquisite daughter of the miller and Hereward was lucky to have landed such a fine catch, although somehow he didn’t feel lucky at all, but rather landed like a wriggling trout himself. But that thought had been a swirling incoherence and Hare had disregarded it.

Hereward trudged onwards with a heavy heart. He might have misgivings about Elfgiva, the miller’s daughter, but what if he met Ricola the crone, looking for herbs, or Branwen the simpleton or even one of the potter’s urchin brood? Elfgiva with her sharp tongue and her disapproving mother would be better than any of those. Pondering these things he fell in with his friend Osric who saw his frown and the downturned corners of his mouth.

“What ails you, Hereward?” he asked. “We have finished work for today, you in your father’s fields and I in mine, and the evening is ours. Leave tomorrow’s troubles till the morning and make merry with me.” Then Hereward told him what Hare had said and how the obligation had been laid on him. Osric, to his surprise, laughed. “Don’t you see,” he said, his eyes shining with amusement and pleasure, “I’m the first being you met on the road home.”

Hereward thought about the obligation and remembered that Hare had mentioned male or female. Osric didn’t seem to mind. Slowly, Hereward smiled.

“Hare laid no obligation on you,” he pointed out. “Are you willing to be bound by my fate?” And Osric laughed again and made it very clear that he was more than willing to be bound.

The village elders, including the miller, were unable to gainsay the obligation laid by Hare and so the two young men clove to each other as mates for the rest of their lives.

And Hare’s leverets played happily in the meadow. Hare was glad he had shown wisdom and he looked fondly on Hereward and Osric. But when he told his wife she boxed his long ears soundly and told him not to get too proud of himself.

“It might have fallen as it did anyway, without your interference,” she said. But Hare knew better, and so did Hereward and Osric

Every year, around the time of the spring ploughing, even after they had grown old and rich and comfortable and had horses to spare, the pair went to the fields and made an offering of fresh grass to Hare and his family, in thanks for the obligation that had rescued Hereward from Elfgiva and Osric from unfulfilled desire.

Hare’s form or nest became a permanent small valley in the farmlands, and was known as the harrowdown even after Hare had been forgotten. And so from then on did those young people of the village who preferred their own sex as mates. They were known as Hare’s children, and until the village itself crumbled there were always offerings of sweet grass in the harrowdown at spring ploughing time.

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