Bog Myrtle & Peat

A bullock of mine was struck by an adder in June. His knee-joint swelled and the animal was lame for some time afterwards. I gathered him in and saw to the knee, but he wasn’t able to turn the ship around. Some kind of infection settled upon him, and he went off his food. Weeks passed, and he came back and forth to the vet and the gathering pens. At last it seemed like he would make a full recovery, and he showed every sign of progress as the year swung round into September. But after a few cold days and the shock of ice and heavy rain in quick succession, he was suddenly, enormously dead. 

Cows aren’t killed by adders, and I can hardly blame the snake for this catastrophe. It’s likely that all of my beasts have been bitten at one time or another, but in this case the venom seems to have triggered a downward spiral which allowed other, more penetrative ills to win the day. A cold night delivered the coup de grace after twelve weeks of indecisive ailing; it’s the first time I’ve lost a beast in eight years, and I was overdue a shock. 

I might have searched for the corpse for some time in the rushes, but I was led to the spot by ravens. These birds provide a permanent, sonorous backdrop to life in the hills – their calls travel for many miles on the breeze, and even far-off sounds come near when the wind is right. I look up and stare for them, only to find that the croak or whimper of a raven has originated in the smallest speck on the blue horizon. 

So it was thrilling to see ravens up close for a change, no more than twenty yards away and bold as cats on the carrion. I had to wave my stick to drive them off the fallen bullock, and they left with every expression of reluctance and sullenness. Bouncing away between the rocks, they settled on the dyke nearby, blue-black and blinking in a rise of fresh rain. More than just big crows, they were larger and more expressive in every sense, wearing beards and heavy-headed frowns. When one of them shuffled its primary feathers, I imagined a fricative sound like cardboard boxes frayed together. 

They’d had an eye out of the bullock, and opening the face as you or I might open an envelope, they’d also pulled meat from the cheeks as far as the teeth. They were just getting started, and I would have to leave again for the tractor and chains to recover the body. They must have known that my interruption was only temporary, and the glut would surely resume as soon as I left. But when I came back after lunch, they had gone and hadn’t returned.