Mummer and Farther had already found some for Mr and Mrs Belderboss and were back at the foot of the dry stone wall looking for more. Miss Bunce and David, who couldn't see the point in any of it, had satisfied themselves with the first pebbles they had laid their hands on and returned to the warmth of the kitchen, where Father Bernard, who had overslept, was hurriedly putting on his boots.

'Morning, Tonto,' he said, coming out with his hair wild at one side and his face black with stubble. 'Happy Easter.'

'Happy Easter, Father.'

Mummer came over. 'I'd try over by the wall if I were you, Father.'

'Right,' he said.

He went off and kicked about in the rubble, eventually selecting a flat block of slate. He held it up to me for approval and I shrugged and he tossed it back and moved on.

With pockets weighed down with stones, we made our way up the lane to the woods. What we'd seen the other night still troubled me and it was obvious that Miss Bunce and David were reluctant to go back as well, but the sky was lightening moment by moment and the trees were coming out of the shadows. It seemed a different place altogether.

Mummer led the way through the field and up behind Moorings, bearing right and heading for Nick's Lane-the treeless stripe that cut through Brownslack Wood as cleanly as if someone had taken a razor and drawn it up the hill. No trees had ever grown there and Mr Belderboss thought that the land must have been poisoned in some way. Hadn't they used lime on their fields around here? Too much of it might have killed off the trees. Farther suggested that by some freak of nature the wind blasted that particular part of the ridge and knocked the trees flat, but neither of their theories seemed any more plausible than the old story about the Devil burning a path through the woods as he left The Loney in a fit of rage the night they strung up Alice Percy.

Mr and Mrs Belderboss were left far behind and by the time they caught up with us on the ridge, the sky had started to lift in the east-the distant Pennines becoming noticeable moment by moment, pale and lavender-coloured in the dawn.

Mummer let her stone drop from her hand and it tumbled down the fellside as she whispered a prayer. Farther did the same and then everyone followed so that there were several rocks bouncing through the ferns and knocking against the limestone shelves, rousing pheasants and curlews from their sleep.

Hanny was tugging at my sleeve and pointing.

'What is it?' I whispered.

He went down the hillside a little and beckoned me to follow him.

'What's the matter, Hanny?'

'What has he seen?' said Mummer.

Hanny went off, wading through the ferns. Mummer called him back but he didn't respond.

'Stay here,' said Farther. 'I'll fetch him.'

Farther went after Hanny, following the trail he had cut through the undergrowth, calling to him. Hanny turned around once or twice, but was determined to get to whatever he had seen from the ridge.

Way down the hill, he stopped. Farther caught up with him a minute later and he looked at what Hanny had found. He waved and called for Father Bernard and me to come.

Before we got within twenty yards of Farther, he raised his hand to keep us quiet, never taking his eyes off the thing by his feet.

'What is it?' Father Bernard said.

'Look,' said Farther.

A pregnant ewe was there in the ferns, its eyes yellow and wild, possessed by the ancient hormones that had driven it to hoof out a nest in the soil and lie down.

'Is it alright, Father?'

'Aye, I think so.'

Father Bernard knelt down and put his hand on the ewe's belly, hushing it when it jerked suddenly and scuffled in the mud.

'There now,' he said softly.

'Did you keep sheep, Father? On your farm?'

'We'd a few, aye.'

The ewe raised its head a few times and then laid it down on the ground. In the cold of the early morning, its hot breath hung around its nose and mouth.

'It's breathing hard isn't it?' said Farther.

'Aye, well look,' said Father Bernard. 'She's at her time.'

He moved around to its rear end, where a hoof protruded, then another, before the lamb's nose appeared, opening and closing behind the water sac. He edged a little closer and put his hand on the ewe's side, stroking its fleece with his thumb.

'It won't be long now,' he said.

The ewe looked at us with its black keyhole eyes and stiffened its legs as its stomach bulged. It gave a loud bray as its body shuddered in the final contractions that squeezed out the lamb in a steaming discharge.

It lay there, tarred and feathered by its mother's gunk and the dead ferns, shivering and convulsing as it tried to breathe.

Father Bernard ripped up a few leaves and scrubbed the lamb with them, breaking the caul that had been covering its face. It opened its mouth to cry and tried to stand and then lay down again, bleating feebly. Father Bernard took hold of the lamb and pulled it around so that it lay in front of its mother's face. The ewe lifted her head and began to lick.

Mummer and the rest of them had appeared by this time, having taken the path that wound down the hillside, and stood around watching. Miss Bunce held her nose and David's hand. Mr Belderboss crossed himself.

'G.o.d be praised,' he said. 'Is it alright?'

Father Bernard nodded.

The ewe had got up and wandered away from us into the bracken. After a few attempts, the lamb followed on its crumpled legs and began its first tottering steps, crying out with a little red spike of a tongue. The ewe called and the lamb went to it, ramming at her udders.

'Father Bernard saved its life,' said Farther.

'I did nothing so heroic, Mr Smith. His mammy would have got rid of the caul herself right enough. I just didn't want to see the poor lad struggling.'

'First those b.u.t.terflies,' said Mrs Belderboss. 'And now this. G.o.d couldn't have sent us a more obvious sign. And Andrew finding it as well. Wonderful things are going to happen at the shrine, Esther.'

'If only Wilfred were here,' said Mr Belderboss. 'He'd have had quite a take on all this, wouldn't he? He had that way about him, didn't he? Of knowing just what to say.'

'He did,' said Mrs Belderboss. 'It's a rare gift, isn't it, Father?'

'Aye it is that,' Father Bernard replied.

'Do you remember the outing we had to the Fens that weekend?' said Mr Belderboss.

Everyone nodded and exchanged knowing smiles. Mrs Belderboss touched her husband on the arm.

'There was that terrific thunderstorm wasn't there, Reg?'

'Oh, Lord yes. Almost apocalyptic it was, Father,' Mr Belderboss laughed.

'We were all stuck in that bird hide,' said Mrs Belderboss. 'Do you remember?'

'Golden Orioles,' said Mr Belderboss.

'Sorry?' said Father Bernard.

'We were looking at the Golden Orioles.'

'They have the most beautiful song,' said Mrs Belderboss.

'Like someone playing a flute,' Mr Belderboss added.

'Well,' said Mrs Belderboss. 'We hadn't seen one all day, had we? And then when the storm came, one started singing its heart out, didn't it? It never stopped, right through all the thunder and lightning. And Father Wilfred got us all to kneel down and pray. What was that bit from Saint John he read, Reg?'

'Oh, don't ask me,' he said. 'I've got no memory for that sort of thing.'

'A voice of one calling in the wilderness?' Father Bernard suggested.

'Yes, that was it, Father,' said Mrs Belderboss. 'He said that we had to keep on singing like that little bird no matter what befell us in life.'

The Christmas of 1975 came and went and Father Wilfred performed his duties at Ma.s.s but, as Mr Belderboss had said, he seemed to have retreated from the world. When the service was over he didn't lecture us anymore. He barely spoke a word before he was off to the presbytery where he shut himself away until he was next required. Miss Bunce came and made him his meals but left immediately afterwards. He no longer went to visit the sick, or took communion to the housebound. If anyone called he wouldn't answer. People began to worry about him again as they had done at The Loney.

It was only when his diary went missing that we saw something of his former self.

The Sunday after Christmas Day was the Feast of the Holy Innocents. Mr Belderboss had read the lesson from Matthew and Father Wilfred had given a long sermon about the reasons why the children slaughtered by Herod had been martyred, though it drifted off into incoherent mumbles from time to time, and it sounded as if he was talking to himself rather than the congregation.

Afterwards, we were getting changed in the vestry, when Father Wilfred came out of the office in a foul temper.

'Where is it?' he said, looking from me to Henry to Paul.

'Where's what, Father?' said Paul.

'My book.'

'Your book?' said Paul.

'You're starting to sound like a parrot, Peavey. Yes. My book. I left it in the office by mistake. Where has it gone?'

'What did it look like, Father?'

'Black,' he said. 'A black diary.'

'I don't know, Father,' said Paul. 'Henry was the last one in the office.'

'McCullough,' said Father Wilfred.

'I haven't got it,' Henry said, looking at Paul who smiled and hung up his ca.s.sock.

'But Peavey says you were in the office.'

'I was cleaning the sink, like you told me to.'

Father Wilfred grasped his elbow. 'Do you know what a syllogism is, McCullough?'

'No, Father.'

'It's a form of deductive a.n.a.lysis. A method of coming to a logical conclusion about something.'

'Eh?'

'My book has gone missing from the office. You were the last person in the office. Therefore you have the book.'

'But I don't, Father. I've never seen it before.'

'I should check his coat pockets, Father,' said Paul.

'Be quiet, Peavey,' said Father Wilfred. 'Of course I'll check his pockets. Where is your coat, McCullough?'

Henry pointed to the back of the door, but his coat was gone.

'I left it there,' he said, his mouth quivering a little now, knowing that Paul had set him up.

'Well it isn't there now, is it, McCullough?'

'No, Father.'

'So where is it?' he said, shaking Henry's arm.

'I don't know. It wasn't me, Father,' Henry said, pointing at Paul. 'It's him. He's trying to get me into trouble.'

Father Wilfred suddenly gripped Henry by the collar and turned him to face me.

'Proverbs, Smith,' said Father Wilfred.

'Sorry, Father?'

'Tell McCullough the things set out in Proverbs. The things that Our Lord hates above all others.'

'Pride?'

'Yes.'