Hay Festival 2012: Jugged Hare: a new story by War Horse author Michael Morpurgo "Huh," I said, "I'm not frightened of ghosts. I can't sleep. Just wanted to read, that's all. All right, so you're not frightened of ghosts. But maybe you're a bit frightened of the dark then," he went on. Don't be, there's no need, honestly. I'll look after you. He was like that, my brother, always kind - so kind sometimes, it drove me mad. "I'm not frightened of the dark," I said. I'm not frightened of anything. It was me who climbed that tree yesterday. Right to the very top. You didn't dare, did you? Scared of heights. I mean if I dared you, right now, to climb out of that window, sit on the ledge, and count to a hundred, I bet you wouldn't do it, would you? "I might," he replied. "Go on then," I said. I dare you. "All right, I'll do it," he said, getting out of bed, "but on one condition. Afterwards, I can dare you back. And whatever I dare you, Mikey, you've got to do it. Deal? He didn't seem at all nervous, and that worried me. But I couldn't back out now. "Promise," I said. He didn't hesitate. He climbed up on to the window sill, opened the window, squeezed himself out, sat there on the ledge, folded his arms, and started counting. He was soon back in bed with me. "Cold," he said, snuggling down under the blankets. But anyway, while I was out there, I thought of a dare for you. Here's what you've got to do - and without turning any lights on, mind. Go downstairs to the larder, and get us a peppermint humbug each - y'know, from the sweet tin on the top shelf. "That's stealing," I said. "So?" my brother replied. We're always stealing stuff from the larder, what's the problem? He knew my problem of course. The problem was that everywhere in the house it would be dark and full of ghosts. For me, that was just as terrifying as having to walk through a pit of snakes, or swim across a river full of crocodiles. But then I thought to myself, it's all right, you can turn on the lights, no one will see, you'll be fine. "Easy peasy," I said. But, as if he'd read my mind, Ant immediately scotched my plan. You've got to promise, Mikey. No lights. You mustn't turn on any lights. Cross your heart and hope to die. I had no choice. I promised, crossed my heart. I had to. There was no way now that I could cheat - not that I was honourable, or anything like it, just deeply superstitious. So there I was a few moment later, scared stiff, standing at the bottom of the attic staircase in pitch darkness. I tiptoed past my mother's room, felt my way down the winding stairs into the sitting room, past the armchairs towards the kitchen door. And all the while the ghosts were right there watching me - creaking, groaning, rattling. I was sure they were after me. It was all I could do to stop myself screaming. As I reached for the latch on the larder door I couldn't stand the darkness any longer. By now I didn't care about my promise to Ant. I didn't care about all that crossing my heart and dying. I reached for the light switch inside the door, and turned it on, my heart thumping in my ears. No ghosts. But there was something. And it was infinitely more terrible and terrifying than any ghost. Dangling there, just above my head was a rabbit or a hare, dead. It was hanging by its feet from a hook, blood dripping from its nose, bulging eyes staring down at me. I couldn't move, I could only scream. The whole house came running. Within moments, it seemed, Ant was there, and then Mum and Dad. Prynne, our black-coated retriever, was barking from the laundry room where he slept. Dad was firing questions at me. What on earth are you doing down here in the middle of the night? Why aren't you in bed? Were you after the sweet tin again? Ant said nothing. I said nothing. That was one thing we were good at, not ratting on one another. I made up a story. I said I'd come down to get a drink of milk and that's why I'd gone into the larder. Mum had her arm around me, wiping away my tears. "You poor boy, it must have been a terrible shock," she said. "Lot of fuss about nothing," Dad said. It's only a hare for goodness sake. A bunch of sissies, you are. Mum explained all about the hare as she took us back up to bed. "Mr Warren brought it in for us," she said. You know, the farmer out by the sea wall, big fat chap with mutton-chop whiskers and a voice like a foghorn, the one you hear louder than anyone else in church. He shot it. It was a sort of present for your dad. He told us we've got to hang it for a day or two more before we cook it. And his wife has given me a recipe - jugged hare, she calls it. Dad says he'll skin it tomorrow, and then we can have it for Sunday lunch. "I'm not eating that," I told her. It's disgusting. "Nor me," said Ant. "I'll make it delicious, don't you worry," she said. You'll love it. Back in our beds, Ant and I couldn't sleep, but now it wasn't the wind or the ghosts that were keeping us awake - all that had been forgotten about. It was the hare. We couldn't stop thinking about him and talking about him, and the more we talked, the more we convinced ourselves that a murder had been committed. That hare had been a wild and beautiful creature and shot to death for no good reason. We were quite sure of one thing: that neither of us could ever bring ourselves to eat him. It was Ant's brilliant idea. "Why don't we cut him down?" he said. We can bury him in the orchard, put a cross over his grave. Let's do it now, while it's still dark, while everyone's asleep. So we stole down the stairs to the larder, avoiding all the creaking floor boards. Ant switched on the light. I didn't want to look, but somehow I couldn't stop myself. It made me sick to my stomach. "I'll get him down," Ant whispered. He did everything. I just stood there and watched, full of revulsion, as he got a chair and a knife from the kitchen, climbed up and cut the hare down. "Here, Mikey, you take him," he said, holding him out to me. I shook my head and backed away. "He's dead," Ant said. He can't hurt you. Take him for a minute, while I get down. So I held the dead hare in my arms, trying not to feel his deadness, the cold damp of his fur, the stiffness of him. The only way I could do it was to imagine what he'd been like when he was alive. I'd seen a hare only once, watched him out on a ploughed field near the sea wall. At first I'd thought he was a rabbit, but he was too brown, his ears were too long. When I clapped my hands, he ran off. He seemed to be flying over the ground, his feet barely touching it. I was breathless with admiration at his power and his speed and his grace. It was this memory that made me want to go on holding him as we walked out through the laundry room to the back door. Prynne insisted on coming with us. He'd have barked his head off if we'd left him behind, and we didn't want that. He kept jumping up at me, and sniffing at the hare. As I walked out into the orchard that night, it occurred to me that this might be the very same hare I had seen that day by the sea wall. Ant was digging the hole, and I could feel the blood sticky on my fingers. It was heartbreak I was feeling now, not revulsion any more. When the time came I couldn't bring myself to lay him down. Ant did it for me. We covered him with the cold damp earth, folded the turf over, and pressed it down. I found a small twig on the ground that did for a cross. We stood for a moment over the place, and then left him there. Ant took my hand and we crept back to the house. Neither of us spoke a word to one another till we were back in bed, but all the while something was worrying me. What are we going to say, Ant, when they find out? "I've thought of that," he replied. We'll blame it on Prynne. He jumped up and pulled him down. He's always thieving stuff out of the larder, isn't he? Remember that pork pie he ate? It was true. Prynne was a thief with a long criminal record. It was a good idea. As it turned out we didn't need to say anything. When we came downstairs for breakfast the next morning we could hear Dad blowing his top about Prynne. No good as a gun dog, no good as a guard dog. He's just a lousy thief. I was looking forward to that jugged hare too. Ruddy dog. When we came into the kitchen Prynne was cowering in his basket, blinking with guilt and contrition at Dad's every word. Mum, I noticed, was saying nothing, which was odd, because she was always getting furious with Prynne, for running off, for stealing, for making a mess. Ant asked innocently what was up, and Dad ranted on again about Prynne, while Mum just busied herself about the kitchen. Then suddenly Dad rounded on us. That dog didn't open the door by himself, did he? Which of you left the kitchen door open?" he demanded. One of you did. Mum spoke up for the first time. "Don't blame them," she said, "it was probably me. Maybe I didn't latch it properly last night. It's easily done. It doesn't matter that much. Doesn't matter? Dad raged. But then he seemed lost for words. He stormed out, leaving the three of us alone. For a while Mum said nothing more. She brought us our porridge in silence, poured out our milk in silence. Then she sat down opposite us and sipped her tea, looking at us over the top of her cup. "That Prynne," she said, "he's a mighty clever dog. Do you know what he must have done? The hare was still hanging in the larder when I went up to bed last night. I know he was. I saw him there. And I didn't leave the door open. Do you know, that dog must have opened the laundry-room door, then the larder door, jumped up, cut the string - I've had a good look and it was definitely cut. Then he must have carried the hare out of the house, unlocking the back door and opening it as he went. Now that is a clever dog, a very, very clever dog. Something wrong with your porridge this morning, boys? You're not eating. I didn't dare speak. "We didn't want to eat it, Mum," Ant said. "I know, neither did I really," she said, smiling at us. But don't tell your father. We'd just better hope he doesn't find out, eh? It must have been a week or so later. We were all of us out in the garden making a bonfire of branches and twigs from a tree that had come down in a storm, when Prynne came trotting across the lawn, tail high and wagging and proud, and dragging something heavy. It was the carcase of the hare - or what was left of it anyway. Dad hurled abuse at him, and a stick or two as well. Prynne dropped his prize and ran off, tail between his legs. The hare ended up on the bonfire on the Fifth of November, which in a way wasn't so bad because, as Ant said in bed that night, at least he had a proper funeral - a funeral fit for a hero. We found two of the hare's teeth in the ashes later and kept them in the Cadbury's tin under Ant's bed with all our other secret treasures: a grass snake skin, a blackbird's skull and our most prized possession, a bright blue kingfisher's feather we'd found among the bulrushes out on the marshes. And that was the end of it. Mum kept our secret and Prynne did too of course. All was well that ended well - we thought. But then one Sunday afternoon a few weeks later I saw Mr Warren's car pull up at our gate. With his loud booming voice, we heard very clearly what he was saying to Mum: "Met your husband in the pub, and he told me what happened to that hare I gave him. Bally thief dog. Needs a good hiding. Anyway, got to put that right, I thought. Can't shoot the dog, more's the pity, but I can bring in another hare for you. Shot it a couple of days ago. Just hang it for a week till he's good and smelly. Jugged hare. Your husband says it's his favourite. Can't stand it myself, I just like shooting the beggars. Got it in the car. Shall I fetch it? There was a moment when Mum could have refused, but Dad came out of the house, and it was too late. For a week the poor creature hung in our larder. Neither Ant nor I went near the sweet tin. Mum cooked him the next Sunday. A sickly smell wafted through the house all morning. Ant and I knew there was no way we could eat him. Strangely, we both caught the same sudden stomach bug, and lay on our beds, clutching our bellies and groaning in agony, until even Dad was convinced we were really ill. Mum made us have milk of magnesia, which was horrible, but not as horrible as jugged hare. That afternoon, after their lunch was over, we told them we felt much better, that we wanted to go for a walk. We were tramping together along the sea wall. The late afternoon sun was shining through the clouds and lit up the ploughed field by the old Saxon chapel. And there, right beside it, we spotted two hares playing with one another, running around in crazy circles, up on their hind legs, boxing. We stood and watched. It was the finest sight I ever saw. To buy Michael Morpurgo: From War Child to War Horse edited by Maggie Fergusson (Fourth Estate, £18.99) at a discounted price, call 0844 871 1515 or go to books.telegraph.co.uk