Chapter 7: The White Hare
Thursday morning.
"Pratt!"
Martin was startled. The waiting room was empty and it was unlike Morwenna to tease him in that way. Back when Pauline was his receptionist he wouldn't put it past her to "take the piss" by calling him a prat, but not Morwenna.
"What?"
"Phil Pratt. You know, lives out by your aunt's farm." She held out the file. "You've got a light schedule this morning. You've got time to make a house call."
Martin groaned. "Is this a genuine medical emergency?"
"Well, he said he's too ill to drive and his partner left him so even if it's not an emergency it's the kind thing to do. Anyway, you know he's the one who wants to sell his farm for the outlet mall. This could be your chance to talk him out of it.
He took the file and reluctantly went to get his medical bag and car keys.
Martin knew the way to Pratt's farm. It adjoined Havenhurst Farm, where he had spent many happy holidays with his late Aunt Joan as a child and which Aunt Ruth had later turned into an unsuccessful B&B. He also remembered this man Pratt as, well, a bit of a prat. His wife was Joan's friend, Martin had attended her when she died. The husband afterward developed a grudge toward Martin and Joan both, becoming careless with the application of chemical fertilizers on his land and endangering the organic status of Joan's vegetables. It wasn't until the man suffered a terrible accident, with Martin coming to his rescue, that the truth came out. He had acted on his homosexual impulses with the younger man who made the fertilizer deliveries, his wife found out, and he felt guilty that the shock might have been what killed her. He had channelled that guilt into anger at Martin over his wife's death. Then Pratt thought his wife might have confided his secret to Joan so he made her the scapegoat for his anger too.
The Lexus turned into the drive marked by a faded sign with the place's formal name, "Coneyhurst Farm," and a curious symbol that looked like three rabbits chasing each other in a circle, with their ears joined in the centre.
At the farmhouse Martin got out and knocked at the door. A man answered, about 40 years old, looking like a younger version of the old farmer. "Dr. Ellingham? I'm Ron Pratt. My Dad's upstairs."
"Hm. I was unaware he had a son."
"Been living up north for years now. Got a good job, wife and kids. I grew up here, but I always knew I wasn't cut out for the farming life. Teaching maths suits me better. My Dad never quite forgave me for that. I haven't been home in donkey's years, well except for my Mum's funeral. Are you, um, the doctor that took care of Dad when the cultivator fell on him?"
"Yes, I am."
"I want to thank you for saving him then. So you must know about…"
"Hm?"
"My father. He was devoted to my Mum but he, er, began to get in touch with his inner feelings… later in life. I take it he didn't want to admit that at first."
"You're referring to his same-sex attraction. Reluctance to acknowledge that is not unusual for men of his generation."
Ron seemed relieved the topic was out in the open. "Yeah, my Dad isn't exactly the type to speak about his feelings. Anyway, after Mum was gone he had a relationship with the bloke who delivered the fertilizer for a while but it didn't last. He was feeling depressed and lonely so I took a leave of absence from work and came back to look after him."
"I hope that isn't why you called me out here. Depressed and lonely isn't exactly a medical emergency."
"No, he's got a fever and a rash, and he's been a bit, I don't know… delirious, going on about hares. It's this old family legend, you see."
Martin did not see what that had to do with anything, but he followed the man upstairs to where Pratt was lying in the same bedroom where Martin had attended the wife in her last moments years before.
He examined the man, noting his face was red and swollen, and feeling for hard lumps in his neck and armpits. "Lethargic, high fever." He pushed up the sleeves of the patient's pyjamas for a better look at the angry red lesions on his arms. "Hmmm. I need to take a blood sample. It's possibly ulceroglandular tularaemia."
"What's that, Doc?" the old man asked. His voice was tired and gravely.
"Sometimes known as rabbit fever." Martin took out a syringe, swabbed the man's arm and drew the sample, looking away with a slightly pained expression. "It's very unusual around here. Have you been travelling abroad lately?"
"Dad's never been abroad. He doesn't like to go farther than Delabole," the son said.
"Rabbit fever," Pratt murmured. "So you get it from rabbits?"
"It's more typically spread by ticks or rodents, but yes rabbits or hares can spread it too."
"The White Hare," Pratt said.
"The what?"
"The White Hare. It's come for me at last."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's that old family legend I mentioned," the son said. He motioned for Martin to step out to the hall to discuss it.
"The Pratts have farmed here for over 300 years," he said. "Back in my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather's day, there was supposedly a white witch that lived in Portwenn, named Gwynn Conyna. Old fifth-great Granddad was a wealthy fish merchant. He used to send his crews off to catch pilchard and then sell it down in Brittany where the Catholics would eat it on Fridays. He made more money that way, you see."
Martin was growing impatient, wondering if there was a point to this.
"One year there was a terrible drought here in the village, and folks were on the verge of starvation. Then a storm forced his fishing boats to turn back to the harbour so they couldn't sell their catch. The villagers thought he'd sell to them but he said it was worth more to him to take the fish up to the family farm, this land right here, and plough it into the fields as fertilizer. The farm has its own spring that was still flowing then and he figured he'd plant some barley and be able to sell it at a good price since everyone else's crops were failing. Gwynn Conyna came out here to plead with him on behalf of the villagers to allow them to buy the fish but he wouldn't listen, he just laughed at her. So she cursed him."
Plough the soil, beware the White Hare.
Each third generation will reap despair.
Once in her path you stray
She will steal your soul away
Come upon her in the gloom
Then find your way to the tomb.
Martin scoffed.
"I know, ridiculous, right? But the story says Old Great Granddad went ahead and ploughed the field, then a week later a white hare with red eyes darted in front of his horse, it got spooked and threw him. They carried him into the house, to this very same bedroom where my Dad lies now, and he died the next morning. The family fortunes declined, then three generations later the family had given up on fishing and had some tin mines going on the farm by then. A mysterious white hare with red eyes started turning up and nibbling in the barley field. Great-Great-Granddad chased it with his dogs and his gun, but he tripped and fell down an uncapped mine shaft. They found him at the bottom, his neck broken. That's where the three hares symbol comes from."
"The what? Oh the, uh, sign at the end of the drive."
"That's right. Mum was into all these old legends, so she had that sign done up. The three hares is an old symbol for tin miners, among other things. Mum liked how it related to the family legend."
"You don't really believe in all this, do you?"
"I heard this story all through my childhood, but no I don't believe it, Doc. I'm a man of numbers and facts. But the thing is, my Dad believes and he's the one who's ill now, isn't he. He's the next third generation. He said he first saw the white hare the other day, glaring at him with red eyes. It's been chewing up his vegetable garden ever since. He said he even fired his shotgun at it, had it dead in his sights, but it ran off unharmed."
"Have you seen this creature?"
"No, but Dad swears it's out there. It's why he's so determined to sell the farm now. He feels it's the only way to end the family curse, for us to just finally give up the land after all these generations. Look, I live in the real world, there actually isn't any family member left interested in keeping the farm going once Dad is gone."
"Hm. You know there are many of us here who feel it's a foolish course of action for him to take. It's going to irrevocably change the character of the village."
"I tend to agree with you Doc, I may have moved away but I still have fond memories of quaint old Portwenn. But my Dad's bound and determined, and this developer bloke is offering us silly money for the land. It's hard to resist."
Martin scowled. "In any case, albinism is a naturally occurring genetic condition that prevents an animal from producing melanin. It could easily be a coincidence that every century or so such an animal could be born in this area but it would lack the natural camouflage to avoid predators so it wouldn't survive long. I'm sure what your father has seen is nothing more than an individual rabbit or hare with this condition. What he needs is a blood test and a course of antibiotics."
He wrote out the prescription, tore it off his pad, and left it with the younger Pratt.
To be continued…