The Fellside Miracle

Flash Fiction from the Vault

Yorkshire, God’s own county, so those living among the green rolling hills often claimed. Jake limped along the tarmac surface, hard and unforgiving, his loyal Border Collie, Shep, trotting at his feet. A stile crossed a dry stone wall. Shep needed no help over. Ahead, a track that wound up the steep fellside. Not every hill rolled. Some rose tall, their sides broken by rocky slopes, bracken and heather. Jake’s disability challenged him each day. He pressed into a quick walk, leaning on his stick, pushing forward—a run beyond his limits. The pair skirted an old farm, limestone and slate weathered and mottled by moss and lichen. Past the bank barn, its ramp to the upper floor, and left the better grazing for the rough fell land.

Shep, ever attentive, keen—his eyes, like any good sheepdog, caught every movement.

Jake grinned. “We’re on a mission, aren’t we, boy?”

With his stick for support, Jake climbed, his breath strong despite the effort. He endured pain from his troublesome hip as he scrambled upwards. “Maybe we’ll find it today, Shep. Them beggars stole it tha’ knows, hid it. Though it a clever trick, aye they laughed. That’s how wazzacks are.”

Shep said nothing. He gazed from his perch and bounded on. “Not our first try is it?”

Not every day, just too many.

Dark clouds gathered overhead. The wind picked up, and the chill bit. A rumble of thunder caught Jake by surprise. “BBC knows nowt about it.” Lightning flashed, and he spied a small cairn, then something below it: a ghostly shape, a crack in the ground, as the storm cracked above, nearer this time. His soul leapt not in fear or dread, as the first drops splashed, but in joy, because he glimpsed the prize. His grandfather’s shepherd’s crook, an heirloom wrought from local hawthorn, topped by a ram’s horn welded to the stave. Hidden here.

Rain slicked the rocks, and Jake’s foot slipped as he descended—using both sticks to regain his balance.

Shep spun as a young man approached. His sudden appearance caught even the dog by surprise, as if out of nowhere, descending the fell. He waved at Jake and Shep. “Are you okay?” Hands and boots scrabbled on the scree, dislodging rocks as he came to a stop.

“Just trying to stay on my feet. Don’t want to go arse over tip.”

The lad reached across. “Here, take my arm.”

Jake handed his stick over to the youth. “You ’ave it.” He kept his grandfather’s crook. “Now we each have yan.”

They made their way down the hillside, two men and the dog. At the fell wall, before the high pasture, Jake caught his breath. Above, a dramatic play of lightning flashed. He turned to thank the lad, but he saw no one at all. “Shep, did thee see where ee’s garn?”

Shep tilted his head, giving him a quizzical eye.

“Hello!” Jake shouted, but the wind carried no answer. He huffed. “Beggar took my stick.” He stopped himself, looking at the prize, the crook. “He’s welcome to it, I reckon.”

Jake and Shep wandered to the barn below, following the green track. Jake limped because he always did, then something miraculous happened: he realised the pain that plagued his hip no longer gripped him. With each step the ache eased, his gait loosened, and so did his limp. Jake quickened his pace. “Shep, that lad, he can’t have been any ordinary fella. This is his doing, that’s for sure.”

Jake broke into a run and a grin. “Never the doctors told me mam, never they said, he’ll not do it. Look at me, Shep, I’m running!”

The rain didn’t matter. The water fell. He stretched his arms, baptised anew.

At the stile they reached the main road. Here, Jake paused and gazed back at the weather-drenched hill, lost in the storm. “Shep, we’ve found more than just this shepherd’s crook.”

Shep barked.

Together they walked their Yorkshire Dales. “Granddad always said God’s a Yorkshireman.”