His name was Mortimer. We didn't know if that was his first or last name. Just Mortimer. Never Mr Mortimer and never ever simply Mort. He was just Mortimer. He arrived in our village one day, taking over the run down cottage near the blacksmith, around the corner from the High Street. As you will have guessed, he didn't talk much. In fact he didn't seem to talk at all, except when he bought a few items in the shop. And then he seemed polite enough, and would nod hello to the other customers on his way in or out. It was said he inherited the cottage from his uncle who had recently died, and it had stood empty for the thirteen months since the last tenant left.

               Mortimer was a big man, at least physically; well built and not at all plump. Stout in the proper use of the word would sum him up nicely. His clothes suggested he had always been an agricultural worker and his red face and scarred weather-beaten hands as much as confirmed this. He looked like he was in his mid-50s, but he hadn't gone to seed like many do well before that age; like yours truly for instance. And truth be told he must have been quite a handsome lad. But some of the villagers assumed his lack of speech implied he was a bit slow up top, but it was just as likely for him to be shy. And to his credit he didn't use his physique like some did, brawling on a Saturday night after the pubs closed, or to intimidate others. In fact I don't think Mortimer drank at all. He just settled into the cottage, burned some old stuff out in the garden, cleaned the windows and started to tend the kitchen garden. That with the chickens he kept seemed to fill most of his needs. He didn't do any work as such, not paid work like the rest of us, so perhaps that uncle also left him some money too. He wasn't work-shy though. He put quite a few hours a day into that garden, and chopping wood. He would give some of the logs to others, especially the older villagers when he would leave them by their back doors. And when he saw anybody needing an extra pair of hands he would join in. One day Jones the Bread was trying to move some old furniture out of his house. Mortimer walked straight up, put his big arms around this huge oak wardrobe and picked it up like it was made of feathers. Put it right onto the wagon without drawing an extra breath. And when Nate Evan's old cart broke a wheel Mortimer just sidled over, and lifted that end of the cart while they fixed a new one. Folks thanked him of course, but Mortimer just nodded at them and went on his business.

               I told you Mortimer kept chickens didn't I? Well he would also set up a few traps for rabbits at the edge of Ffrith Woods, near the river. And boyo, wasn't he good at them? I would watch him set the trap, but when Mortimer had moved on, I would have go and a look and still not be able to see a trap when I knew exactly where it was; them creatures didn't stand a chance. A little noose that would tighten as soon as a rabbit got caught in it. The more they struggled the tighter the noose. And the noose would be positioned so it was the always the rabbit’s head that got caught, so it was all over very quick. Mortimer made himself a bit of cash selling some of his catch to the shop. Or rather he got some credit, as he would come in with five of them, holding them head down by the back feet, dripping blood on the floor, and leave them on the counter with a polite nod. Next day he would be in the shop for a bag of flour, and Gwyn behind the counter would just say "that’s okay Mortimer", and Mortimer would again give his polite nod.

               Now many folk do not know the difference between a rabbit and a hare. Town folk I am talking about. But to us out here in the fields there is a world of difference. If Mortimer can trap rabbits down at the Woods near the river, you can bet you won't see a hare there ever. If you want to see one of these you should go up the hill the other side of the valley, Mynnedd Mawr. No trees here, and few bushes, but plenty of cover for a hare. You startle one and he will run and turn and run and almost disappear. But you know she is hidden almost flat on the ground, or even in a little dig she prepared earlier. Some dead grass or bracken gives more than enough cover for a hare, and you know that while you can't see her she can see you. But that’s alright because there is a big difference between a rabbit and a hare. Rabbit meat is good enough for any meal, but few enjoy hare meat. Well those posh folks up at the Hall do, but they let the animal hang for two or three weeks before she gets cooked. By then it’s often going right off and I feel sorry for the kitchen girl that has to prepare it for the table. But none of us down here in the village like hare meat. It’s too dark and tough; some even say unwholesome, and I wouldn't disagree with that. I have been told that hare does make a good broth though, called cyue. But it’s not made with the meat or bones. You use the innards and the blood, and there's plenty of blood in a hare they say. Don't let it boil; just simmer away in the pot for a couple of hours. One chap over at Llanystrad said there's some who will swear that cyue will keep you good looking. We all laughed at this and said in that case you need to be good looking to start with.

               Now most us in the village know the Bible. When we were kids it was the only book in the house to read, and in school we all learned to read using the Bible. And there in Leviticus it tells us that the hare should not be eaten. She's listed along with the pig, camel and hyrax, whatever those are! At school I asked about this as pork was a real treat for us, but Miss Gwillam told me not to ask impertinent questions. When I was older realised she didn't have an answer for this, and so I asked that new minister, a real educated chap they said, after chapel one Sunday Well he knew the answer, but used too many big words and I was none the wiser.

               Anyway as long as I can enjoy my sausages for Sunday morning breakfast and not have to eat hare meat I will be happy. But Mortimer must have enjoyed his hare meat for he was often catching one. But only on certain days; around the full moon. Why then? Well people have two explanations for this. Poachers don't like to go out on a full moon night because it makes them easier to spot, out there on the hills with no cover. But catching hares up on Mynnedd Mawr isn't poaching see. To catch a hare you need that full moon so you can see her. If its pitch black you don't stand a chance. She doesn't care whether she can be seen or not. She relies on her speed across the grass and she can see behind her too, and will suddenly leap off in another direction just as fast. Now others say something different, mind. Look at that full moon, and what do you see? Many will say the Man in the Moon. But look again. They will tell you that it’s a hare, not a man that you are looking at. And when you see the hare in the moon you will find hares out at night. Well, both can be true, and Mortimer didn't go against this reasoning. Each full moon he set off to bag himself a hare.

               His way up the hill took him past Mrs Gwydir's cottage. It lay on the old drover’s road; you could tell that by the old pine tree growing in the front garden. In the old days that tree meant the drovers could stay up there for the night on the way to the city market. But I haven't told you about Mrs Gwydir have I? We called her Mrs, but to our knowledge there had never been a Mr Gwydir. She had lived in that cottage for longer than anybody in the village could remember, and I swear she was getting on when I was a lad. And she was always called Mrs Gwydir when you talked to her, or referring to her. I remember when young Tomos Williams called her Old Ma Gwydir. At the time he was courting, or rather trying to court Bronwen from the dairy up at Hen Fach. When you are courting, you try to look your best for the young lady don't you? When we heard him say Old Ma Gwydir we told him that he'd pay for that. Cheeky pup said she wasn't there to hear him, was she?. Well, along came Saturday when he would be going over to Hen Fach to meet his girl, and he wakes up that morning and his face has erupted into a mass of spots! Big red ones getting ready to erupt by the evening. We said to him that we told him to be respectful to his elders, especially if they are called Mrs Gwydir. And we told him to go and apologise to her. Well blow me down he did! He must have been really keen on Bronwen, and he must have caught Mrs Gwydir in a good mood. She gave him a lotion to wash his face with, and by mid afternoon he was almost looking presentable. There were other stories about Mrs Gwydir. Her cottage stood near the end of the village didn't it? Her garden was full of plants we didn't recognise, but she would pick bunches of them and take them in her kitchen. On a warm evening those plants smelled quite nice as you walked past, but there were some that looked like they were from foreign parts. I asked my friend Maldwyn if he knew what those plants were, as he knew that sort of thing. There were quite a few he couldn’t name. Funny thing was, though her garden always had an unkempt look to it, all seemed to growing as she intended. There were no weeds, but we never saw her tending it. And the little patch of grass where she would leave crumbs for the birds never seemed to need cutting. But she would walk around the garden often, humming some tunes no-one else knew. Round the back was a well, her vegetables which always seemed to be in season, the goat shed, and a row of elders.

               I must tell you about both the goat and the elders, but first that goat. Never have you seen a more malevolent look in the eyes of an animal than that goat. And horns like scimitars too! It had its own shed in the garden, but I doubt it used it for anything more than a bit of shade on sunny summer days. You could pass that cottage most days and that goat would be watching you from one window or another. Even the bedroom! When Mrs Gwydir went out to the shop in the village that goat would wait by the gate until she came back, and follow her into the house. No-one I knew had been inside Mrs Gwydir's cottage, but surely it must stink of billy-goat. Now those elder trees are something else. You can see Mrs Gwydir picking elderberries in spring, summer and autumn. She hums those tunes to those trees too! And that's not all. You can walk past that cottage some nights and swear that one of those trees is missing. You get used to the familiar silhouettes as you walk home from The Glyndwr Arms, but perhaps that’s the problem. Or perhaps not! On evenings when one of those trees seems to be missing, someone next morning will complain their cow is dry. I will let you ask around for the connection and draw your own conclusions, but I know what I think. I’ve heard the old tales.

               Anyway, Mortimer would set off just before dusk with his big stick. That’s what he used for catching hares. They're too smart for traps and nooses. A stout stick, a bit bent towards one end, and a big knob on the end. Yes, we've heard all the jokes, thank you. You sit and wait in hiding for the hares to come out, and if and when she comes near enough you throw that stick so it skims across the grass, spinning as it travels. Mortimer never failed because he could throw that stick faster than even a hare could run. Whack! One felled hare. But as I was saying, he'd walk past Mrs Gwydir's cottage. And she would be waiting, leaning on her gate. She never said anything to him, but she would scowl and tut-tut, and shake her head. She made is quite clear she disapproved of Mortimer catching hares, but never said why. And Mortimer just ignored her, not glancing in her direction as he passed on his way to the path that led up Mynnedd Mawr. And when he returned, holding a dead hare by its long back legs, she was ready for him, looking out from behind her black curtains. But this now she would look at the hare, almost as if she was trying to recognise which one it was that he was carrying. And the lights behind those curtains wouldn't go out that night.

               Then one full moon this pattern was broken. Yes, Mortimer did go up the hill to bag a hare, but that evening Mrs Gwydir wasn't leaning over her gate to express her disapproval. Whether Mortimer noticed I don't know. He headed off up the hill. And know what? For once he returned empty handed and there still no lights on in Mrs Gwydir’s cottage. Now as chance would have it Emyr Jones was up the hill that night looking for a couple of lambs that had strayed, or so he says. And he's seen Mortimer ready and waiting for a hare, and he saw Mortimer throw his stick. It caught that hare right on its rear end. Should have finished it off or at least broke one of its legs Emyr said, but that hare just gave out a squeal that sounded just like a babby, picked itself up and limped off. There were no more hares up there after that, that night and Emyr said he saw Mortimer head off home later empty handed.

               This might seem nothing extraordinary, but next morning we saw Mrs Gwydir coming down the road using a crutch dragging her left leg behind her. She goes and posts a letter and heads off home again. Later that day who should we see but Mortimer with a barrow load of fire wood which he stacks outside Mrs Gwydir's cottage. Over the next couple of weeks Mrs Gwydir is still using the crutch and Mortimer is still doing jobs for her. He cleaned her outside windows for her. He painted her front door. He repaired her front garden fence and got her front gate to open and shut easily. Mrs Gwydir always had to push or pull at it to open it before. Mrs Gwydir soon recovered. She limped a bit for a week after not using that crutch, but Mortimer's good deeds continued. He mucked out that goat and collected her shopping for her. He got up on her roof and replaced some damaged tiles for her.

               Okay, I'll ask it! Was Mrs Gwydir a witch? And had she gone up Mynnedd Mawr that night as a hare and been hit by Mortimer's stick. Well that blow should have killed an ordinary hare Emyr said. But those hares that are really witches you cannot kill. Hurt them yes, but kill them no! Being a country lad Mortimer would know all this. Then a couple of weeks later we hear some stories don't we. Firstly Emyr says he was up on the hill and he saw the remains of a hare roughly where the one Mortimer had hit had limped off to. Not much left of it by then mind, but would you know? Its left hind leg was broken in two. Then Mrs Pargetter tells us that on that night Mrs Gwydir was over in Pontwaun tending to a cousin of hers as she was poorly. Mrs Gwydir hurt her leg there when she tripped on a paving stone and fell quite heavily. She had returned home early the next morning and no-one saw her come back. So all this hare and witch stuff was a load of nonsense, but poor old Mortimer must have worked it out for himself and truly believed it. Now he was doing chores for Mrs Gwydir on a daily basis thinking he owed to it to her or to stop her putting some spell on him. And she wasn't doing anything to stop him was she? Well a few of us were in the Glyndwr Arms that Friday night and we thought it wasn't quite right. Her letting him do all that for her for nothing.

               So we decided to try and have a quiet word with Mortimer the next day. There he was in his garden that morning, weeding his carrots. We asked if we could have a couple of words with him and he asks if he has done something wrong. Oh no we says, nothing like that. It’s about those chores you are doing for Mrs Gwydir, and he actually laughed. I think I know what you have been thinking says Mortimer. And he explained that he knew that he had injured that hare that night, but Emyr hadn't seen him looking for it to put it out of its misery. And he knew Mrs Gwydir was over in Pontwaun that night. Those who don't talk much have a chance to listen more he said. But Mortimer knew that Mrs Gwydir had come back with a bad leg, and that him not catching a hare that night was tittle tattle across the village. And Mortimer knew that Mrs Gwydir could add two and two as well as he could. But he told us that he had been wanting to do some jobs for Mrs Gwydir since arrived in the village, with her being an elderly lady living alone. But he knew she wouldn't accept his help if he offered it. So he used this opportunity to start doing jobs for her without asking, knowing full well she would now accept if she thought she had the upper hand.

               We turned to leave, but Mortimer couldn't stop talking once he started could he? He told us that in August he would turn 90 years of age, which left us speechless. He could have taken the five of us on, with one arm behind his back, and won easily. And he owed his longevity to a little potion that his aunt had made. One small sip a month, he said, was enough to keep him youthful enough. The trouble was, even though he was only taking a small sip a month, his supply was running low. And his aunt had died just before he came to the village in an accident with a farm wagon. But he did know that Mrs Gwydir knew how to make the potion. Clear as the nose on your face says Mortimer; she's lived here longer than anyone, and she was getting on a bit when we were young. So he was hoping Mrs Gwydir would brew him up a bottle of the potion. We were about to leave him to tending his garden when he tapped his nose, gave us a big wink and said that he wasn't getting any younger, and should really settle down. And added that two can live as cheaply as one if he played his cards right. We didn't quite what to make of all that as we wandered back to the village centre to go about our business. As we rounded the corner by the smithy a jackdaw flew down and perched itself on the wooden fence, and watched us go past. And I swear that I heard it screech ‘and if you believe that you'll believe anything'. I asked Maldwyn if he had heard it too. He had, but added that now he could believe anything and nothing.