The Beasts of Clawstone Castle by Eva Ibbotson Page B

soft green fields of the park; the hazel and birch trees of the copse; the silver ribbon of the stream. A thrush was singing. Wild roses glowed in the hedgerows.
    ‘There,’ said Rollo. ‘That’s the king in front.’
    The ruler of the herd came slowly out of the trees: huge and vigorous and as white as milk. Close behind him came the oldest of the cows, with her scars and her crumpled horn, followed by the others with their skittering calves. The young bull, skinny and bad-tempered, who had challenged the king so often and so unsuccessfully, came last.
    ‘They’ve been safe here for a thousand years,’ said Rollo, ‘but if we can’t get more visitors to come to the castle they’ll have to be sent away – or even slaughtered. That’s why you have to stay and help us.’
    Sitting beside her brother, her legs dangling over the ivy-clad wall, Madlyn held her breath. Could the phantoms be expected to see what Rollo saw: beasts so special that they had to be cared for whatever the cost?
    No one spoke. The park was silent; even the thrush no longer sang.
    It wasn’t going to work, thought Madlyn. Whatever Rollo hoped for wasn’t going to happen.
    But now one of the ghosts had stirred. Sunita. She rose to her feet and tossed her hair back and for a moment she stood balanced on the wall. And then she floated down, down into the field. Not the top half of her and not the bottom. All of her.
    No one knows whether animals can see ghosts but they can certainly sense them. The king bull pawed the ground once with his powerful hooves. The cows lifted their heads and stared. The smallest of the calves gave a sudden cry.
    Sunita stood still and the cattle came forward to form a circle round her. Not crowding her, just gazing with their dark and gentle eyes. The calves stopped butting and playing and came to rest by their mothers’ side. The king’s great hooves were still. Every one of the beasts had its head turned to the place where she stood. Even the young and angry bull was still.
    When she saw that all the animals were calm, Sunita walked up to the oldest cow, with her scars and her crumpled horn. She put her hands together and bowed down so that her hair touched the grass.
    ‘I salute you in the name of Surabhi, the Heavenly Cow who gave birth to the sky and was the mother and muse of all created things,’ she said.
    Then she moved on to stand before the king bull, and on the wall the children held their breath for they knew how fierce he could be, and Sunita, down in the field, did not look like a ghost: she looked like a vulnerable girl.
    ‘And I salute you in the name of Nandi, the bull-mount who carried the Lord God Shiva safely through the universe.’
    She bowed low again and it seemed as though the bull returned her salute, bending his head so that the muscles bunched and tightened on his neck.
    But Sunita had not finished. She went round the herd and to each and every beast, even the smallest of the calves, she made the same bow and spoke a greeting.
    Up on the wall, the children had remembered.
    ‘Of course,’ said Ned. ‘Cows are sacred in India. They wander all over the streets, and no one’s allowed to harm them.’
    ‘And when they’re old they don’t get slaughtered, they get sent to a place where they can live in peace. Sort of like an old people’s home for cows,’ said Madlyn. ‘Rani told me, at school.’
    Sunita, when she had returned to her place on the wall, told them more about what these beasts meant to her people.
    ‘I was born in January,’ she said. ‘There’s a feast then called Pongal to celebrate the harvest and the end of the rains. It goes on for days and on the third day is the Festival of Cattle. The bulls get silver caps on their horns and the cows get bead necklaces and bells and sheaves of corn. And garlands of flowers – wonderful flowers: marigolds and pinks and hibiscus blossom.’
    For a moment, as they looked down on the park, the children imagined the cattle of