Witch's Tor
by Trish Reynolds
She stood at the crest of the gale washed tor, arms stiff with
age out-flung, sodden shawl beating about her like the wings of a
manta ray. Her grizzled hair, heavy with rain, lashed at her time worn
face. The deadly mist subsided, quenched by the downpour. Vixana
slowly lowered her arms and wrapped them tightly about herself
for warmth. The immediate threat was over; she could rest. There
would be no unwary travelers, on four legs or two, out to wander
helplessly into the bog which she had guarded so diligently over
the decades. The hag struggled her way down the tumble of stones to
a shallow cave formed near the base of the tor using her broomstick
to steady herself in the dark.
The embers were still glowing in the small fire pit. Vixana's
long years of experience soon had flames leaping to the kindling
and her tiny shelter grew warm and cozy. Exhausted by her labor,
she fell immediately into a deep and healing slumber. At this time of
the year, the morning would bring the mist again and she must be ready
to warn off those who inadvertently stumbled toward the
treacherous mire at the heart of the bog. Dartmoor could be perilous
for those who missed their way. Many a lost stray, be it pony, sheep
or human, had been sucked beneath the fell surface of the mire
and never a trace to be found.
The bog, laying as it did very near the Two
Bridges-Tavistock Road, was particularly
deceiving. For more years than she could remember the woman had
grown old warning away those who might otherwise have found their
death beneath the rough crag of her tor. She practiced the Old
Religion, witchcraft, it was whispered in the villages nearby. Her solitary life
had been forced upon her when as a girl she'd been driven from
her people by reason of her ugliness. It was true, she'd never been
comely, not even as a child. While her mother lived, she'd been
protected from the cruelty of the villagers, but that had ended abruptly when
her only champion died of fever. Vixana's cleft palate made
her speech nearly unintelligible to most, and her misshapen nose
and twisted back clearly branded her as evil, the devil's child. And so
she had come in despair, nearly ending her life, to the foot of Witch's
Tor. Katryn Mab, the already ancient guardian of the place, had taken
in the girl, making offerings to the Old Ones in gratitude for this
successor. Perhaps it had been the will of the moor land gods which
had decided Vixana's fate. The girl grew, trained in the old ways, and in
time Katryn Mab passed on, leaving her apprentice the new guardian.
The Tor remained notorious for its witch, who spent her
clear days caring for the sick and injured animals who always seemed to
find their way to her. Her unnatural behavior during the mist time
was clearly meant, so it was said in the markets, to entice the unwary
into her bog and trap them in the mire. Had any cared to reason it
out, they could hardly have failed to see that the witch's gyrations
and misunderstood invocations did nothing to attract, but rather
acted as a warning beacon. Her bright torch and unnerving wail
cautioned all approaching that they were near upon dangerous ground.
Nevertheless, her reputation as an evil old hag grew with each new
telling. Local children were warned to mind their elders or "Vixana
will catch you and throw you into the mire."
For the lads of the surrounding villages and farms, it
became something of a rite of passage to approach the tor and dare
the witch to catch them. It was inevitable, given the exuberance
of youth, that tragedy would strike.
There were three together from a small village not too
far from the tor, who bolstered their courage with cups of
purloined cider and made their way boisterously along the pony track
that skirted the edge of the bog. The morning had begun brightly
enough, cool with the promise of autumn, but the weather on Dartmoor
is perfidious. A warm breeze flowing up from the south, a dense
fog creeping in on top of the luckless three, and potent cider
invoked bravado, proved an excellent recipe for disaster.
Vixana climbed to the topmost of the boulders, her
torch guttering in the breeze. The mist gathered strength, turning
bright sunshine into yellowing, leprous gloom. The three adventurers
were soon hopelessly lost, stumbling through the bog moving
ever nearer to the deadly mire. Sharply long-sighted and knowing the
signs, Vixana howled her warning, brandishing the flame like
some demented warrior waving a battle standard. Her shrill keening
spiraled along the stones growing in strength and volume and
causing the bravest of the lads to stop and stare, transfixed. His eyes
nearly popped from his head at the sight of the apparition, cloak
fluttering like a thing alive in the moisture laden air. To be fair, she posed
a ghastly sight, firelight flinging her misshapen body into sharp
relief against the blinding fog. By a trick of shadow and flickering torch
she appeared twice as large as life, a fell specter preparing to sweep
down upon them.
The youth cried out, a hollow animal sound that rang from
the stones and seemed to echo back at him from everywhere at once.
He turned and ran heedlessly, blindly, shrieking in sheer terror.
Powerless to stop his headlong flight, Vixana watched as he stumbled his way
on a straight course through the bog to its dark heart and in
one sickening moment, was swallowed by the mire.
The witch moved as quickly as old bones and slippery
stones would allow, but by the time she made her way to relatively
safe ground near the edge of the quagmire, the stinking
surface emitted one last squelch and went still, looking once more an
innocent patch of open moor.
The lad's companions rushed through the undergrowth,
following the reverberations of their friend's cry even as it faded away to
silence. Knowing well from experience that she could not easily make
them understand her garbled speech, Vixana gestured wildly to
keep them from the edge.
"Away!" she screeched, throwing her arms wide, torch
held high as the two stood rigidly staring. The eldest, emboldened
by his chum's unnatural disappearance, took a threatening step toward
the crone demanding, "What you done with our Jamie?"
Desperately, she cried out again, "Away! Away!" and flung
her torch into the center of the mire.
For a fraction of time it stuck straight up as if held from below
by unseen hands, then, with a terrible suddenness, it disappeared
beneath the fetid surface.
"Away," she breathed almost to herself as the two village
lads turned and fled like hunted hares back in the direction of the
pony track and safety.
For a while Vixana watched over the place where the boy
had gone down, whispering arcane words to quiet the troubled
spirit. Finally, she turned and made her way back to her tiny shelter.
This time the mire had won another victim.
@BT-CENTER1_RQ = *<_><_> <_><_>*<_><_><_><_>
*
There was, as it happened, a young moor man, a local
farmer, fair of face and handsome of figure, just stopping at the village pub.
A draught of new cider and a tale or two were welcome. His
spirits were good, the harvest having brought him considerable profit
in the market that day, and perhaps a cup too many had passed his
lips for absolute sobriety. He reveled in being the center of attention as
he raised his glass and a glimmer of light reflected off the gold of
his ring<@133>an unusual and rather grand possession for a
simple farmer.
"What's that, Will?" asked the landlord grasping the thick
wrist and holding it aloft for all the room to see.
"This?" grinned the farmer called Will, splaying his fingers so
all could admire the finely worked ring.
"Why, it looks like pure gold!" exclaimed the serving
girl, eying him with a bit more interest. "Where'd the like of you get
the like of it?"
Will winked, and gestured the girl and the landlord in close as
he whispered.
She jumped back her face an expression of wonder as she
cried, "the piskies, you say?!" She bent
in to examine it more closely.
"Oh aye, a pisky ring and no less." He smiled grandly around
the room.
"Annie," barked the landlord to the girl, "see to them tables
by the hearth." He turned back to Will. "Well then, what's it do,
lad?" he asked as others pressed in to gather around the taps trying to
see the magic ring.
Will tapped a long forefinger against the side of his nose
and lowered his voice. "Not that I've tried it, mind," he said
earnestly, "but if I was to say the magic
words told to me by her ladyship, the pisky queen herself, t'will make
me invisible."
"Invisible? So, what you want to be invisible for anyway?"
asked Annie, hefting a loaded tray and rolling her eyes.
Will grinned mischievously. "Well now, if I was to, for
instance, see that Matthew over there was coming down th
A commotion at the door of the low thatched building cut
short his reply as two lads stumbled in, wild eyed and covered in
grime. With the aid of a cup of strong ale the story unfolded. By now, most
of the village from headman to vicar was crowded into the pub's
small common room. A hush settled over them all as the boys spun their
tale of mayhem, murder and witchcraft. After what seemed an eternity,
the silence was broken by the vicar's stout wife.
"Oh what are we to do?" she moaned lifting her eyes to
heaven while her fingers unconsciously formed the ancient sign against
evil. "The witch will be attacking us in our beds afore the next
moon's full!"
"Now, Meg you mustn't go on so." The vicar patted her
plump hand in an absent minded comforting gesture and turned to the
oldest boy. "Has no one told the lad's father, then?" His kindly eyes
were screwed up in consternation.
"No sir, we come right here as Jamie's da's farm is clear
t'other side of Hay Tor."
The elderly cleric dispatched one of the men to the task.
The serving girl spoke into the low rumble of speculation running like
a current around the room.
"Will here's got a pisky ring, vicar, a magic ring as what
makes him invisible."
Now, Will was all for a tale or two over a cup, but doing
battle with a heathen witch was definitely not a venture to be
taken lightly<@133>or at all, for that matter. The broad
shouldered young farmer blanched as the vicar turned bright eyes on him.
"You could get close to her, Will," he ventured speculatively.
"Oh<@133>no<@133>" Will laughed hoarsely. "I can't,
I mean I don't<@133>uh<@133>remember the magic words." Suddenly
he nodded at the vicar and smiled. "An' besides, would it not be
the devil's own work to speak the enchantment<@133>" his
eyes swept the crowd pressing about him. "Even if I could
remember<@133>" he finished lamely.
The cider had made him bold, and the urging of the vicar
and encouragement of the frightened villagers crowding around,
stirred the hero slumbering within his soul; but it was the expression in
Annie's lovely blue eyes which finally convinced him. There it was, by
the long and the short of it Will had to agree to go, that or admit his
tale was common boasting. And so, fortified with yet more drink,
and armed with the good wishes of the villagers, the blessing of the vicar,
a promising kiss from the pretty bar maid, and the dubious magic of
the pisky ring, Will was on his way across the moor to face the
evil Vixana.
By the time the stout-hearted champion was out of sight of
the village, dense mist had turned the ordinary landscape into a
queer realm surely the domain of piskies and witches and who knew
what other fey creatures. The courage which had accompanied his
departure deserted him entirely. He briefly considered turning for
home with none the wiser for his cowardice. But no, he would never
be able to face another market day without some accounting of
his clash with the hag of the moor. Why had he ever claimed the
ring for a charm? It was a fine ring of true gold, a grand possession
even without the granny-tale of his own invention. It must have been
the cider speaking in the pub, that lent enchantment to his
grandfather's ring, which was of purely mortal making.
As he pondered his predicament, he kept walking, and
soon realized that he was hopelessly turned around. The
countryside had been leeched of all familiarity with the coming of the fog.
To compound matters, the light had faded to twilight and he
without even a candle flame to guide him. Will cursed himself for a fool.
A seasoned moor man like himself knew better than to risk
the capriciousness of nature by venturing forth on such an evening.
He again considered turning back, but could no longer tell in
which direction safety lay.
Faced with the prospect of spending a dismal soaking night
on the moor, or blundering about blindly in the fog, he cursed
himself again, absently twisting his ring. Will strained to see through the
curtain of mist trying to locate some landmark that would tell him
where he was. He moved forward tentatively, using a sturdy length of
oak branch that he'd picked up to test the ground in front of him as
he went. After several minutes he realized he was traveling a
rough track, probably made by wild ponies as they traveled grazing along
the moor. Having made this discovery, Will began to move along
faster, more confident of his footing.
Vixana, maintaining her vigil at the top of the tor, was
exhausted. As night crept its way along the moor, she watched and listened
for any sign that some creature of the Mother was lost in the bog.
Her keen eyes spotted a swirl in the tightly woven mist, telling her
that something was moving slowly along the track. It would take but
a moment for whatever miserable creature it was to become
disoriented, and but a single misstep to fall prey to the lethal mire.
She began her infamous wail, waving the lighted torch above her head,
using voice and gesture to warn off the potential victim.
Will stood stock still as the piercing shriek filled him
with terror. He turned in the direction of the sound, his heart
pounding frantically against his chest. A dark phantom seemed to hover
poised on the summit of Witch's Tor. The unnerving howl came again,
high pitched and shrill, sending a tremor down the full length of his
spine. The reluctant hunter realized he had found his
quarry<@151>or perhaps she had found him.
Will wished heartily that his ring could indeed turn him invisible. Well,
he was where he'd set out to be with or without the pisky magic. As
the haunting cry faded away, Will squared his shoulders and
headed for the tor, careful to keep the pony track beneath his feet.
He would not be led into the bog, witch or no. After all, what
could one ancient and decrepit old woman do, so long as he kept
his wits about him?
Vixana watched, recognizing the creature for a man as
evening's chill diminished the mist around the tor. She was satisfied that
now warned, he would be able to find his way safely to the road
beyond. Her old bones ached with the coming of night and her
exertions had left her depleted. She sank down onto a large flat boulder
to maintain her vigil as the moor man made his way without
incident along the pony track and disappeared into the darkness on the
far side of the granite tor. Just a moment to rest and she
would hobble down to her small cave to eat and to sleep for she would
need her strength when the mist rose on the morrow. Carefully she
extinguished her torch in a crevice and closed her eyes, breathing in
the soft night air.
With the surefootedness of one born and raised on the
moor, Will crept up the steep side of Witch's Tor silently. As his
head crested the top, he saw the witch. Her back was to him and
she seemed to be asleep, resting against the broom that was never far
from her hand. The moor man shivered in the dampness of the night,
and wondered how the old woman managed to survive. Yes, that
was what she seemed to him now, an old woman, no less and no
more than his own gran had been, propped up before the fire in
their cottage when he was a boy.
He pulled himself up and over the top, moving quietly to
stand beside the huddled figure. From here he could see out over
the whole bog, and his knowing eye marked the place at its
center, where the deadly mire lurked like a living thing. With a start he
realized what the hag had been doing all these years, marking the place
and giving warning. True, one lad had found death there this day; but
for the hag, it might have been three. He stared at the wizened face,
her ugliness now softened with age, and laughed out loud at the fear
stories of this gentle creature had engendered.
Will's laughter ruptured the night as surely as any shriek
ever uttered by Vixana. The crone, unused to close contact
with humans, was startled from her sleep at the sound. With a
frightened cry she jumped back away from the strange man looming
over her, a stout oak branch grasped tightly in his fist. Will reached
for Vixana as her steps took her to the very edge of the stone
platform. She flinched away from him, toppling toward the precipice as
the man seized her broom. Her momentum carried her over
the edge, though for a moment she clung to the stick suspended
in midair.
Will gripped the broom handle, and tried to pull the
witch to safety. His eyes met hers and he smiled encouragement. "Hold
on, Gran, while I pull ye back" he whispered, but the aged fingers
just could not. Frantically, he lunged, grabbing for her shawl, but
the tattered cloth ripped away in his hands. Will's eyes filled with
tears as Vixana fell silently to land upon the rocks below.
Slowly, Will made his way to the bottom of the Tor, the
broom still clutched in his hand. He knelt over the crumpled body
and cradled it to his chest sobbing as he had not done since
childhood. Gently, he lifted the frail form and carried her to the edge of the
mire. With tenderness and respect, Will gave Vixana's body to the bog.
"Good-bye, Granny Vixana, and thank you," he
murmured softly.
It was bright morning, when Will made his way back to
the village, exhausted and disheveled. He stumbled into the pub,
and tossed the broom stick to the landlord.
"Is she<@133>?" asked the serving girl, dropping her dish
rag and rushing around the long bar to give Will a big squeeze.
"Dead? Oh, aye, she is that." His gray eyes glistened
with moisture as he told the true story to the attentive Annie.
"They'll never believe it, Will," she said, leading him
gently up the stairs to her bed. "Get some sleep. I'll bring you up a cuppa
and some bread with cheese."
Will just nodded and collapsed onto the straw mattress.
In seconds he was asleep.
While he slept, the whole village turned out to hail
their deliverer and the story was already spreading from Tavistock to
Exeter. Vixana's tatty old broom stick was hung on the wall in the pub for
all to marvel at, as the story was told and retold over and again
for generations. Will found that while his company was much sought
after, his story was dismissed as humility (a fine trait for a hero) in favor
of the more dramatic tale put forth by the innkeeper (whose business
was much the better for it).
In the end, Annie, the pretty serving girl with the blue
eyes, became Will's wife. Together they had several children and the
small farm prospered and grew. Will became an affluent, well
respected figure in the moor and he and Annie lived long, happy
lives, blessed with many grandchildren. But to the end of his days
and beyond, for all his many accomplishments, the farmer was best
remembered for having vanquished the hag Vixana, ridding the moor of
its most evil witch.
The Two Bridges to Tavistock Road through Dartmoor is
paved now, and the bog well marked to keep travelers out of the mire.
The legend of the brave moor man who ended Vixana's evil reign is still
told in the villages which dot the moor and surrounding area. Some
say that on misty nights, the witch's inhuman wail can still be
heard echoing off the stones of Witch's Tor.
According to `Dark and Dastardly Dartmoor, the
legendary Vixana was an especially ugly and evil crone who made her
home from a rockpile close to a major path across the moor on the
Two Bridges to Tavistock Road. Beside it was a deep and dangerous
mire. Vixana would use her evil powers to conjure a mist so
wayfarers would lose themselves, wandering into the mire to die. Eventually
a local hero, armed with a magic ring, brought her to a dramatic end.
I think my version is closer to the actual truth, and certainly
more lyrical. I actually saw the alleged broomstick in a local pub, and
was told several variations on the tale during my research.
Alan Edwards is the artist who made the sketches of Dartmoor.
c.1995 Trish Reynolds
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