Moorland Ramblings

Vixana

Sat atop the outcrops of the imposing tor set in the forest of Dartmoor, sat Vixana, the feared and cruel head witch of Dartmoor. As she sat, all around her stretched the rock-strewn heathland, whose colour changed with the changing of the seasons, whether it be golden with gorse, purple with heather, green with bracken or brown with the spectre of dying foliage.

As autumn passed into winter, the local moor folk had gathered in the dry fern and heather to be used for bedding down their animals over winter, the silky soft cotton grass had died back and the labourers from the moor had swapped their tools for a tankard and were to be found warming themselves at the local inn. At this time of year, more so than any other, the moor was desolate, barren and foreboding.

Towering dark against the sky, providing an abrupt silhouette in the desolate landscape, stood the tor of Vixana, a mass of solid granite topped with a might boulder rising from the valley. At the base of the tor, 120 feet from its summit, lay a deep black tarn, silent, profound and horrible. When the light of the moon shone across the moor, providing light and guidance to those who traverse it, no light crossed the tarn. When sunshine clothed the moorland with its warm embrace, that tarn stood still, black and cold. When the wind blew, creating waves of the long grasses, the surface of the tarn stood still. No fish dwelt in it, no bird or animal drank from it and no plants grew from it. The tarn and its surroundings stood as though an anomaly, symbolising nothing but death and despair within a landscape that provided sustenance and bounty.

Presiding over this desolate spot, sat atop the tor which bore her name, was Vixana, the chief witch of those that made Dartmoor their playground. Each day Vixana sat there, her restless gaze roaming the moorland for her next victim as “Only when the topmost peak of the tor shall fall can her days be ended,” said the local moor folk, and it was known that that tor had stood since the dawn of time.

Seasons came and went. Whole lifetimes and generations passed as years, decades and centuries went by. Vixen tor and its curmudgeonly, malevolent inhabitant were beaten by winds, storms, rain and hail yet still they stood, unmoved and unbroken. Vixana aged with the moor and the tors on which she lived. The locals knew her to be “as old as the hills” and with the ravages of time, the witch showed frailties in contrast to her surroundings. She looked frail and old, with a toothless grin, bald head and wrinkled, withered face. Her eyes were as black as the tarn they stared into, sunken in her face, with her bony crooked fingers reflecting her bony, bent back. Whilst her appearance was one of weakness and vulnerability, her temperament and power was anything but.

With the striking of her staff against the granite of her tor, Vixana muttered an incantation. Upon its completion, a silence hung over the moor. No longer did the skylark sing, the pony whinny or a raven shriek. Slowly, inexorably, a soft grey mist rose from the tarn. It rolled upwards, swirling and growing in depth, drifting past hill and mire, floating across the moor off into the distance. Vixana, with her eyes gleaming with malice and triumph, watch the mist rumble on, and when out of sight, she retook her seat on the boulder, sitting motionlessly, scanning the moor from her granite throne on Vixen tor.

The Boy Seeking Fame

Far off along the road from Vixen Tor, lived a boy who had just entered into his manhood. Fresh faced, with full rosy cheeks, he kept his hair close cropped, showing off his bright, shining eyes which were full of ambition. He wore his old, ragged clothes loose from his tall, stocky body. He had spent his life short of money, short of opportunity and short of ambition, in a small hamlet found amongst the hills that overlooked the crashing waves as fishermen brought in their meagre catch.

Not content with the hand he had been given in life, the young man had set off from his home, along the rocky paths that led to a city on the other side of the moor. He traversed the stony high road, with a swinging gait that mirrored the swinging of his ash stick strung wallet, which contained all his possessions – a crust of bread, a well-worn travel coat and multiple hard-earned books. As his journey continued, his thoughts strayed to that he had left and in particular, the kindly woman who had adopted him as a son.

“Ah, do not go, I implore thee” she cried as his foot first crossed the threshold at the start of his journey. “Thou art all that is left for me, I cannot spare thee nor continue without thee!” she spoke as the tears rolled down her aging cheeks. Unable to detain him, and keep him form his growing ambition, the young man (for this is what he was to her now) cried out with impatience and impertinence “I cannot remain here forever, buried amongst these hills watching over the waves. I am hidden from the world and the world cannot see me, cannot hear me, cannot know me.” Turning his back to the door and facing the path ahead he continued “Fame is what I seek, what I desire, what I need and until I have secured it, I can know no peace. Someday, when I have achieved my fame, I shall return to thee.” With that, he gently closed the door, and with its muffled, muted creaking, set on his way. Quietly, unheard by the young man, the woman who had raised him sobbed to herself “My days are nearly ended, with this action, the next time you see me I shall be laid to rest in the shadow of the old grey church.”

As he continued on his journey, he met a fair-haired maiden, who looked to bid him farewell one morning. As he left, she whispered in his ear “There are other things in life as great at that you seek, stay here with me and make this place our home.” In reply, he arrogantly dismissed this appeal saying “No, there is naught so great as fame.” He went on his way, knowing that from this point forward, the girl’s life would be desolate and sad.

One day, as he passed through a town that edged the moorland, thinking on all that he had seen and heard, the temperature dropped and the wind rose up around him. As the wind gathered power, it seemed to speak to the young man “Return, go home, leave this place that contains not what you seek.” Hesitatingly, with a faltering footstep, the young man continued on. As he did, the mist that Vixana had already conjured crept up and surrounded him, shrouding him from the route ahead.

As the panic grew and his options left, a glimmer of light appeared ahead. Along with it, the young man could hear the soft beating of drums, the quiet thrumming of strings and the gentle piping of flutes. Accompanying the sounds that surely came from a band, was the chatter of a crowd and the tinkling of coins in a tin. Certain that the light he saw came from the far-off city, the young man pressed on, with a renewed vigour and relief.

Unbeknownst to the young traveller, he had wondered from the road and onto a little used track which led across the moor. As he continued along this track, the melodic chorus and cacophony of sound which had led him this way increased. Filled with an unheralded joy, he began to run for he could not be far from the great city which held the key to his great wish. Impatience gave speed to his tiring feet and he continued on, getting ever faster, brushing aside the spiny gorse and bounding over the undulating tussocks, he hurried onwards, ever onwards, as the mist grew thicker with every moment.

On and on and on he pressed, with one word, one thought, one desire swimming around his head. “Fame” he whispered, “it will soon be mine” he mused, as his legs took him forward, one step after the other, occurring without thought or reason. Panting and breathless now, he still went on. His ragged clothes torn, he suddenly tripped over the roots of the heather, stopping him before he surely dropped dead from exhaustion.

Irritated by the disruption to his progress, the young man raised his head as he lay prone on the peaty, soft ground. As he did, the mist rolled away as quickly as it had arrived. Upon its departure, the young man could look at his surroundings and as he did, bewilderment replaced determination. He saw he was surrounding by frowning crags, dying trees and shattered valleys of rock, which had tumbled, storm damaged from the tors that lay around him. Lying amongst the dreary desolation, the young man shouted out in despair, fright taking over as he realised his predicament.

As he looked to rise from his lowly position, a shrieking, cackling, mocking laugh rang out around him. “Welcome, welcome” the witch Vixana cried. Mad with terror, blinded by anger and fortified with confidence, the young man rushed forward, looking to topple the grotesque witch from her position atop Vixen Tor. In his haste, the young man found himself stood on the edge of the tarn. He tottered, swaying at its edge and then, with a terrifying shriek which was accompanied by a mirthless laugh from Vixana, the young man fell forward, sinking into the icy depths. As the ripples settled, so did the hideous laughter and upon its end, all was silent.

The Trappings of Greed

As the years passed on, Vixana’s infamy grew ever stronger and with it, travellers skirted the boundaries of her power. Ever patient, ever seeking, and ever planning, one day Vixana saw her opportunity and with it, muttered her evil words and tapped her staff against the rock, watching with glee as the mist rose out of the tarn, for along the road came a new victim.

Bent with age, thin with destitution, his wrinkled skin hanging from him like his tattered clothes, an old man journeyed towards Princetown. Around his neck, hung a canvas bag to which his hand constantly, lovingly ventured.

“Yes, it is safe, it is still quite safe” he muttered. “Should anyone come to rob me, there will find nothing of worth, as my insurmountable wealth sits within a safe, safe within the walls of Princetown.” He continued forward, his aging bones straining to keep him upright, his tiring knees knocking as he walked. “It can’t be long to go, ere I get to see my wealth. It is long, so long since last I gazed upon it.”

As he travelled on, he passed by a beggar, who silently, without expectation, held his cap out to the miserly old man. “No” he shouted, with an incongruous anger. “Have I not toiled and slaved, worked hard and unfalteringly, day after day, year after year, to obtain this wealth I hold?” Continuing he ranted “I have beaten down all who looked to gain from me? Have I not sacrificed friendship, family and kin, in my unrelenting pursuit of profit? Would you have my labour be in vain? No, you beggar, I shall not part with a penny of my wealth, for no man spared me and I will spare no man.” With that, he tottered onwards, now with a sense of unease and anxiety, shying away from any other traveller who crossed his path.

Later that day, tired and thirsty, he settled amongst a grove of trees to take a rest. The sound of the breeze rolling amongst the branches sounded like a moan, and the noise, combined with his current state, reminded him of a time in the past when one long dead arrived at his door.

One winter evening, as he warmed his youthful hands against a roaring fire, the sound of the wind and rain drumming against the door circulated around the house. As the man settled in, with a warming bowl of stew, the drumming of the rain was replaced by the knocking of a hand on wood, and a pale, white faced peered through the curtainless window, desperate, hungry eyes fixing on the man.

“Mercy! Mercy” the little girl pleaded. “None will help me and I am perishing from the cold and hunger.” “Please sir, will you let me in and spare me some stew for without this kindness, I am sure to pass.” Shaking his head, the man shouted, “No man has spared me and I will spare no man or girl” and with that, he lay down his bowl, rose from his seat, and closed the shutters, shutting out the girl and world outside.

His decision made, the man returned to his position and no sooner had he sat within his seat then the storm appeared to rise. Roaring through the chimney, rattling the casement and shaking the walls of the cottage, the ferocity of the storm raised a timidity in the man, which soon gave way to guilt. Realising the fate to which he had condemned the young girl, he rose, taking a lantern and unbarring his door. He peeked out of his cottage and to his relief, saw the girl had not wandered far, he found her cowered by a wayside, cold, white and still.

Although he had intended to bring her into the warmth, light and safety, he realised with horror he was too late. Her dead face before him, her unseeing eyes fixed upon him, condemning him to a fate worse than that which he had condemned her.

Regaining his composure, the old man carried on, but no sooner had he set foot upon the road than a mist gathered all around him. Blinded by it, unable to find his path, he lumbered along unknowing what to do. As the road passed beneath his shuffling feet, he looked ahead and relief washed over, for he saw and shimmering, bright cave whose walls and floor were lined with glittering, gleaming gold. “Gold!” “Gold and jewels that will add to my fortune!” he cried and so pressed forward with an eager anticipation, unknowingly entering into the wildest parts of the moor.

As the old man shuffled into the mouth of the cave, the mist dispersed and the veil of obscurity lifted. As he looked around, the old man saw not a cave of shimmering gold, but desolate, destitute and unyielding wilds of the moorland environment. Filled with fear, he nervously looked round to spot a path to safety. As he searched, a jeering, mocking laughter echoed of the surrounding tors and drove him mad with terror. In his fear addled state, he ran around without reason, without thought and without direction. As he continued chaotically forward, on one fateful step, his foot met no resistance. Arms flailing, desperately trying to save himself, he fell forward and with a final, horrifying shriek of terror, plunged into the depth of the bleak, black tarn. As he sank beneath the surface, he managed one final look upwards, were he saw the Witch Vixana, sat upon Vixen Tor, smiling with a satisfied look of a job completed. As the eyes of Vixana met the yes of the old man, the waters closed over his head and he sank to the bottom of the pool.

The Fate of the Desperate

In heart of the moor, surrounded by the high tors, lived a couple who had just entered an age where work was no longer possible. This couple had worked the land their whole life and amassed the items and wealth that meant they could live happily in retirement. Their greatest achievement of all, far beyond the cultivation of the acidic, unyielding soil, was their young child, who arrived unexpectedly a few years previously.

For as long as could be remembered, the famer’s family had worked the land, in the centre of which stood an ancient, weather-beaten house. Not far from the house, lay a well, which for as long as could be remembered, stood dry, except for a very specific occasion, for this well would fill with water just before the death of a family member.

One morning, as she played amongst the flowers, the daughter happened to look into the well as from it, she heard a strange bubbling. With intrigue and fascination she saw at the bottom, a small but growing amount of water. Excitedly, she ran to tell her parents of the strange phenomenon but far from sharing her joy, the girl’s parents looked upon each other with terror.

Over the coming months, as summer turned to autumn turned to winter, the well continued to fill. As the snows of winter took over from the chills of autumn, the well froze over, no longer useable as a water source. As it froze, the girl fell ill and sickening over the coming days, passed away peacefully in her bed. The house, which was once filled with the sound of laughter and joy fell silent and dark.

Stricken by grief, the farmer reverted to that he knew best, and began to rear cattle. One evening, knowing of an approaching storm, he rode out, with the intention of gathering his herd into the safety of a barn. As he traversed the hills, he heard the joyful sounds of laughter and music. As he approached the noise, the moody, heavy clouds parted to show a shining, full moon which was accompanied by the unmistakeable scent of perfumed flowers.

Tethering his horse to a nearby hawthorn, the farmers dismounted to watch the piskies as they played and danced, bathed in the moonlight. Hours passed as the farmer watched in delighted wonder, but the scene soon vanished, as the piskies were disturbed by the braying of the impatient horse. As the scene disappeared, grief overtook the farmer and in desperation he cried “My daughter cannot return, but little people, I beg you hear my cry, send us a child as good and as beautiful who will lighten our dark days a comfort our grief-stricken hearts.”

Returning home, the farmer was greeted by his wife, who was smiling and jostling about with nervous excitement. “My husband,” she called across the farmland, “a most wonderous miracle has occurred.” Intrigued, the farmer quickened the pace of his horse as his wife continued on “As I sat warming next to the fire fuelled by the peat, I saw a most beautiful child, standing alone in bogs. She came near to me as I watched saying ‘good mother, I have come to dwell with thee, and comfort your grief-stricken heart’”.

The trio lived on, happy and fulfilled and one day, the foster-daughter married a man who cared not for the trappings of fame or wealth and found joy in those he surrounded himself with. Eventually the husband took over the running of the farm dutifully supported by the foster-daughter. Here, they lived a happy life until one day, as she was working the foster-daughter heard a bubbling from the well. Unknowing of what this meant, she approached to look inside and saw the well filling with water. Thinking on this strange occurrence, the husband and wife travelled to the moors, collect bracken for their beds and tormentil for their ills.

Whilst searching, they came upon a tor to rest, and at the top found a basin filled with the most clear, fresh and cooling water they had ever had the fortune to come upon. Whilst bathing her hands and feet in this pool, the wife asked her husband the name of the tor they stood upon. Not knowing, the husband named it himself, after his wife who was called Misora. As such, he named the tor “Mis Tor.”

In the heat of the summer, a few months after the well began to fill, Misora was stricken with a fever. Thinking the clear, sweet waters of Mis Tor would soothe her ill, her husband set out on a journey to collect it. On his return journey, the sky darkened and he was filled with a sense of unease. Quicken his pace he returned home, only to find his loving wife dead in her bed, surrounded by the gently scented flower petals collected by the moorland piskies.

Crippled with grief, the husband did as his father-in-law before him had, and took to wandering the moor. One evening, as he settles on a tussock, he saw a shimmering, silvery spectre, who told him not all was over, and Misora was not yet lost. His heart filling with hope he said to the crooked old spirit, whose head was bald, mouth toothless and sunken eyes black as peat “tell me where I can find her, I entreat thee.” Vixana, for that was who this spirit was replied with a smiling, cackling voice “she can be found in the pool beneath the Vixen Tor. Rush there for her passing is soon to be complete.”

Taking the servitor upon her word, the husband rushed off. As he set about his journey, a swirling grey mist rose up about him and in it, he could hear the tuneful laugh of his dear Misora. Taking this as a sign that his quest was to be successful, he rushed onwards, each step raising excitement and joy within him, until eventually, breathless and tired he came upon Vixen Tor.

As he reached the edge of the tarn, his excitement turns to uncertainty, as surely a place so dark and foreboding would not hold the spirit of one so pure as his wife? As the mist that led him to his destination parted, and howling, whining laugh filled the surrounds. He looked into the Tarn and saw his wife, but far from the welcoming invite he anticipated, she appeared to be mouthing a warning, shouting and frantically beckoning for him to leave. It was too late however, as the husband was unable to resist and he was drawn, as if dragged by a string, to the edge of the tarn, falling into its depths with a finality that marked his end.

The Knight Kingtora

One day, with the haze of summer swimming over the land, a knight was travelling through the kingdom of Dumnonia. The knight, who was called Kingtora, was tall, clothed in fine armour, and had muscles that held a strength that belied his otherwise slime frame. Woth curly golden hair that framed a youthful face, centred by piercing blue eyes, Kingtora had spent his days in saving those who were broken, avenging those who were beaten and delivering riches to the oppressed. His kind nature and valiant deeds naturally endeared people to him and as a result, good fortune found its way to Kingtora.

He had travelled to Dumnonia, to seek truth, as he had heard from a weary old traveller that the “piskies of the forest that dwell in the central moors can remove your veil and light your world.” One morning, as Kingtora travelled along a dusty path, unsettling the skylarks who responded by singing their distracting song, he spied a child, sitting alone amongst the fallen boulders.

Approaching, Kingtora knelt beside the child and looked into their eyes, which shone brightly blue, reflecting the skies around them. As he looked into the child’s eyes, Kingtora was suddenly overcome with fear and so knelt, reverently besides the child’s feet, unknowing of what would happen. Smiling, the child raised Kingtora’s head, so that again, the eyes of the Knight and the child met. Instead of fear however, this time, Kingtora felt a sense of relief and comfort, as the child spoke “I am Truth. It is given to few to find me.” On finishing the sentence, the child reached out and instinctively, Kingtora closed his eyes. With this, the child touched with their hand, the eyes of the valiant knight, and the scales of the world fell from them, and he saw all things as they were meant to be, easily discerning good from evil, the pure from the adulterated and the innocent from the guilty. As Kingtora re-opened his eyes, he saw that the child had disappeared. Rejoicing, he went on his way full of honourable intentions.

As he continued along the path, the sun soon began to descend and entering into dipsey, the hush that signals the end of a day began. With the fortune that follows the Knight on his endeavours, just as visibility disappeared, a gentle red glow appeared on the horizon. Recognising the signs of a burning peat fire, the Knight came to a moorman’s house, and was granted entry to rest for the evening.

Settling down for an evening meal, made up of a simple bread and stew, the knight and the moorman swapped tales. Kingtora telling of his adventures from across the lands, regaling tales of chivalry, bravery and honour. The moorman in return, told tales of those he lived among and in particular, of the evil witch Vixana. Nervously, in a whispered, shaking voice, the moorman was heard to say, “None can say the number of her vixens, nor can any tell their fate.” Continuing, the moorman told of the peat black tarn and his belief that “All who travel along in Vixana’s land end at the bottom of that pool, where they lie in perpetuity, mining a cave of gold for Vixana, until the day she falls.”

Listening intently, when the moorman had finished his tale, Kingtora sprang to his feet, clutched the hilt of his sword and exclaimed “I will rid the moors, the county and the country as a whole of this evil, twisted and foul witch.” The moorman, chuckling in reply to Kingtora’s hubris, merely stated “It is not possible, for it is well known in these lands that ‘Till Vixen’s topmost peak should fall, Vixana’s power is over all’”.

As the evening rolled on, Kingtora was unable to get the thought of felling Vixana from his head. Following a few more cups of ale, the Knight asked his host how it was the top of Vixen Tor is toppled. “You must call forth a sound form the magic horn that is chained below the Tor. Writ along the horn are the words: ‘He who must call forth sound from me, must be of spotless purity.’ None are known in this land, who can make such a claim.”

“I will seek it, find it and raise a sound from it” exclaimed Kingtora “and in doing so, I will release all those who she stands captive over.” Inspired, the moorman raised from his seat and walked over to a small wooden box he kept in the corner of the room, alongside his most precious artefacts. Opening the lid of box, he said to Kingtora “I can see you are resolved to do this thing. To help you on your way, take this feather.” Looking confused, Kingtora took the feather and waited as the moorman explained “It is known that for centuries, a raven has lived in this region with a single grey feather, endowed with magic that renders any who wears it invisible. One morning, this raven came to me and I plucked the feather from its wing. I beg you now to accept it as a gift, so that it may shield you from the witch’s glare and keep you safe on your endeavour.” With thanks and gratitude, Kingtora took the gift and in the morning, left the moorman’s hut in search of Vixen Tor.

The Knight, tall, lithe and strong as the oaks that grew from the soil, abounded across the tops of the hills and rocks that make up the land around Vixana’s lair, watched by the witch who had a gleam in her eye. Vixana muttered her spell, tapped her staff upon the rocks and summoned forward from the tarn the swirling grey mist that so often aided in her bidding.

As Kingtora hurried on, the mist enveloped him over the course of a few strides. However, since his meeting with the Piskie’s child, he was able to discern all things clearly and so the mist, unlike his predecessors, had no impact upon him. As the mist continued to swirl and rise, he saw the glinting of the silver horn, chained to a boulder at the base of the Tor.

As he drew nearer, Vixana watched Kingtora avoid the edges of the tarn. Realising with a sudden annoyance that this Knight was unlike the others before him, she clutched her wand and sprang from rock to rock with an agility the belied her age, letting out a piercing, terrible cry, meeting the stranger on his journey. Meeting the witches look to angry terror, Kingtora let out a little smile and as he did, clutched the feather that he had been gifted and attached it to his cloak.

From the cry of confused anger that came from Vixana, the Knight knew that his trick had worked. He watched on with amused joy as the Vixana swirled and scrambled around, striking the air with chaotic randomness, muttering spells.

Realising the futility of her actions, Vixana returned to her throne atop the highest boulder on the Tor, in the hope this would give her the opportunity to espy her foe. Scanning the cautiously the clitter that gathered on the heath below, Vixana’s cunning and malice failed her, as Kingtora sprang forward unseen and grabbed the silver horn. Raising it to his lips, he broth forth a long, loud, low-pitched sound that reverberated across the landscape. The blast, which echoed throughout the hills, awoke all within the boundary, raising the senses and triggering a howl of despair from Vixana, for the topmost rock of the Tor upon which she stood moved slowly forward with a grating, crunching grinding sound. Unable to move, Vixana stood helpless as the boulder gathered pace and fell inexorably to the ground below, burying Vixana beneath it.

In his victory, Kingtora gathered Vixana’s wand, to keep it as a token of his success. As he raised it, the mist disappeared and the waters of the tarn which had caused so much heartache moved to foot of the Tor, being subsumed by the boggy ground that surrounded it. As the waters vanished, Kingtora saw a trapdoor at the bottom of the lake. Cautiously pulling on the aged old handle, the entrance opened with a trudging creak. Underneath, was a cavern, lined with gold and to the back were all the victims of Vixana, too numerous to count, working with pickaxe and hand to collect the gold. With a commanding voice, Kingtora ordered the victims to leave their jail and live their lives in freedom and with it, the defeat of Vixana was complete.