he 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 followed the Old Ways, 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 behaviour 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 bulged 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 spectre preparing to sweep down upon them.

The lad 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 lurched his way on a twisting 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 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 wavering in her hands as the two stood rigidly staring.

The eldest, emboldened by his mate'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.

here was, as it happened, a young moor man, a local farmer, fair of face, tall and handsome, just stopping at the village pub. A draught of new cider anda 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 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, eyeing 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.

The lass 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, "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 his eyes lit with mischief. "Well now, if I was to, for instance, see that Matthew over there was coming down the....

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 eyes 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 vicar dispatched one of the men to the task as Annie 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 or at all, for that matter. The broad shouldered young farmer blanched as the village headman turned bright eyes on him. "You could get close to her, Will," he ventured speculatively.

Will laughed hoarsely. "I can't, I mean I don't 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?" His eyes swept the crowd pressing about him. "Even if I could remember the words...." 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 loaned 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, piskie led in the fog. 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 and the faerie folk 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, 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 path, probably a pony track. Having made this discovery, Will began to move along faster, more confident of his footing.

ixana, 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.

ill 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 Vixen 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 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 decrepit old woman do, so long as he kept his wits about him?

ixana 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.

ith the surefootedness of one born and raised on the moor, Will crept up the steep side of Vixen 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 out here in her sad and solitary existence. 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 wool 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.

t was bright morning, by the time 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.....?" asked the serving girl, dropping her bar rag and rushing around the long bar to give Will a big squeeze.

"Dead? Oh, aye, she is that." His grey 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 mat. In seconds he was asleep.

While he slept, the whole village turned out to hail their champion and the story was already spreading from Merivale 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 account of events 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 squire 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 infamous witch.

he 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 Vixen Tor.

©1995 by Trish Reynolds