Balorbane

Black Wings

Black Wings

This story takes place on Dartmoor, in the county of Devon where small isolated farms dot the English countryside, stretching for miles on a vast landscape of bracken and gorse. The chilled atmosphere imprisons its nature and people in the element of mystery. Distant hills, dark and sombre, loom on the horizon. Early winter grips the land as heavy clouds roll across the sky, threatening to engulf its very existence.

The distant sound of a bird calling, is caught in the chill air. One such bird, a raven, glides across the moor land — the slow methodical beat of its wings carries it on despite the strong gusts of wind. It circles a small farmstead belonging to the Vales, then disappears over the hills to the north. It floats over brown gorse and grasses toward a low stone wall. Below, the sight of a dead sheep lying against the stone barrier catches its eye. The sheep, being old and thin, was just another victim of the moor. The raven circles the lifeless body, fragments of wool blowing in the wind. Silently, the bird alights alongside the carcass; strutting around the animal, head to one side, surveying it. Suddenly, it hops toward the head and pecks sharply — the eye of a sheep makes a dainty morsel for a raven.

A short while later, having taken its fill, the raven once more spread its wings and flew to an old twisted oak, near the Vale Farmstead. Here it proceeds to clean its beak and preen it’s glossy black feathers, looking here and there every few seconds as though afraid of being watched. Suddenly, it stops and flies from the farmstead over a landscape of faded bracken, gorse and fern; along a direct line to a very old and derelict cottage. A thin spire of smoke curls from the chimney and becomes invisible as it is whisked away by the wind.

The bird alights upon a low stone wall that was in bad need of repair and caws loudly. The harsh cry is answered by a shabbily dressed girl in her late teens; her untidy reddish hair tumbling onto her shoulders. The dress she wears appears too large for her slender frame, dragging on the ground as she moves about. Her face has a wild look about it, she might even have been pretty, with dark eyes that seem to pierce anything she looks at.

“Satan!” she called, “You’re late today, where have you been?” The girl, Gwen Trott by name, held in her hands the remains of a rabbit. She held it out to the raven, which in turn tore at the flesh with great purpose. This procedure went on until the bird once again had satisfied its hunger. Once finished, it went through the performance of preening itself again. Gwen watched in fascination until the peacefulness was ended by a shout behind her.

There stood her mother, demanding she fetch some water from the nearby spring. Nelly looked older than her years, her unruly hair, scowling face and dirty clothes hanging off her thin body. In fact, her wicked looking countenance in general filled anyone that should happen to meet her with fear. For this reason she was known by the local folk as 'The Witch'.

Reluctantly, Gwen picked up an old wooden pail and made her way toward the spring that emerged from the ground near the cottage. The raven made one loud caw, then flew once again across the moor, this time toward the village of Rexford. Beneath it, the dreaded Stickles path wound its way toward the Stickles farm, which huddled beside foreboding hills.

Near the village, the old Manor House known as 'The Mede' nestled against ancient trees and well tended hedges. The raven bypassed these and perched on the top of the little church steeple, where it surveyed the people below going about their business. After a short spell, it flew north-eastward; the windswept moor rose and fell as the contours of the landscape changed. Far below, a small stream wound its way toward Dartmeet. Leafless twisted oaks spread over this portion of the moor. A restless sea of broken branches spread about here and there, then, there before it, rising above the trees, the dark, ominous ruins of Devnor Priory beckoned in silence.

The raven settles in one of the ruined towers as a cold mist covers the bleak landscape. Soon, darkness would stretch its hand over the moor’s expanse. Time passed, it became very dark and an eerie silence embraced the sombre hills.

No one moved across the moor in the grip of night, except the Stickles. They might have been about some dastardly business, if not, except for the murmur of the wind, all was silent. A sharp cry breaks the stillness; a fox has taken a life.