The Devil Rides in Devon
Where ancient lanes and gnashing stones do render limp all golden thrones, there the devil rides his steed, no mortal man dare impede
Carol heaved shut the heavy glass door. Its elderly hinges groaned as the bloated wood frame squeezed into place. She turned the key, securing the lock. She’d done this hundreds of times, she thought, and the weariness of the mundane sat upon her shoulders like a weighty cloak.
She turned to walk up the steep cobblestone path of Queen Street, a path between buildings nestled so closely together that cars could not use it. It was a lovely path, with brick, ivy, and tidy shops just like Carol’s jewelry and watch shop. Now, in the height of summer, baskets of verdant petunias hung from enormous baskets hoisted onto hooks above the street, and the lush ivy blanketing the walls was bright green, even in the dour grey of the cloud-covered evening. The ivy’s leaves glistened with dew and rustled gently in the salty sea breeze.
Lynton buzzed with tourists at this time of year, come to stay in the sister towns of Lynton and Lynmouth in Devon, England, perched on the high cliffs above the Bristol Channel and on the edge of Exmoor National Park, with its rolling hills of heather and roving herds of wild ponies. Summer was when Carol’s shop made most of its income for the year, as it was with most of the village shops, but this year, Carol had to drag herself to work, and by the evening, what was left of her paltry pool of energy had drained and left her nearly unable to walk the short way home.
“Ta-da, Carol. Alright?” Agnes Macy called as Carol rounded the corner onto the village’s main road.
“Agnes, hello,” Carol managed before Agnes was upon her, all bosom and apron and swishing skirts.
“Ah, it’s as wet as a seal in t’sea,” Agnes said, scolding the clouds above. “Carol, love, you must come in for supper and a drink,” Agnes said, bodily escorting Carol up the narrow steps to her restaurant, a mainstay of Lynton where all the townsfolk ate.
Carol protested weakly but allowed herself to be ushered through the door into the cozy space, which, surprisingly, was almost empty. Agnes sat Carol next to the old stone fireplace that had been leaning to one side for the last two hundred years, a testament to its durability, if not its design. Broad black beams supported the white plaster ceiling and thatched roof above. Carol set her bag down on the ancient red carpet with a faded design that was no longer distinguishable. The spicy wood smoke from the fire blended perfectly with the faint whiff of tobacco smoke that lingered permanently from bygone years in this ancient pub, now restaurant.
The fireplace felt good on this cool summer’s eve. The sun was still high in the sky and would be for two more hours, but its warmth was dulled by the screen of a misty marine layer that had crept over the landscape in the late afternoon, and covered everything with a thin layer of damp. A spark from the fire crackled and danced where it landed on the stone surround.
“Now then, how are ya’ going?” Agnes said, setting a pint of lager in front of Carol.
Carol nodded thanks and took a long swallow before answering. “I’m good, Agnes, really. You don’t need to make a fuss.”
“No fuss to be made,” Agnes said with a fingershake. “Now, when I lost my Bobby, I could hardly function. You remember. My youngins’ had to take over the place, and it nearly fell down around their ears.” Agnes clucked and shook her head. “It’s a tough place. A tough place when you lose your ‘usband, and I know, so don’t you be speakin’ about fusses.”
Carol nodded and inwardly chuckled at Agnes’s insistence that her pair of sons, both north of forty, were still her youngins’. Agnes was right, however: they weren’t much help when she needed it most. They really hadn’t ever been very useful, come to think of it.
“And you, alone here, with both your children abroad.”
Carol winced at the reminder. It was true; her children had left home long ago. Carol and her husband, Les, had always encouraged them to follow their dreams and make their lives an adventure, even if that meant leaving the safety of home. Her daughter now lived in America and her son in London, which, as far as Agnes and many other villagers were concerned, was far away enough to be considered “abroad.”
The only part of Les’s funeral, six months earlier, that had been bearable was seeing her children, however shocked they had been at the sudden heart attack that stole away their otherwise invincible patriarch. Since that day, her daughter had insisted that Carol come live with her in whichever Carolina she had settled. North, south, east, west, it didn’t matter. Carol yearned to be with her daughter but lacked the vocabulary to effectively describe the tearing and gnashing of her bones that would surely be the result if she tore herself from this place. This was where she was born, where her parents and grandparents were born, and her husband, too. This was where she gave birth to her own children and grew into comfortable womanhood as a young mother. Roots in Devon grow deep and strong. Carol wasn’t sure she was capable of wrenching hers free.
Agnes turned and entered the kitchen, only to return moments later with a bowl of Dungeness crab soup, which she plonked down, accompanied by two fresh rolls, in front of Carol. She produced a thick slab of butter on a plate from the massive pocket on the front of her apron, as though it was a magician’s hat and a fat rabbit would follow at any moment.
The bell on the door jingled, and Agnes whirled to see who was coming in. “Ta-da, Ted,” Agnes said, and she bounced away to greet the grizzled pensioner who ate all his meals here.
“Tis’ wet as a seal in t’sea,” Ted croaked. He nodded to Carol, causing his massively long, white eyebrows to wave in the breeze as the door shut behind him. As always, The Telegraph was under his arm, and he meekly allowed Agnes to serve him his usual.
Carol dipped her spoon into the thick soup and, moments later, pulled a gritty bit of shell from her mouth. The soup might be a specialty of this area, but she didn’t understand why anyone liked it, full of pieces of shell as it always was. She slathered a roll in butter and allowed her thoughts to drift.
“Are you going to see the midsummer bonfire tonight, love?” Agnes asked, replacing Carol’s disappearing butter pad with a new one. “We’re going when we close. Why don’t you come along?”
Carol smiled but shook her head. “No, but thanks, Agnes. It’s lovely of you to ask, but I’m just too tired. This has been delicious,” she said, pushing her mostly empty bowl away, “but now my bed is calling, and I need to feed old Ned.” Her aging border collie was undoubtedly wondering where she was. He usually went to work with her, but today, she’d left him lounging on his bed in the sun when she’d walked back to the shop after lunch.
“Aye, that does sound good,” Agnes agreed. “Give old Ned a scratch for me.” Agnes waved off the cash Carol tried to leave and bustled her out of the restaurant as quickly as she’d bustled her in.
Carol did feel somewhat refreshed after the meal. It was good to talk to people who cared about you like most of the villagers cared for each other. A tight-knit community could be as much of a brace in hard times as a straight-jacket in others, depending on your season of life. Since losing Les, Carol wanted to slink away into the shadows but had to admit she felt better when her friends forced her to engage. And so engage she did most days, and the shadows receded, bit by bit.
She turned up the narrow street where she and Les had purchased their dream cottage ten years ago. It wasn’t large, but it was perfect: Tudor style, with a thick thatched roof and lush gardens in the front and back. She pushed open the wooden front gate. Ned’s face appeared in the window at the sound of creaking hinges.
The spring daffodils were nearly gone, and red tulips had taken over in their shared beds. A mother bird who’d made a nest in a birdhouse Les had built flew away at the unexpected intrusion. Carol wondered how old her peeping chicks were as she followed the winding brick path to her blue-painted front door.
Ned greeted Carol with his usual good humor, and she waited patiently while he relieved himself in the garden. She put her things away while he crunched contentedly on his kibble, and then they settled in front of the fireplace that Carol decided to light, remembering how comforting Agnes’s fire had been.
She leaned back in her rocking chair, staring at the flames. A glimmer on the mantle caught her eye, and she looked up at Les’s urn.
She sighed. “Oh, Les, what am I to do with you?” Ned perked his ears and lifted his head, and she patted it.
Carol felt uncomfortable having Les sitting here in the house. He’d never liked being indoors. He deserved to be out in his beloved countryside, where he could become part of the earth, the air, and the water he’d loved to explore during their happy life together.
But she could hardly bear to let him go. Spreading his ashes would permanently release him from their life, their home, and their love. In truth, she suspected she’d be stuck in this cycle of grief until she let him go, but for now, she just couldn’t. Her grief was still raw. She still expected him to walk through the door at any moment, refreshed by one of his gleeful walkabouts. Tears blurred her vision, but they abated before falling onto her cheeks. She’d cried enough.
Carol awoke with a start, her breast heaving and sweat clinging to her face. Ned hopped up from his place at the foot of the bed and crossed the bedclothes to examine his distressed mistress. He licked her face. She circled her arms around his comforting neck and leaned into his thick black and white coat. Her heart began to slow as she clung to her old friend, and her thoughts drifted into coherent form.
“Damn you, Les,” she cursed into the darkness of the bedroom. The dream was bright and shining in her memory, but she knew it wasn’t a simple dream.
Les had been there, in the bedroom, standing at the foot of the bed. All around him were sparkling flashes of light, like balls of colorful electricity growing and bursting all around him. He had smiled at her, and though he didn’t speak, she could feel his voice all around her.
“It’s time, Carol love, it’s time.”
He repeated it over and over, and he revealed to her a scene: his ashes blowing over the ancient granite stones of his favorite place, the Valley of Rocks, overlooking the cliffs near their house. Les had spent countless hours on this stretch of land, scrambling over the colossal rocks that looked like remnants of a massive stone weapon plunged into the cliffs by some ancient Celtic god. She could smell the woody heather, and she could feel the wind dancing up from the Bristol Channel. She knew this was where Les wanted her to scatter his ashes. And she was to scatter them tonight.
She glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. “That’s just like you, you old pagan,” she half chuckled. “Never could let me stay inside on summer solstice.”
Carol parted the curtains and peeked outside. The clouds had entirely gone, and the garden was adorned in the silver gossamer of the moonlight. She dressed quickly, and Ned watched, pondering her peculiar behavior. She trundled down the steep stairs and approached Les’s urn on the mantle. Her hands trembled as she reached for him, but then she was steeled by the recollection of her dream and his peaceful, joyful face. She tucked him under her arm and then set him in the basket they often took to the moors, loaded with a picnic.
She headed to the front door but paused. Les’s urn was rolling about unceremoniously in the wide basket. She grabbed her shears and went out to the back garden, where she snipped a large bundle of flowering lavender. Its rich, soapy scent wafted thickly around her. She arranged the lavender in the bottom of the basket and then nestled Les on top.
“That’s a bit better,” she said. “Come on, Ned.”
Ned hopped into the car beside her, and they drove through the clear night and parked near where the paths descended to the famous rocks. There wasn’t a soul in sight, even though this had been where the midsummer bonfire had taken place earlier. Carol thought it strange — she had feared needing to skirt late-night partiers drunk on mead and whiskey.
They headed down the path, Les in fragrant tow, and under the tranquil full moon, they easily navigated their way to the valley. There was a gentle southerly breeze, and it danced through Carol’s blonde bob, tugging her short locks toward the cliffs. She breathed deeply and gazed at the colorful lights from the boats floating on the channel. It was a perfect night.
Ned leaned against her leg, and she knelt to pet him.
“Well, old boy, we’re going to let Les go. I know we both miss him, but it’s time, wouldn’t you say?”
Ned nosed her hand in response, and she scratched his ears. Then she reached for the basket and lifted Les from his flowery nest.
“Les, my love, you’re right, as always. It’s time.”
She paused and unconsciously squeezed him to her chest.
“I’ve loved you my whole life, it’s true. And I hope to love you one day where you are now, surrounded by magical lights and knowing exactly what you want.”
She felt a little silly speaking out loud, but she also sensed that he was listening, somewhere.
She sighed and unscrewed the top of the urn.
“Goodbye, my love,” she said, swishing the ashes out of the urn. Some of it vanished into the grass at her feet, and some landed on the rocky escarpments beyond. The breeze caught the rest, and it danced over the cliffs down to the sea below.
She and Ned watched until the tiniest bits of dust had faded. Relief sliced through Carol’s dense fog of grief. She knew this was the right move and was happy that Les was still looking out for her.
Abruptly, Ned stood and faced west, where the coastline extended out into the Atlantic before curving down to Cornwall. The hair on his back rose, and he began to growl.
Carol was startled. She didn’t know when last she’d heard Ned growl. He was a jovial, friendly dog, always pals with everyone, and an excellent daily companion. She instinctively reached to pat his head and then turned toward whatever was causing him to growl more ferociously by the minute.
She couldn’t see anything for a moment, but she began to hear a low rumbling that grew steadily louder. Ned crossed in front of her, ready to protect her from whatever threat was approaching.
A herd of red deer crested a western knoll and descended swiftly into the narrow valley, where she and Ned stood defenseless. Carol was gobsmacked. She’d never seen a herd of red deer anywhere near the coast. They were usually found out on the moors, well away from the cliffs, and they were difficult to find even there. The deer ran straight for them and then, at the last moment, veered left, mounted the hillock beside them, and disappeared beyond the great rocks of the valley.
Carol gaped after them, astonished. Ned, however, remained trained on the place where they’d come from, his growls unceasing. Carol strained to see what he was looking at now, but it was all darkness and shadows made long by the steady glow of the full moon.
A small white figure, barely more than a puff of smoke, now moved down the same route the deer had just come. Carol strained to see what it was and felt better when Ned stopped growling. It was a wild hare, galloping toward them at top speed. It skidded to a stop before them and gazed into Carol’s eyes without fear.
The hair rose along Carol’s arms and neck. There was something special about this hare, but she couldn’t fathom what it could be.
Ned resumed growling, and Carol saw a distant light descending the same path. The light extended from a dark rider upon a horse as black as the shadows on a moonless night. Black hounds bayed loudly, and Carol was surprised she hadn’t heard them before they crested the hill. The sound was unnerving.
She looked down at the quivering hare. “Are they hunting you?” she said.
The hare stared at Carol with black eyes wide with desperation. Carol bent to retrieve her lavender-laden basket.
“Hide in here. I’ll keep you safe.”
In a flash, the hare leaped into the basket. Carol buttoned it closed and held it tightly to her body.
The baying grew louder as the hunting party approached. An eerie black cloud careened over the top of the party and down toward Carol and Ned. Hundreds of black bats tore overhead, whirling through the air and screeching at ultrasonic pitches that Carol could barely hear, and Ned definitely could. He howled, and Carol ducked as they passed low overhead. Then they turned and flew up the same way the deer had gone.
Carol panted and searched for a place to hide. Dread was burrowing into her heart, but before she could move, she yelped and jumped aside as adders and grass snakes alike slithered by, numerous and swift. Common lizards, field mice, and squirrels skittered past after that as though they were chasing the snakes. A few snorting hedgehogs followed moments later, completing the bizarre parade.
The dark figures drew near. On either side of the party (or was Carol’s imagination?), wild tendrils of thorns burst forth from the ground as though crowning the hunter’s path.
Ned growled more savagely than Carol had ever heard, but as soon as the party halted before them, he cried out and tucked tail behind her. Carol couldn’t blame him. She was terrified and felt frozen to the ground.
The hunter dismounted his steed, and (it must be her imagination!) black mist seemed to unfurl under his boots, increasing the darkness encircling the hunting party. He wore shiny black boots, and his pants were tucked into them at his knees. An unseasonably heavy cloak adorned his broad shoulders. A dark sailor’s cap crowned his head, and a wild tangle of ginger curls escaped from under it. His eyes were a piercing green, and his nose broad and arrogant. Full lips were encircled by a heavy red beard, and brows the same color scowled at her in the light of his lantern, old fashioned with an oil light illuminating its fluted glass walls.
“The hare,” he barked. “Which way did it go?”
Carol’s voice was stuck in her throat. She was terrified, feeling that this man was evil with every bone in her body. She clung to the basket, determined to protect this poor creature from his wicked intent.
“Well? The hare!” the man demanded.
“I—I haven’t seen a hare,” Carol stammered. “Only deer. They went that way.” She pointed up the hill where the deer’s hooves had beaten a clear path.
“I don’t care ’bout deer; my hounds were huntin’ a fat hare, and it came this way,” he snarled. “The hounds’r never wrong.”
The man took a step forward, and the night grew darker.
“What’s in yer basket, woman?”
Carol winced as the hounds advanced with their master and sniffed at her basket. She prayed the lavender cloaked the scent of the hare. She didn’t want to imagine what this fiend and his dogs would do if she were caught in her lie. After a strained moment, they retreated and lay at their master’s feet.
“Only lavender and heather. I—I collect it, see, under the moon of midsummer.” She gestured weakly to the moon, much dimmed since the hunter appeared.
He raised his eyebrow and then turned and spat. “Ah, yer a witch, then.” He nodded and then reached for her basket. “Let me see.”
Suddenly, a massive copper cloud erupted behind the man, filling the sky. It was filled with colorful streaks and pinpricks of light. Carol blinked. The lights rapidly grew, and she could see they were tiny pixies, all calling to her from behind the hunter. She could not hear what they said, but they beckoned desperately to her and pleaded with hands clasped as though in prayer, their anguished emotions expressed through the colorful flickering lights, the likes of which no fireworks show could compete.
The hunter seemed unaware of their presence as he reached for the basket.
“No! Please. I’ve spent all night collecting the stems best suited to magic. If you open the basket, my work will be lost, and the charms I’ve laid upon the flowers under the moonlight will become curses in the darkness.” Carol wondered at the strange words coming from her mouth.
The hunter withdrew his gloved hand and studied her. He glanced at his hounds. They hadn’t detected the hare’s scent; that was clear. He scowled again at Carol.
“Very well,” he said. He kicked away the trodden clods of grass from the deer’s path. “Come,” he called to his hounds, and in a flash, he swung up onto his mount, and they raced to the top of the rise and then over it. A final, bone-chilling cry from the stallion pierced the night.
Before she could stop herself, Carol rushed to the top of the rise to see whether the dark rider was waiting to ambush them. But the night was quiet and dark, and not a hint of the rider remained, though Carol could see across the moors for miles. Gooseflesh erupted over her entire body, and she shuddered violently. What the rider had been, she didn’t know, but he was no human being.
She crept behind one of the towering rocks and knelt to open the basket. She unbuttoned the leather strap and lifted the wicker lid. Where there had been a white hare, a tiny, exquisite woman stood and stepped onto the grass. Her skin shimmered with iridescence, and her dark hair trailed down her back in curls and plaits. An intricate crown of filigreed silver and live flowers sat upon her head. Her dress was delicate as woven spiderwebs and contained every color under the sky. She unfurled her long wings, and instantly, she was surrounded by dozens, no, hundreds of smaller lights and pixies, zipping through the air all around them.
Carol sat back. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Long had she heard stories of the pixies of Devon. This was their homeland, according to Celtic lore. But a great many magical beings had supposedly originated here, and Carol had never seen hide nor hair of any of them.
“Fair lady,” the tiny woman said, bowing. “Thank you for rescuing me. I am Joan the Wad, Queen of the Pixies.”
“N-no problem,” Carol stammered. Pixies began flying all around her. She felt them in her hair, on her shoulders and arms, all tiny caresses and fawning humming.
“For three hundred years, I have been unjustly trapped in the body of a white hare, doomed to be chased across the moors and under them in the land of spirits by the devil and his hounds until I could elude them with trickery. But you have assisted me this night, and the spell is broken. I am now come into my true body and can rejoin my brethren in the Nemeta Pixie Halls of good Devonshire.”
Carol nodded. “You’re welcome — I had no idea,” she mustered. And then her heart chilled. “That was the devil?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“Aye, the devil and his hell hounds, sweeping over our lovely moors, hunting us, always hunting us,” Joan the Wad replied. “We pixies are well versed in avoiding him and his kind, but one dark night, he captured one of my children.” Joan the Wad gazed sadly upon the ground. “And so I traded myself for my child and thus have been running from him ever since.”
“Oh my,” Carol said. “I’m sorry for your troubles.”
Joan the Wad flapped her wings, testing them after her long flightless interlude, and then flew to Carol.
“It is because of you that my troubles have ceased, my good lady. You have my thanks and the thanks of the Pixie Kingdom.”
Joan the Wad and her hundreds of pixies bowed gravely to Carol.
“In honor of our gratitude, you shall hereby be blessed in life as well as death. Your hens shall produce two eggs a day, and your cow’s milk shall overflow. Gone will the dust be upon your windowsill, and your beloved animal companions shall live far beyond their elder years. The sun shall shine upon your head, and no drop of rain will wet your brow. And when it comes time for you to leave this human body, you shall come to live with the pixies in our great halls upon the moors, and you will know no fear, nor angst, nor sadness, nor cold.”
Carol’s eyes filled with tears. She knew the pixie queen’s words to be true, and she was grateful.
“And now,” continued Joan the Wad, “you shall have what you’ve longed for the most.” She bowed again and extended her arms, and Les walked out of the monolith beside them.
He reached for Carol, and she cried out, “Oh, Les!”
His hands grasped hers, solid and true, though his skin shimmered with luminescence, not of this world. He pulled Carol to standing, and they embraced, clinging to each other with yearning.
At last, Les grasped her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Oh Carol love, I have missed you. I wish you could see what’s waiting for you beyond the veil. It’s more beautiful and magical than anything you could imagine.”
Carol cried, her tears flowing freely. “I have missed you so much. And so has old Ned,” she said, laughing as Ned woofed merrily and leaped at his master. “We haven’t known what to do without you.”
“You’ve done well, lass,” Less said. “I’m sorry to have left you, but you’ve managed a treat. And you will continue on the same way until you join me, but all in good time. For now, do what makes you happy. I’ll wait for you wherever you go. Stay here, or move to America. I’ll be right there with you, just on the other side of the veil. It really is a veil, Carol; it really is just a simple veil.”
Carol nodded and then noticed that Les was becoming steadily more translucent.
“No, Les, don’t go!” she said.
“I must, my darling. I am waiting for you, and I am with you,” his voice began to trail off, and then he was gone into the night.
Carol cried out, but her tears were of happiness and relief. Ned licked her hand and sniffed the air where Les had been.
Joan the Wad approached. “We too must go into this dark night, my lady,” she said. “But we will be there, with you, until we meet again. Thank you. The blessing of the pixies lights your path.”
Joan the Wad bowed, and a breath of wind off the sea dissolved her and her party into tiny sparkles of light, which whirled into the sky and disappeared.
Carol and Ned remained gazing after them long after they vanished. Finally, Carol looked down at Ned. She hoped Joan the Wad was true to her word and that Ned would be with her for a very long time to come.
They crested the hill beside the wide rut carved by the red deer, walked to the car, and drove home. The moonbeams again bathed the countryside in shimmering silver, and, for Carol, the magic of this land was born anew under it.
Later, sitting with Ned beside the fireplace at home with a steaming cup of tea, Carol texted her daughter.
Ash, love, call me when you’re awake. I’ve had some thoughts about closing the shop and moving to America. We can discuss it in the morning. Love you, mum xx.
She leaned back in her comfy rocker and gazed upon the empty mantle. “Well, if that doesn’t beat all,” she said to Ned. He yawned, and she scratched his head. Pixies and queens and the devil with his baying hounds. What more could Les have in store for her?
“If it’s just a veil, I’m sure he’s got other plans,” she chuckled and then rocked in her chair. Outside the cottage windows, tiny colorful lights floated and sparkled in the garden, and birdsong began to welcome the dawn.