The Accursed Moor

Chapter 1

1

The Moor lay like a stricken beast, the life drained from its features. A barren, stark and insensitive thing, no compassion, no care within its hard rocks, its scarred soil a testament to the a***e suffered at the hands of men.

On that fateful evening, many years later, Ralph stood on an exposed hilltop, ran a hand over his face and looked across at his car, parked only a few paces away. As he stared across the verdant, gently undulating moorland, his mind turned to what his life had become.

Married. Job. Boredom.

He hated the normality of it all, the deadly dull routine. This was not what he had dreamed of, longed for. He’d gone to sleep some twenty or more years ago, and he still had not woken up. What could he do? He was trapped.

The knot twisted in his gut, the stress taking hold. It was becoming worse, he’d noted with a slight sense of alarm. He often woke in the middle of the night, a deep sense of depression overwhelming him. “Dear God…”

God. Or fate. Whatever the reason, the promise of something new, something exhilarating had offered itself up to him. The little Kia had gone in for its routine service, so he had taken the Jinny to work that morning.

Things beyond his control.

The Kia would have probably crumpled on impact. Not so the robust, dependable Suzuki. It ate up the twisting lanes criss-crossing the Moor with ease and made mockery of heavy gnarled tree roots, ruts and hidden potholes. On the highway, although not a comfortable ride, it proved it did its job equally well.

Returning home from work that evening, as he came over the brow of the A30, the sudden appearance of a deer crossing the highway in front of him caused him to apply the brakes, but too late he hit it. The impact sent the car into a skid, but the heavy tyres aided him in quickly regaining control and he slewed into the hard shoulder, pulled up sharply and sat there for a moment, his body shaking with shock. It took a few seconds to recover some sense of equilibrium. The night was not yet pitch and as he squinted towards the road, he could see it lying there, a large black lump, unmoving. He knew instinctively something was seriously wrong. He clambered out and moved slowly towards it. Steam rose from its flanks, but it lay dead, neck snapped.

Without another thought, Ralph turned and checked the car. Running his hand across the bull-bars, he could feel a tiny dint in the metal. Nothing more. Returning to the stricken animal, he studied it. A little Chinese water-deer. Delicate and beautiful, in life. In death, up close, he was amazed at how small it was. When he picked it up and lay it out on the back seat, it weighed next to nothing. A thought developed in his mind as his eyes rolled over its lithe, muscular body.

By the time he returned home, it was late. He took the deer straight to the garden shed, turned on the n***d bulb hanging by a frayed, ancient wire and gently lowered the animal onto his workbench, with a kind of reverence.

Two days later, he cut it up and fried pieces of thigh, serving them with a potato rosti and green beans. Mo, his wife devoured it, eyes closed, the juices running down her chin. “Beautiful,” she said between mouthfuls. “Venison, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, savouring every mouthful. “It’s delicious.”

Of course, he never told her where it had come from. She never asked.

From then on, he’d venture out every evening, focusing his thoughts, determined not to waste that accidental bounty. He knew the story of a guy near Exmoor who took dead animals from the road. It had dominated the local news some years back. Ralph had never given it much thought up until now. The memory made him feel somehow calmer, made his decision so much easier. He and Mo had benefited, not the crows, feasting on venison for the next three nights. Now, it was all gone, so he came up here, buried the remains and knew that what he had done was good. From now on, he would seek out other kills, collect them, prepare them. It was all so outrageously simple that he wondered why more people didn’t do it.

He put the old Second World War entrenching tool into his shoulder bag and tramped back home. The night closed in, only the stars to keep him company. But he could walk the direction blind-fold, the ancient by-ways and forgotten paths holding no secrets or dangers to him.

When he passed the old, deserted cottage high up on the hill, he paused. A thought stirred in his mind. Something which had been developing ever since he had first taken the knife to the deer’s flank. With the promise of so much bounty it would be impractical to tramp home with a bleeding carcass. So, he would use this old homestead. No one ever went there, save for the occasional school visit when the children could get a glimpse of how, in the past, people lived out here before electricity and running water. But how often did anyone go there? Once a year? Ralph chuckled to himself. It really was as if the fates were guiding him.

Ralph’s spirit lightened. It was the perfect plan. As he moved past the old cottage and veered off towards his own home, he smiled.