Threshold by Amy Tryphena

Ghosts of the old world make their presence still known upon the moors. Known by their ancient stone walls and standing stones that still litter the landscape. The walkers, incongruous in their primary colours, garish symbols of the twenty first century.

The group, as per the instructions set for them by the B&B owner that morning, wore their coats inside out.

He told them, “Tis a defence against being Pyski-led. Cause I hope to see you all return.”

Of course, the tourists had no idea what this meant, but in a humorous nod to the peculiar local traditions, they complied.   

Two couples and a fifth wheel set out upon Penwith moor that afternoon. The unattached member of the party grudgingly took up the rear.

Occasionally he would stop to photograph fungi that protruded from the verges, or to finger the yellow gorse flowers that encroached upon the path.

“Andy, will you keep up. You don’t want to be left behind.”

The cloying humidity pressed close so Andy removed his post box red coat to tie around his waist.

                This was a mistake.

Afternoon passed and dusk crept upon the group; purple hues and dark shadows warned of the encroaching night.

“Keep up man,” shouted the couples.

Andy, enraptured by the local flora, continued to stop and observe nature’s treasures.

As he bent to catalogue a wax cap mushroom; a glossy tactile yellow specimen, he failed to notice the peculiar mist that had descended. Surprised to find himself enveloped in this damp shroud he forged on.

He realised he had lost the path and had found his feet upon sodden turf devoid of footprints.

He shouted for his fellow walkers but the fog absorbed his voice.

“Okay, don’t panic I’ll use the sun, it’s setting to my west so this must be the path east to the car park,” he reasoned.

He walked on. In circles. For hours.

His breath came fast and shallow.  His heart beat crept up; drumming a panicked rhythm against his ribs.

Unbeknown to him he had slipped over the threshold between worlds into the land of the hidden folk. If only he had known the etiquette of this strange land.

He came upon a gathering within a granite circle of lichen decorated standing stones. Inside was a raucous scene of music, dancing and feasting. People only two foot high at their tallest, dressed in clothes woven from green sedge fronds. Those dancing in the centre of the revellers wore red woollen capes that flared about their shoulders as they spun like whirling dervishes.

The etiquette in this world is clear. You must never let the fairy folk; the pyskies – spirits of the unbaptised dead, catch you observing them. You must continue upon your way as if oblivious to their presence.

Andy, our coatless walker, who shrugged off his protection, did not know this lore. In his amazement he stared at this peculiar scene and called out to the private little folk who revelled within the ancient circle of stones.

“Hello…Oh god please can you help me? I don’t know where I am – I’m completely lost.”

A sudden silence fell over the merriment. All eyes fixed upon him, unblinking. 

Two sharp claps came from within the crowd and the fair vanished.

At once multiple hands descended upon him; relentlessly pinching, slapping, poking and pulling at his clothes. He tumbled – endlessly – through gorse bushes and brambles. Thorns tore at his skin.

The torment seemed eternal, but at some point, he must have fallen unconscious. He awoke, from what seemed like the deepest sleep of his life, on a blanket of moss, upon a bed of granite. Roused by an inquisitive wet nose nudging at his face, he opened his eyes to the soulful gaze of a brown Labrador, wagging his tail with a search and rescue insignia on his red harness. His human companion followed behind on his radio,

“Got him.” He turned to Andy, “Am I glad to see you mate, been looking all round here for three days now.”

Amy Tryphena

Image: Cornish moorland on a beautiful day framed by Lanyon Quoit standing stones. LoggaWiggler from Pixabay