The folk hunter

“One of the Green Angels was born in a dell somewhere in the north of the Lake District, or so I’m told.”
I was sharing a pint with Joseph, a local farmer and part-time folklorist. His beard was still thick - ‘winter plumage’ I called it. His eyes were wide with childhood’s wonder as he recounted his latest tale, gleaned while on holiday in Keswick.
“A witch, known locally as Deira, apparently saw the child fall to earth in a dream,” he continued talking, animating his words with his hands and fantastic facial expressions, “and, upon waking, immediately sought out this valley - which she was able to recognise from her dream.”
I beamed with delight. It was a real pleasure to have Joseph back. A joy to have a drink and a chat with him again.
“Did your contact show you the place where the angel fell?” I asked him, with real interest.
We met up every Friday night at The Old Barghest Inn, sampled whatever guest ales were on, and talked about all things strange and olde - the great secrets our ancient country holds that are sometimes uncovered. It had only meant us missing one Friday night get-together, his trip to Keswick with wife Miriam, but the weeks had dragged awfully, in between.
“Well, it was actually Shaun who I met up with and not Robin, in the end. You know him, what’s he called again? Erm, RedRune.” Joseph was talking about the web forum we frequented, ‘Local Mysteries (Yorkshire)’ on the Lost History website. I was called ‘Herne31’. He was called ‘The Barghest Follows’.
“I’ve read a few of his posts, but he doesn’t come on the Yorkshire forum much,” I explained. Joseph was much more interested in local folk tales, hauntings and the like, than myself and frequented all the regional Local Mysteries forums. I was fascinated, but I would never devote more than a few spare hours a week to the topic. Joseph, it’s fair to say, was obsessed.
“Well, anyway,” said Joseph, “Shaun says there’s a few different valleys that it could have been. They’re all much of a muchness, you know - waste of time looking. ‘But,’ he says, ‘I can go one better.’ ”
“Deira’s place.” I said it like a statement, though it was almost a question, but I wanted to sound wise, like I was right there with him on where the story was headed.
“That’s right, that’s bloody right - I was so excited, you know?” I nodded and smiled in a way that made my bottom lip slightly cover my upper one.
He continued: “It was about three o’clock at this point and we sets off on foot from this pub called The Fieldfare. Took us some time to get there, like, and we must have been walking three while half-four, until we gets to this field with a wood behind it.” I’m all nods and engaging eyes.
“It were a pretty scene, with the sun quite low in the sky and the mountains going red in the distance. On the edge of the wood there’s these timbers scattered and burnt, and the remains of this stone hut, right nearby.”
“ ‘A group of farmers got together and came for her, one night,’ says Shaun. ‘Heard she’d taken a baby, this time, and that was too much. They tied her up inside the house, got the child out and then burnt the whole place down. Burnt some of the trees up, too.’
“Well, that’s the usual story anyway, but we know that baby wasn’t normal. Who’s to say it didn’t start the fire when they tried to take it? And what became of it afterwards?” I was captivated by Joseph’s tale, I was there with him as the two men strode purposefully towards the shell of the witch’s dwelling, I could feel the coldness of that spot and the fear caused by the domination of the dark woods, getting closer.
“When we were only about eight or nine hundred yards off old Deira’s cabin, Shaun stops dead and puts his arm out in front of me, like he’s trying to stop me walking out in front of a car.
“ ‘There’s someone there,’ he says. ‘There’s someone in the cabin.’ So I follow along to where he’s staring and, honestly, I can see something just inside the doorway. A shadow maybe, an outline, but it’s there. We both know it, something tangible, lurking, maybe watching us.”
This was too much to bear. “What the hell did yer do next?,” I cried, splurting some of my beer onto the table. “Who was it in the house?”
“I’ve no idea,” he laughed. “We both turned and ran for it, back up to the path and the fell road without stopping. Seasoned ghost hunters as we are…”
I joined him in the laughter now. Guffaws and big rolling tears, now that the tension of his story was gone. A wonderful man, Joseph. So interesting, and so very kind and attentive to his Miriam.
A wonderful man.