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more—something innate and inexplicable—compelled her to
the place.
    It was quiet and desolate today, and the
silence of the moor was somehow filled with anticipation. That sent
a shiver up her back and kept her senses keen as she followed the
well-trodden path. It was narrow but worn by footsteps, some places
inset with blocks of stone, a testament to how old the trails
were.
    It was easy to get lost up here, so the
guidebooks said, but if you stuck to the path you couldn't go
wrong. Mostly she did, but not today. Today Rhiannon strayed from
the path into the wild, and yet that wild place felt more familiar
to her than her lonely flat in town and the local bookshop where
she worked. Here, she felt right, as if she belonged to the
moor.
    "I know this place," she said aloud as she
kept the high crags in her sights. Her words were whispered away on
the wind. She hurried on, and reached a spot where an ancient wedge
of stone erected on the hill marked out the lay lines on the moor.
The occult insignia carved into its head was barely visible
nowadays, it was so weather beaten, but she'd read enough about it
to find and recognize the sturdy rock.
    Rhiannon observed in awe as the lowering sun
sent a shiver of light across the ancient wedge of stone, exposing
its worn carvings. The thrill of discovery quickly fired her blood.
She reached out and touched the stone. Static clung to her
fingertips and then shot up her arm. Rhiannon trembled, but could
not break the contact. Light pooled around the stone and as she
watched, in awe, it was picked up on the far hill and arced across
the moor, a prism of startling illumination lighting the underside
of the sky. As quickly as it had appeared it was gone, and she
withdrew her hand.
    The sound of footsteps behind her made her
jolt.
    Rhiannon.
    Her breath hitched. It was his voice,
calling her name. Bracing herself she turned to seek him out. As
she did the sky grew dark and the earth fell from under her boots.
Skidding down into a ditch, her body rolled, her face hit the
ground, and the scent of moss filled her nostrils. When her jaw was
forced shut by a series of impacts she coughed and tasted blood in
her mouth. The scrape of rough, exposed rock tore at her legs. Pain
seared her skin and bit deep into her left leg, and then she felt
the thump of hard earth against her back. Winded by the sudden
fall, she grunted heavily. Consciousness faded and she was
gone.
     
    * * *
     
    When Rhiannon came to, the sky was growing
dark. She quickly tried to gain some sense of her whereabouts.
She'd fallen about five feet, as deep as she was high, into a peat
bog. Her leg was pulsing with pain, as was her head. She thumped
the earth with her fist, incensed. She'd pulled something in her
calf, a sprain, at the very least. Glancing down she struggled to
see in the gloom. The fabric of her combat pants was ripped to
shreds around the painful area and up as far as her knee. Her shirt
was torn too and her chest was exposed and badly scratched. Blood
darkened the rip in her pants and she swore again. She needed
medical attention, but how was she going to get out of this bloody
ditch?
    Raw fear hit her. She was out on the moor
and dusk was fast turning into night. The folklore witches were
probably the least of her worries. Who knew what madmen were out
here? Never mind the UFOs, more recent reports of big, wild cats
preying on the local farms had hit the news. The tradition of the
dark moor had called to her regardless, that fatal attraction of
fear and desire latching her to the place, beckoning to her
relentlessly. It was no one's fault but her own, whatever happened.
Hot, futile tears stung the back of her eyes. She'd strayed from
the path today, and she'd found the rock marking the lay lines. It
felt significant, and she was afraid.
    The sound of footsteps focused her. She
recalled the sound from earlier. Had she dreamed it?
    "Hello?" It was a feeble effort that caught
in her throat. There was someone else