I look out of the window as Dad crests the hill and the rolling Devon landscape opens up before us. The frost has melted in the winter sunshine, revealing fields intersected with high hedges and stone walls. Barren trees throw skeletal arms toward the blue sky. The color makes me think of Mac’s eyes.
“No,” I tell Dad. “I’m glad it’s done.”
“You’re well shot of him.” Dad reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Mum’s made up your old room, anyway. You can stay with us as long as you need.”
It’s going to take about an hour before they drive me nuts, but I know that’s my problem, not theirs. They both mean well, and they both love me. I’ll find somewhere else soon enough. Tia lives with her boyfriend, Simon, and even though she’d protest she’d do anything for me, I’m sure neither of them would be pleased to have me move in. Maybe a friend, Samantha or Charlie, can put me up for a few weeks until I get back on my feet.
I asked Dad to stop at the Vodafone shop on the way out of the city, and now I turn my attention to my new phone. They sorted me out a new a SIM card that will transfer over my old number, and I slot it in and go through the setup process. There’s no reception on this part of the road, but there will be in Briarton. I’ll be able to check my phone messages and emails for the first time since the accident.
It’s not long before we arrive home. They still live in the house I grew up in. It’s a large manor house, partly made from Devon cob—clay mixed with straw. There are beams in it supposedly taken from ships in the Spanish Armada. My grandparents lived here too—the house was my grandmother’s, and her mother’s before that. I suspect our family has been living here for centuries.
Mum’s waiting, and she takes me into the living room and makes me sit on the sofa, where she’s already put pillows and a duvet. I protest, but after taking off my jacket and shoes and sliding under the duvet, I discover she’s slipped a hot-water bottle in there, and I snuggle down gratefully.
“I’ll make you some chicken soup,” she says, even though I’d rather have a strong coffee, and she bustles off to prepare it.
Dad kisses my forehead and disappears, probably to his shed. I settle down with my phone. First of all, I check my messages. There’s one from Kimi; one from Charlie, her daughter; one from my Aunt Ella—my mother’s sister; and one from Samantha, her daughter and therefore my cousin, all asking me to call when I feel up to it. A few from other friends, sending me well wishes; they’ve obviously heard about the accident. One from my insurance provider—Dad’s probably let them know about the crash. Nothing from Tia.
I load the Gmail app and enter my email address and password. It’s a lengthy process, and while I wait for my emails to load, Mum comes in with a mug of soup and a plate of wholemeal bread. I leave the bread but sip the soup, which warms me through, thawing more of the little pieces of ice I’m sure still exist inside me.
My emails finally appear, and at last I see one from Tia. I pull it up. It’s dated the morning of my accident.
Hey! Tia says. I’ve just tried to ring you—where are you? Just wanted to let you know I’m researching a super-cool story and I’ll be off the grid for a few days. Apparently, a set of strange animal footprints has been photographed across almost all of Dartmoor in the snow. Take a look at the attached—what do you think? And have you heard of the Devil’s Footprints? I thought you, being Miss Archaeology, might be able to research more than what I can find online. It’s probably all bullshit, but my editor thinks it’s an interesting angle. Let me know if you find anything out. I’ll be back in a few days. Oh, and let the Crows know, will you? I’ve texted Kimi but haven’t heard back yet and my reception’s shit up here. I’ll have to miss Sunday’s meetup. Say sorry to Kimi for me. X
There are three email attachments. I open the first. It’s an aerial photograph of the snow-covered roofs of Briarton. I recognize the layout—the church on the hill, the main road running all the way through the middle of the town, the side roads branching off either side, the cricket green to the east, the river crossing the road at the bottom. I enlarge the photo with my thumb and forefinger.
Across all the rooftops and down the roads is what looks like a trail of prints. I enlarge it further. They’re not human; they’re dog-like, similar to the ones I saw on the riverbank.
I open the other two photo attachments. They’re both aerial photographs—the first of a large area on Dartmoor, the second of another village, probably also on the edge of Dartmoor, judging by the stone walls. Both of them contain more prints, over fields, barns, and houses. Sometimes they crisscross, or loop around. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to them.
Opening the browser on my phone, I type in “Devil’s Footprints,” and pull up the first article I see.
On the eighth and ninth of February, 1855, trails of marks the shape of a goat’s hooves appeared overnight in the snow, covering an astonishing forty to one hundred miles. Many people believed them to be the marks of Satan.
An icy finger trails down my spine. The eighth of February was the date of my accident. The Devil’s Footprints appeared on exactly the same day, one hundred and sixty-five years ago.
The prints were four inches long, three inches wide, and between eight and sixteen inches apart. They were found in thirty locations across Devon, and a few in Dorset, crossing fields, towns, rooftops and barns. There have been many attempts to explain the incident, everything from an experimental balloon from Devonport Dockyard trailing shackles on the end of its mooring ropes, to an escaped kangaroo, to hopping mice, to aliens. None of it makes any sense.
I sit back, puzzled and more than a little disturbed. Tia’s right—it’s an interesting story, and that’s even before you take into account the fact that I saw similar marks by the river. I wonder whether the other members of our coven have heard about it. I’ll ask them tonight.
Talking of which, I have some messages to return. I take some time to message Samantha, Charlie, Aunt Ella, and Kimi, explaining I’m out of hospital, I’m fine, and well enough to attend the meeting tonight at seven. I’ll have to borrow Mum’s car, I realize, and I know she’ll argue that I shouldn’t go out, but hopefully she won’t make too much fuss. With a trembling lip, I tell Kimi I’ve lost my Book of Shadows. I’ve been working on that for several years, and it’s going to be a great loss to me.
I email Tia back, tell her I’ll look into the footprints, and remind her to take care.
When I’m done, I snuggle under the duvet and hug the hot-water bottle to my chest. Unbidden, Jude’s words from yesterday rise to the surface like a piece of wood thrown into the ocean. Not about being bad in bed, but the other statements: You go through the motions, Perse. You stay in a job you hate because you have no enthusiasm about doing anything else. You don’t cry, you rarely laugh, you don’t sing or paint or do anything fun or creative except write in that book of yours that you won’t let me see.
The worst thing about those statement is that he’s right. Almost.
He’s correct about the job. While studying for my archaeology degree, I took a temporary secretarial job in a law firm because I was broke. Within a couple of months of me graduating, they offered me a full-time job. The girls I worked with were pleasant, and the money was decent, and Jude and I had been talking about saving up to buy a house, so I stayed. I took the easy option. But I’m done with that.