Nightjar

I

"In Summer sky, and Autumn eve,

Turn eye and ear to ground.

Stumble not, to safely hame,

To be, by Nightjar found."

Old folk poem. Anon.

As the sun sank behind the old grey tor, the sounds of the evening filled the sky. A cacophony of insects and birds. Each playing the games of hunter and prey. Soon, I would be back in my hometown. Well, the locals would call it a town, but, to call Dimpsy Tat a town, was probably pushing it. One main street, a small shop, selling everything needed. The further you got from the center, the fewer buildings there were, and the smaller, those buildings got. Due to its size, and relatively unknown status, Dimpsy Tat had avoided the wave of second home-owners, and developers. It had been years since I last visited, but I had never forgotten the rugged beauty of the moor. The sweeping, undulating, scrublands broken up by expanses of gorse and large, outcroppings of granite. If it had not been for the letter I had received, a week ago, I would probably have missed the glorious sight of this sunset, for several more years. The letter had been short and quite cryptic. It read;

"My old lost friend, Thomas,

I trust that this letter finds you well. To get to the point, what we had feared, but would never admit, has been awoken. The time has come to resolve this, once and for all, before it becomes too late to do anything. It will be good to see you, after all this time, even in these circumstances. Do not let these lost years stand in the way. Please make haste. We need your urgent assistance. 

    Yours, 

      Mags

Luckily, I had some time off and thought, at the very least, it might be good to see the old buildings and field's of home, after so many years. Although, to be honest, I felt some trepidation about being there, again. So many years had gone by, I wasn't certain if it would feel like home. As I rounded the sweeping corner, over the crest of the hill, there sat Dimpsy Tat. Shadowed by the steep tors, that surrounded it. I felt glad that in these summer months, the sun shone for a little longer, on the village. Given its position, down in a valley, surrounded by large granite monolithic structures, Dimpsy Tat spent most of the day bathed in the shadows. The darkness of night always seemed to fall more hastily, than other places I had experienced. Indeed, night also seemed to last that little longer, as well, in all but the summer months. After spending so long away from here, I found the temperature drop in the shadow of the tors, quite dramatic. It was like being suddenly drenched with cold water. Had it always been like this? My memories were mostly filled with thoughts of running around the tors, and climbing them. Playing hide-and-seek around the loose boulders and gorse. I could not recall it ever being this cold. Unless it was winter.

Putting it down to tiredness, from the drive, I concentrated on the descent into the village. The deceptive curve of the road had seen many a passing driver end up in a ditch or scraping a dry stone wall. Some old walls still had sections pushed through, where vehicles had taken the road too fast. Not vital enough to repair, they had been left to ruin, adding to the sense of desolation and abandonment. The last shallow dip, before a small bridge, made the front suspension bottom out. It scraped the road as it inclined slightly onto the bridge. The few people I drove by, stopped whatever their current activity was, as I passed. Some of the villagers I was quite surprised to see, remembering them from my youth. The first, was possibly the most surprising. The owner of the village shop, Mr. Priestley, looked almost as old as the ruined walls. He had a little more white hair now, but didn’t look that much older than I remembered. He stared at me intently, as I drove by. I couldn’t tell if it was because he recognized me, or, if he was straining to see through the windscreens reflections. A lot of the old shops were still looking the same, as though progress had halted. If not for the various telephone masts, satellite dishes, cable boxes, and the like, it would be easy to think it had. I also recognized Mrs. Lymewold, straight away. Stood there, bending someone's ear, with the latest town gossip, no doubt. She always seemed to know what was going on in other people's lives. This, despite living alone and in her old cottage just separate from the main town.