Gemma and an encounter with a magical skull

For the second Christmas tale this year I have, once again, been inspired by Granny Mann, the White Witch of North Bovey. This one's called: FIND MY FRIEND
Gemma was a London girl at heart, but all her early childhood memories were of holidays in the West country, camping in Cornwall and caravans in Devon. Her parents had honeymooned on Dartmoor and nine months later she was born.
They used to tease her that the River Dart was in her blood. Being an only child, she soon became used to her own company. At school she withdrew into herself even more when her classmates would tease her for her looks.
Her long dark hair, sunken eyes and slightly curved nose, earned her the nickname Witchy Poo.
She felt cursed. That was until the Goth scene exploded and lots of the London clubs started having Goth nights. With just a slight application of black eyeliner and lipstick, her natural looks helped her blend right in and looking older than her years, she was able to slip into the clubs where she started to make new friends. She had finally found her people, who helped her survive the rest of her school days and kept her sane.
Choosing not to go on to university life for fear of further teasing, she managed to get a job in a reputable bookshop in Central London, preferring to stay where she felt safest. Reading had always helped her escape her tormentors, losing herself in a good book. She loved tales of witches and magic.
“Well, if the name fits,” she thought, “why not find out what all the fuss is about?”. So, whilst at work, in between stocking the shelves and serving customers she treated the shop as her own personal library, researching the facts behind the fiction.
One of the things she had loved about her holidays in Cornwall was visiting the ancient sites, the stone rows and circles, and holy wells. A particular favourite was the old fogou at Carn Euny. She had once gone for an early morning walk there and had been followed round the whole site by a friendly ginger cat that kept rubbing itself against her legs, demanding fuss. It even followed her down into the tunnel. She eventually tore herself away and climbed a stile to continue her walk. Returning that way, she encountered a striking young woman with long red hair sitting on the stile where she had left the cat, of which there was no longer any sign. The woman gave her a knowing smile, making Gemma feel that maybe this woman had been the cat and was practicing some form of witchcraft...
Talking of witchcraft, her parents had often taken her to the museum in Boscastle, where she would spend hours browsing the exhibits. She particularly liked the poppets, the imaginative ways that people chose to harm each other. She briefly contemplated resorting to such things to get revenge on her tormentors. When she heard about the flood that had swept through the village, causing so much destruction, but fortunately no deaths, she was quite concerned, especially as the museum had been in its path. A lot of exhibits had been washed away, fortunately all had been returned, thanks to them being marked with the museum’s postcode, apart from one. The missing item was quite striking. It was a human skull secured to a red stand and was a particular favourite of Gemma’s. She had read about its loss whilst at work and it reminded in her thoughts for the rest of the day.
Returning home that night, her parents noticed that she seemed quieter than usual and asked what was on her mind. She told them about the loss of the artefact and how much it seemed to bother her. She excused herself early that night, feeling a headache coming on. Her parents told her she had been putting a lot of hours in at work and could probably do with a break. Being single, she’d never really fancied holidaying alone, but maybe they were right.
Once in bed, the headache worsened, making it hard for her to drift off, but eventually she started to settle and to dream. She didn’t usually dream, at least not ones that stayed with her, but this one seemed different somehow. It was like she was being shown lots of random images, an old cottage, narrow country lanes, a village pub, an old signpost with the words Watching Place on it, and a steep hill with lots of rocky outcrops. Then a loud voice in her head said, “Find my friend!”. This made her wake up with a start, still with a throbbing head. Fortunately, the next day was Saturday, at least she had the weekend to shift the pain. At breakfast, she told her parents about the weird dream and straightaway her father latched on to the signpost saying Watching Place. “That sounds like Dartmoor,” he said, and went on to explain that the sign stood at a particular junction where in olden days highwaymen would wait and watch for their next victims to approach. Should they ever be caught, their punishment was to be hung at that same spot, whilst a crowd watched them die. Oh the irony of the double meaning!
Her father was into all these old stories, having quite a collection of books on Dartmoor folklore. She spent the day immersed in his library, cross referencing bits online, coming up with the fact that the village of North Bovey was not far from the Watching Plac and its pub looked like the one in her dream. The rocky hillside was most probably Easdon Tor, which was a short walk from the village, but what did it all mean, and who was the “friend” that the voice wanted her to find?
That night she dreamt again. This time she saw images of women, presumably witches, removing body parts from hanging corpses, a close up of the rocks on Easdon Tor, in particular one with a protruding rocky canopy, and a view of a full moon. This time the words, “Find my friend”, came with the very strong image of a witches altar, comprising of lit candles on a flat rock, surrounding the skull on the red stand that was missing from the museum. Gemma awoke and sat bolt upright. Seeing the skull again had triggered a memory, something to do with the blurb that used to be attached to it in the museum. Going online, she searched their website to see if it featured, and sure enough there it was. The skull used to belong to a White Witch called Granny Mann, who lived in North Bovey on Dartmoor and she referred to it as her “friend”. She kept it on Easdon Tor, with a makeshift altar and whenever people made requests of her to cast magic she would head there to consult her “friend”. She didn’t carry it with her, instead she kept it secreted away in a crevice underneath the altar...could it be possible? Gemma knew it wasn’t, but she felt that she was being compelled to go and look.
Deciding it was as good a time as any to take that much needed break, she rang work the next day to say she wasn’t feeling well and could she take some time off, apologising for the short notice. As she had lots of annual leave accrued, they said yes.
Knowing that North Bovey was her destination, she looked up available accommodation in the area and found that a little cottage like the one she had seen in her dream, was available as a holiday let that week. She booked it, packed a bag and set off in her little mini. Everything seemed to be conspiring to get her there. She checked in with the owner, took the keys, and as it was too dark to do any exploring, she headed to the pub for a bite to eat. Sitting on her own, it wasn’t long before some of the friendlier locals started to engage her in conversation. When she told them where she was staying, one of them piped up, “That was Granny Mann’s cottage. They say she still haunts the place. I hope she leaves you alone!”. Too late! She now knew who had drawn her here...by haunting her dreams.
That night, the dream seemed more intense, or was it a dream? This time the figure calling to her appeared, wearing a long, hooded, black dress. Throwing back the hood, Gemma felt like she was looking in a mirror, for there before her was the same lank black hair, same haunted eyes, and crooked nose. Maybe it was more than the Dart that had gotten into her at her conception? It all made sense now.
The next morning, she awoke early after Granny Mann had finally let her sleep, to prepare for her walk to Easdon Tor. As she left the property, she felt her every step was being guided, she certainly didn’t need a map.
Following the lanes out of the village, it was like Granny Mann herself was with her, leading her on. She soon saw signs to Easdon and the lane became a footpath up the hill. Passing through a gate, the path levelled out and there in front of her was a small outcrop of rocks, slightly concealed by bracken and gorse. Realising this was the place, she made her way through the prickly gorse until she was standing in front of Granny Mann’s altar. “Reach under!”, commanded the voice in her head. Doing so, she felt a smooth object, hidden from view, in a large crevice. Pulling it out, she found herself holding the missing “friend”, but how was this possible? It was like magic, but then again the skull was magical. Using an analogy from her favourite TV show, it was like when the TARDIS operates the HADS system, removing itself from imminent danger then returning when the coast is clear. Maybe the skull had sensed danger from the Boscastle flood, and had returned here, to the last place where it had felt safe? However it had happened, her task now was to return it to the museum. After an excited phone call to the owners, telling them of her discovery, she set off for Cornwall.
The skull, no worse for wear from its ordeal, was placed back on display, in its new cabinet for all to see, the owners choosing to keep the tale of its recovery to themselves. Gemma was thanked by being given a lifetime’s membership of the museum, something she was sure to make the most of. As for Granny Mann, she left the poor girl’s dreams alone, content in the knowledge that her “friend” had finally been found.