The Trials of Priscilla and Abigail Hawksby – A Gothic Adventure

Prologue

The hills of north-east Yorkshire are a mysterious inhospitable place, full of legends inspired by the strange stones and barrows which occupy the different moors. It is easy to be seduced and indeed disoriented by the expanse of heather surrounding the ancient strip farms. At the time of this tale, this was supplemented by the vile scarring of quarries and chimneys for the alum industry which made it kind of hell on earth serviced by the port of Whitby.

It is in this environment that a shocking event drives the chief protagonist of this tale down a spiral of lust into the depths of evil. Wallowing in the isolation the geography allowed him, a jilted father seeks to keep his daughters protected and pure until 2 fateful days, barely a year apart, tear his family asunder. Our story starts on a muggy but warm afternoon in 1782.

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Part I: The Patient

Chapter 1: The Stone Goddess of Urra Moor

“I don’t much care for the colour of that sky. We should return.” advised Sir Hugh Horton gazing up at the dark clouds which were now overhead.

“It just adds to the atmosphere.” dismissed his young friend Sir Thomas Squires.

“I doubt the atmosphere needs any thickening. What do they say? ‘Ne’er cast a clout ‘til May be out.’ and June is some way off.”

“It’s the May tree!” his companion retorted “and that came out at Gillamoor Court last week. Ah!” he pointed “That’s what we came to see.”

The pair dismounted from their steeds and made their way towards the nearest of a pair of 3 feet high standing stones.

“Oh yes, it’s gruesome” grimaced the older man, as he gazed at the weathered face at the top of the stone.

“Fascinating, I wonder who made it? One can only imagine the pagan …”

The blinding explosion that enveloped Thomas knocked Hugh off his feet as the thunderclap deafened them. A torrent of rain pinned Hugh’s body to the ground. He struggled to his feet commending his incredible luck and looked towards what he thought would be the remains of his friend. Instead the sight of Squires rising from the ground shocked him into laughter. “We’re alive! We’re alive!” he cried, raising his hands in the air “God be praised!” If it was possible for nature’s primary target to hear his animated colleague through the downpour, maybe Thomas would have reacted but he just held his knees until …

The man regained consciousness deep in the heather. He was in pain everywhere, but his back was particularly uncomfortable. The fact that he was not dead was a miracle, that much he knew, but as to who or where he was, those were facts which had temporarily escaped him. The amnesiac rolled himself off the rock until he was facing it. Although the sky was still angry there was plenty of light for him to make out the shape of a voluptuous naked woman … nay Goddess. At least his eyes were working because he could not hear a thing.

An hour later he felt able to get up. There was no sign of any living creature around him. **** for some identity Sir Thomas Squires of Gillamoor Court, who owned perhaps the most recognisable face in the North York Moors, pointlessly attempted to pick up the statue but being in no fit state to even lever it from its partially buried situation he had to leave it behind and wandered confused across the moors.