The Cat & Fiddle
“I met Murder on the way, he had a mask like Castlereagh, Very smooth he looked, yet grim; Seven blood-hounds followed him” - Percy Shelley, The Masque of Anarchy
Horses.
They were all Billy could think about. Groaning and grunting, squealing and snorting, then the thunderous rumble of hooves as they charged.
He remembered the sabres, the way they glinted as the riders slashed and carved. But above all else, he remembered the horses.
Billy had avoided St. Peter’s for weeks. The mere sight of it bringing back the screams and the stink. But somehow, the screams and the stink had found a way to follow him.
In daylight, he heard them when the children played, and smelled it when he passed by the meat markets. But at night, there were only the horses. Rearing, and kicking, and crushing.
By October, young Billy Ashton knew his future lay away from Manchester, the city of his birth.
His mother and younger brother had been killed in what the newspapers were calling ‘Peterloo’. A grim reference to the great battle of four years prior.
All they wanted was suffrage, to be heard by those that ruled them. Instead, they were hemmed in, and slaughtered like sheep.
Now, Billy was alone in the world, and unable to find comfort in the familiar, he decided to work his way to London - to begin a new life.
The town of Macclesfield was a day’s walk to the south. Billy arrived to find workmen digging an extension to the canal, while the huge complex of silk mills seemed like a town all unto themselves.
Billy found a pub that’d sell him a warm bowl of stew for a few shillings, but when it came to finding somewhere to sleep, he was out of luck. The flophouses were filled to the brim with travelling workers, with some even paying ha’penny to sleep leaning over a rope strung between two beams.
Since he couldn’t afford enough beer or brandy to keep the horses from his dreams, Billy decided to keep on walking. But not before seeking a spot of advice on his prospective route.
In the King’s Head Public House, Billy met a man who informed him that the road south of Macclesfield constituted the long way to Derby, and if he wanted to save some time, he should head east to a place called Buxton, and continue his journey from there.
The man also informed Billy of a shortcut he knew of, starting at a tavern known as ‘The Cat and Fiddle’.
Once he reached the tavern, and had suitably refreshed himself, a traveller could cut northeast across Axe Edge Moor and head straight into Buxton, instead of following the winding road that would take much, much longer.
Billy thanked the man, and was promptly on his way.
Before leaving Manchester, Billy’s final purchase was a brand new pair of brogues (to rattle o’er the moors), and on the aptly named Buxton Road, they were serving him well.
The sun had set by the time he reached a small village named Walker’s Barn. But it was no matter. All he needed to do was keep following the Buxton Road, and he would eventually reach The Cat and Fiddle.
Billy walked and walked, with nothing but the moon and the distant glint of farmhouse candles to guide his way. But in the dark, and the quiet, the horses returned.
They screamed and stamped behind him, their riders revelling in carnage. But at least - they were behind him.
As the road sloped southward, Billy caught sight of the moors for the first time.
They rolled across the landscape like a roiling ocean of dirt and stone, lit only by the silvery light of a waxing moon.
Billy stuck to the road, peering out across the moors every so often, and feeling a chill crawl down his shine at the thought of what might be out there, lurking just beyond the veil of darkness.
He’d heard many tales of who and what prowled the moors at night, along with stories of the poor souls who went missing. So he stayed on the road, awake and alert, despite his blistering exertions.
After shadowing the dark moors for almost an hour, Billy spotted a distant lantern, casting light onto the road.
Then upon getting closer, he spotted a weathered wooden sign hanging above a sturdy oak door, depicting a smiling black cat holding a fiddle and bow. Surrounding the door was a dark stone facade bearing clumps of ivy, crowned by a steep thatched roof of golden straw.
Billy pushed open the door, and was greeted by a low-beamed ceiling blackened by centuries of soot and tobacco stains. At one end, a roaring hearth cast a glow of warmth over crowded tables, while the polished mahogany bartop rested below gleaming brass beer taps.
Billy’s entry attracted the wary eye of one or two patrons, and after making his way to the bar, the landlady’s welcome left much to be desired.
When Billy requested half a pint of ale, the landlady eyed him suspiciously, then demanded payment up front. Only after Billy had placed a few small coins onto the bartop did she begin filling a pewter tankard using a tap labelled ‘Pale Rider’.
“You new ‘round ‘ere, are ya?” the landlady asked.
“Just passing through,” Billy replied.
“Willya be wantin’ a room for the night?”
“No, thank you” Billy responded, “as I said, I’m just passing through”.
“Passing through to where exactly - at this time of night?” the landlady narrowed her eyes.
“Buxton” Billy said, “but I’ll be there quicker than most. I know a shortcut”.
“This shortcut”, the landlady asked, setting Billy’s half pint down in front of him, “it wouldn’t happen to be across the moors would it?”
“It would, yes”, Billy replied, taking a sip from his tankard, “do you know it?”
“Only the idiots who try to take it”, the landlady said, “the ones who travel by day are lucky not to be robbed, but the ones who travel by night never make it to Buxton at all”.
“That bad, is it?” Billy asked.
“Not when I were a lass”, the landlady replied, “but nowadays, you can’t go out onto the moors without running into robbers, wild dogs, even mad men. And those are the ones you want to bump into!”
“And what do you mean by that?” Billy asked.
“I’ll say no more for fear of Bedlam” the landlady said, “but you mark my words lad, there are things out there you’re better off not seeing, and not knowing. Understand?”
Billy nodded respectfully, yet it was a mask for his incredulity.
He had seen things he was better off not seeing, or knowing. But they were made by men, not faeries. And even the most thick-skulled robbers stuck to roads on their hunts for wealthy carriages, not the moors.
No, he would not regard the landlady’s warning, for he was determined to reach Buxton before dawn.