My mother hails from Cornwall, from the village of Bluehill to be precise. I was always very close to my grandfather, my mother’s father. Ever since I was little, he took me everywhere with him, even to his work. I loved listening to his tales, the stories and experiences he’d gathered over his lifetime.
Once, I asked him if he’d ever seen fairies. He said no, but he had seen witches and even shapeshifters. I didn’t know what a shapeshifter was, so I asked him to explain. He told me they were sorcerers who could change their physical form into any animal, and some could even take flight.
He recounted that after retiring as a soldier, he worked as a night watchman in a field of barley near Bluehill. His duty was to guard the crops from thieves. One evening, as he arrived at the field around nine, he sensed something wasn’t right. The air was heavy, unnaturally cold, and the full moon cast an eerie glow over everything.
As was his habit, he walked the perimeter of the field. Past midnight, he settled into his chair, but exhaustion weighed on him, and a deep drowsiness began to take hold. In that moment, he told me, he knew something wicked was about to happen. A shiver ran down his spine, as though something unseen was drawing near.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps rustling through the barley, as if someone were moving inside the field. He grabbed his rifle. Having been a soldier, he knew how to handle a weapon, and in those days, there wasn’t much law—each man had to look after himself. Rifle in hand, he aimed into the darkness and shouted for whoever was there to show themselves. All he heard in reply was laughter, darting from one side to the other, growing louder and nearer.
Steeling himself, he stepped into the field, rifle at the ready. Then, a pig burst from the stalks, darting between the plants. Thinking it was just a stray, he chased after it. Just as he reached to grab its tail, the creature rose onto its hind legs and kept running. My grandfather froze, unable to believe his eyes.
He took aim, ready to fire—but before he could pull the trigger, two wings sprouted from the beast’s back, and with a cackle, it soared into the sky. Fear rooted him to the spot. The rifle slipped from his hands, striking his foot. The sharp pain snapped him out of his daze. Crossing himself, he snatched up the weapon and fled home, still shaking.
He told me he’d only ever heard whispers of shapeshifters before that night and never expected to meet one. Even now, when he retells the tale, the hairs on his neck stand on end. And I don’t doubt he saw something—because when he speaks of it, his gaze drifts far away, as though he’s back in that field, reliving it all again.
