In the Fens there were men who could stop a horse in its tracks, or send it wild, and everybody knew how they had come by the trick.
A toadman had a toadbone, and getting one was not a pleasant business. You caught a walking toad and let the ants clean the bones, or you did it another way that does not bear describing. You dried the bones by carrying them on your body. Then, at midnight, alone, under a full moon, you went to a running stream and threw them in. The bones screamed, and only a brave man could stand and listen. One bone would move against the current. That was the one you kept. In some tellings you then had to take the bone to the stables at midnight three nights running, and on the third night the devil came, and you fought him, and you drew blood. After that, and not before, you were a toadman.
You could tell one to look at, people said. He would be a quiet, solitary sort of man, and no door in the Fens was ever shut to him.
This was not medieval. In 1953 a folklorist found the belief had faded around Ely but was still alive around Peterborough, with tales coming in from Thorney, Eye, Stamford and Wansford. One man said he had worked alongside a toadman for years and asked him again and again how it was done. The answer never changed. I daren’t tell my own son. What I know goes with me to the churchyard.
Where: The fen villages east and north of the city.


























