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Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 04-27-2022 As Doctor Theodore Higgins dried his hands and peered over his tiny spectacles at the sleeping lad in the bed near the roaring fire hearth, he dutifully waited for the impending question from the man toying with the frayed piece of harness at the kitchen table. There were dark circles under Jimmy Dougie's eyes and considering the squeals of pain he'd released during the setting of his leg, Higgins concluded the would-be jockey's body was reacting by transporting him into the less strenuous world of dreams. Some call it a faint. The kid was young, but that leg would certainly put treacle on riding in the race next week. Even though Higgins had been in the business for almost thirty years, a broken leg still required over six weeks to recover. It didn't matter how you cut the pie, you still had pie he thought to himself as he watched young man's chest rise and fall steadily. Anyway -he mused, Dawes can always get one of his other stable-hands to ride that damned horse. Moving the badly-daubed ceramic bowl of water over to the gnarled oak sideboard near where Stanley Dawes sat brooding on today's misadventure in the paddock, Doctor Higgins noticed it matched an equally repugnant container standing further along the bureau. He'd known Stanley's mother before she'd gone over and just like her son with his taste in crazy horses, she'd had no penchant for nice things either. "How long Doc?" Stanley Dawes asked sullenly, the wall-lantern's glow dulled slightly as if to display the stable owner's mood visually. Moving his gaze from the equipment that had caused the accident to the boy's splint-wrapped leg sticking out from beneath the bed covers, Stanley resisted explaining to the saw-bones that the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race was to be the biggest event around these parts and it was only a week away. "James won't be riding in the Hunt, if that's what you're asking..." Doctor Higgins replied frankly and folded the towel into his dark-leather bag, "...the lad needs rest and I won't allow him to be on that leg until spring comes around" he added sternly as he picked up his coat from the nearby armchair. The bushy eyebrows of the fifty year-old arched in a pleading expression to the village's time-worn practitioner as he looked out of the window at the frog-striper flooding the muddy track from Dawes' sprawling property to his little house in Dibbleswith. But Stanley's gesture of supplication went unseen by the good Doctor and so the tactile examination of the worn leather resumed. "You'll heed my words, Stanley, the boy isn't to be moved until I say so" Theodore warned again and steeled himself from the inevitable thunder that came after the bright flash of lightning. Stanley's shoulders sagged his response and listening to God moving his furniture about in the dark sky, the glum stable owner was about to begin his mental gander of who could replace the Dougie boy, when he saw the Doctor pull his coat-collar up. The usual hint that a payment was due. Grunting in his exertion, Stanley rose and went to a large ornate -but ugly, urn that his mother had left him when she'd passed over ten years ago. The woolly-haired man in the weathered canvas waistcoat glanced over to see if the Doctor was watching his antics as he quietly lifted the porcelain lid with the half-naked mermaid on it that the stable-owner had guessed was painted by a semi-talented drunk, but Higgins seemed more interested in the deluge that had been hanging over the Dawes estate since yesterday. Plucking a single numma from the small pile of coins and deftly replacing the marine-themed cover back on the varnished clay pot, Stanley ran his thick fingers through his tightly-curled hair and prepared himself to give money away. It took a lot of mettle and the fifty year-old bachelor mentally wagered it hurt like Jimmy's leg, but he paid his bill. Ferrymen and Doctors. ................................................... The stable-hand murmured in his sleep as his boss twiddled with a broken piece of bridle, Diabolus was well-named, the black stallion had tossed three of his ostlers into the dirt since Stanley had bought him. He knew good running stock, his late-father had taught him well and when Stanley had first set eyes on the young Stygian-hued colt at Hexham Horse Fair, he knew that somewhere in that two year-olds lean body lay the need to be a winner. Maybe the saddle-girth had been missed during his inspections and maybe Stanley had deliberately avoided close scrutiny due to his funds dwindling, but he now felt bad on taking out his anger on Pip and Farra -the other two grooms, for the cause of the accident. Gazing towards the fireplace and allowing the hypnotic flames take him to a similar realm Jimmy currently frolicked in, the last member of the Dawes family capered in own his memories of the day his Pa had brought home the Annual Summertide and Barnstead Hunt trophy. Oracle's Grace had been a fine mare, a brave horse supposedly named after a fortune-teller his father had visited at a travelling carnival when he'd been Jimmy's age. And by Herne -Stanley fondly recalled, that thing could jump and when thinking about those treacherous fences of the Hunt race, it needed to. With a wincing cough from Jimmy, Stanley left his daydreaming of those halcyon days and returned to thinking about his dilemma with Diabolus. It was looking good that the big brute may have took a shine to Doogie, Jimmy had walked it around the stable-yard as he'd done many times and taking it out for a morning run hadn't seemed a problem. The watchful owner's hopes were dashed during a mild canter on the Gallops this morning and even though Stanley would like to blame the muddy conditions and his own lax approach on tack, in his heart he knew the midnight-coloured monster had thrown Jimmy just for the hell of it. The lightning set the night alight again outside and for a moment, Stanley spotted the huddled silhouette of Doctor Higgins slipping and sliding his way to his little home and his cantankerous wife. The rain was coming down in bucket-loads and the miserable vista only added to the stable-owner's woes. Still, poor Higgins had to endure the drencher and then suffer the storm clouds of his Missus, Stanley attempted to take some solace from the fact that the horse-from-Hell had ruined his season and maybe this weather would put-paid to Lord Tatem's chance to take the cup again. But it didn't work. Pushing the frayed strip of leather into his trouser pocket as another ribbon of white lightning tore across the night sky, the forlorn stable-owner pondered that bad-luck may have two hands and deals its misfortune like manure being spread across a field. Everyone gets a bit. Yes, a hefty dollop of misery had certainly spattered itself on the front door of the Dawes Riding Stables for sure, but as Stanley left the rain-laced window to warm himself at the fire, he also considered that a person would have to be as crazy as that cursed Diabolus to be out on a night like this. ................................................... "Next time yer' daft bugger, yer'll choose te' check the weather before yer' leave a warmer place of shelter" Peggy Powler scowled to herself as Herne the Hunter's grumble once again vibrated the cob-web-covered eaves above her. Holding her arms across her bare breasts and remaining resolute to keep her hat on, she spat at the torrent and muttered a cuss. It wasn't much of a campfire, but Peggy could gain some comfort from the couple of flickering flames, another act of defiance towards the drumming rain on the roof. The thunderstorm had been crossing the land until it seemed it had found the Last Witch of Underhill travelling along a tiny country track that paralleled Calder's Way and decided to accompany the little sorceress on her wanderings. The surrounding bushes and her wide-brimmed hat had done their their best to deter the rain from soaking Peggy's poncho, but she knew if a cow byre or a barn didn't appear soon, she'd be sleeping damp in her satchel when the night came. The old remains of a long-forgotten stable came into view ten minutes later and considering what the Fates had threw at her back at Pook Hill, Peggy deemed their principle-compass must swing in a more favourable cardinal direction from time to time. Now, with her only garment hanging on a nail close to where the struggling fire fought with a chilly breeze that had snuck into the tumbledown structure, the little Witch shivered in her nakedness and returned to question her evaluation of what the guardians of her destiny had considered a good place to get in out of the rain. As the darkness approached the rickety home of a once-champion of the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race, lightning would expose an unclothed grumbling woman clambering into a canvas bag dangling from a wooden peg in the out-of-the-way stable. Oddly enough, this same hook once held the bridle-ware of the famous horse from around these parts, but now the dusty timber stay accepted the weight of someone of similar renown, but not as tolerant to the elements. RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 04-27-2022 Maybe resilience is a special magic all of its own and those who frown at a situation for selfish reasons can change the nature of their quandaries by their stubbornness to tolerate what life throws at them. Whatever the possible web of confluences, Stanley Dawes and Peggy Powler opened a sleepy eye and smirked from their respective style of beds that the rainstorm had buggered-off. For the little bare-assed Witch, a female Blackbird clucked its indignation of an intruder residing in its potential nesting place. For the man slouched across his table with the mouth tasting like such a bird had defecated in it, Jimmy Dougie was grunting in pain as he tried to sit up. "I'm sorry Master Dawes..." the ginger-haired teenager croaked in his endeavours, "...I was sure Diabolus had settled and was up for a run". Stanley nodded vaguely and went to make some breakfast, he'd unintentionally fallen asleep where he'd been sat and now Jimmy thought his boss had stood vigil over him during his own painful slumber. "Aye, well can kiss the race goodbye and that monster can be fed to the dogs for all I care" the dishevelled livery owner growled as he disappeared into the kitchen. The day would took some time in drying out, but the rumbling storm inside Stanley Dawes would take longer to dissipate. ................................................... "Though thee snorts at me-talent, Ah'll still thank yer' fur the much-needed brew" Peggy said over the mug of hot chicory towards the aloof-looking Doctor of Dibbleswith. There was one slice of buttered-bread left on her plate and she felt it would be good manners to leave it that way, be that as she was still the last Witch of Underhill, Peggy knew she was also an ambassador for her trade. The village was as quaint as many the sorceress had passed through and even though most of its residents were still beneath their covers, she'd been surprised to see that the community's practitioner of the body was up and taking in the quietness of the hour. Peggy's flabber was gasted further when the Doctor had invited her onto his small garden to take breakfast with him, a mild beseech that caused the puzzled Witch to forget to check the garden entrance for twisted sixpences or knots of horse-hair. Such appeals were not regular occurrences for a resident healer of the body, yet Peggy believed the tall wiry-man in the tiny spectacles wanted to seem gracious enough to appreciate a fellow-proctor of well-being. The truth was -and the cherubic-looking necromancer knew it, that Doctor Higgins needed a favour from the little woman in the grubby poncho. Theodore -for he felt this hour of the morning was not a time for titles, nodded and sipped at his own beverage, the birds were twittering over their own type of sustenance in the privet hedge he'd grown himself and the bright sunshine seemed to be drying his self-sown lawn. "I'm hoping last night's alluvion will be the last of the year" he replied absently and resisted the urge to check out a possible face-full of confusion from the rustic woman who didn't mind showing some thigh. The diminutive Witch swinging those shapely limbs back and forth in contentment from the high garden seat followed the Doctor's gaze and agreed with "Aye, it was a frog-striper all-reet". Wiping her mouth with back of her hand, Peggy smiled inwardly at the slight flinch of Higgins' eyelids. The victual-orientated discussions of the feathered visitors to the Doctor's garden became the only pleasant sounds as the pair waited for what was to come and Peggy pondered on whether to offer her leave as a prompt to the pinch-faced man's want. Placing her empty pot down at the same time as Higgins on the wooden table, she knew that time had arrived. "Miss Powler...?" Theodore began in a weak tone and quickly cleared his throat, "...I've heard that at times, you have a way of solving certain points of the compass where those like myself sometimes struggle to make headwind" Peggy halted her climb-down from the weathered outdoor chair and cocked her head in a way that offered mild-interest. "Whey Sir, some say things that Ah' cannot reach is te' me-stature bein' how it is" she joked and turned her body back to show she was willing to hear him out. A blackbird struck-up its territorial warble and the grass continued to grow as Doctor Higgins glanced towards the bedroom window of his orderly-kept cottage. "It's in regards of my wife and I..." Theodore whispered as he leaned forward to the attentive Witch who didn't wear shoes. ................................................... Stanley Dawes stared about at the area of the Gallops where Diabolus had unseated his rider and struggled to find something to take his anger out on. Pip Farnby stood beside his boss and watched him survey the clumps of woodland near where the horses took their workouts, the smaller young man with hair that matched Dawes' tangled mane waited for Mr Dawes' annoyance to land on him again. "It might have been a dead branch that come down and scared the horse... maybe a crow or something nesting in there flew out" Stanley mused out-loud and rasped the stubble on his chin. Pip shrugged and kept his mouth shut, the stable-owner's suggestion could mean hard work to remove the copse of tall alders and thickly-packed shrubbery. With Jimmy out of the picture for a while, the labour would be doubly difficult. Stanley sighed softly and turned to go back to the stables, Pip emulated the move and wondered why the grouchy man just didn't accept that Diabolus was a bad horse, 'a wrong-un' as his Pa would say when he was alive. The other horses would would watch for curiosity-sake as he and Farra would muck-out the stables and wash down the yard, but Diabolus... that damned-thing watched for different reasons and Pip knew it was looking for a chance to dispatch a swift kick or bruising bite to a daydreaming ostler. "I think we'll have that thicket out and get some grass in there" Stanley murmured as he climbed over the fence where the paddock waited and clambering after his employer, the lad who'd taken the position four years ago sighed softly and wondered what Farra would say. ................................................... The bacon bun provided by the never-seen spouse of Dibbleswith's only physician was a grand gift to send Peggy on her way and touching her nose to ensure the waving Doctor's secret was safe with the wandering thaumaturge, she gently closed the garden gate as she set off to see what was around the corner. The driver of a passing jolt-wagon doffed his cap at the little Witch and wished her fair travels as she made her way along a puddled lane away from the village. This wasn't by accident, Peggy was enjoying her solitude and happy to find a track that didn't require her special kind of help. It seemed more and more, the Fae in her was calling out to slip into the undergrowth and leave the world of the humans. Every shadow under a bush caught her eye and seemingly-impenetrable thickets drew her attention, a prerequisite of the Good-Folk. Sitting down on a grassy bank beneath a creaking oak, Peggy took a sip of water from her canteen and surveyed the neatly-fenced trail that lay ahead. An overgrown mound sat across from her beside a stagnant pool of fanwort and water-lilies and as dragonflies hovered in their dragnet for their own kind of food, the little Witch became enchanted with the little scene of wilderness squatting in a world of man-made conformity and structure. Juggling with whether to scoff her bacon delight before setting off again, the sorceress concluded this was horse country by the clipped-grass fields and the organised manner of the railings. For a moment, she thought she heard distant voices, but enjoying her perch and the vista of nature again after being with the humans, Peggy chewed on her sandwich and continued to follow the aerial dance of the flitting Devil's Darning-Needles. As the lofty branches of the great tree spoke again, the solitary woman in the big hat carefully folded the remains of the hoagie back into the wax-paper it had been packed in and agreed that these few moments were the real magic she enjoyed. The land she knew so well was changing and there may be a time when the likes of Peggy Powler were no longer needed, but when that juncture arrived, she'd secretly welcome it and slip away into a world not dissimilar to the disorderly thicket she was currently admiring. "Help us..." a large clump of wild garlic said softly and rising to her feet, Peggy stared towards the dense pungent cluster of blooming Ramsoms that resided beside the water. "...Help us please, Shaman" the voice came again and the peering Witch absently stowed away her half-eaten meal noticed two small eyes blinking below a large shadowy leaf. He was a Sprite child, a tiny being with a look on its face of someone who's worries could not be ignored by a fellow-Fae. Long curls from his shoes jutted out from beneath his bent knees and a similar-shaped hat hung from the frightened Sprite-boy's hand. Daring to step into the daylight, Peggy could see the little creature had nut-brown hair that hung either side of his pointed ears as he scoured the sky for any passing predator. "Will you'll be the Witch of Underhill, Miss?" the wee figure asked and brought the curly-whirly hat in front of him and fingered its short brim nervously. The Sprite's face showed he was still frightened at being out in the open, Peggy guessed his interaction with herself didn't help with the terror he was feeling either. "Aye, me-name is Peggy Powler who Ah'm a' talkin' to, young fella?" she asked as softly as she could, the necromancer gazing at the reclusive being knew that the average human's voice was always too loud for them to bear. With a sight bow of the head, the Sprite introduced himself. "My name is Pommer and my people are in grave danger, Miss Powler. We need your help" Pommer replied and scanned the lane between them for any oncoming intruder to their chin-wag. Removing her own hat, Peggy leaned forward just as Doctor Higgins had and whispered "then tell me how Ah' can help". RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 04-28-2022 Stanley Dawes placed the last sack of oats into the storeroom next to the stall where he kept Diablous and even with the tack-decorated wooden wall separating them, the irritable stable-owner could sense the sly animal next-door was mocking him. Setting the bag of cereal on top of the others, Stanley wondered how much longer he would be able to afford such feed for his remaining livestock. Jack Pennington had given him a funny look from his wagon when he'd only purchased four sacks of the stuff, a look that Stanley knew would send tongues wagging back in Dibbleswith. Glaring daggers at the partition between the bane of his livelihood and himself, the bushy-eyebrow manager sighed and wondered when his luck would turn. "Is there anyone in there?" a woman's chirpy voice slid into the cramped storehouse and the buoyant tone pulled Stanley from his malaise. To the man who'd steered clear of women and focused his attention on his trade, the question hinted at a small female, maybe a Gypsy selling her gift of fortune-telling or even a village girl looking for work. Wiping his hands on his moleskin trousers and quickly finger-combing his hair, Stanley prepared himself to chase the woman off his property. ................................................... Taking the strand of straw from his mouth, Farra Combs watched with curiosity as his boss talked to the little bare-footed woman in the big floppy hat. The blonde-haired lad now standing at the open top-part of the stable's Dutch door had been earlier currying his favourite horse -Pleasant Poe and humming quietly to himself as he combed the crusted-dirt the mare had acquired from this morning's canter. It had been a long journey from Truro to where he currently stood soothing the half-snoozing thoroughbred, Farra had left his coastal home because he didn't want to follow in his father's footsteps and trawl the Great Sea for Puttsie-fins and Danderheads. It wasn't the gruelling work that he had shunned, it was the monotony of the tasks of the fishermen. Farra had believed his destiny lay inland and here he was cleaning mud from an animal, just like he had done yesterday. But Farra's upbeat disposition was forced after hearing from Pip that the thicket next to the Gallops was to be cleared and since it had been a whole year since Mr Dawes had employed anyone else, the straw-chewing young stable-hand didn't want to think about the hard work that lay ahead. Now -watching his stooping boss discussing something with the midget-stranger, Farra wondered if a woman was now joining their not-so-merry band. ................................................... "Listen to me Miss..." Stanley said forebodingly, "...this is my land and if I say that overgrown mess out there is to be hauled out, it's to be hauled out. I've got real problems with a kid in there with a broken leg..." a thick callused thumb pointed to the kitchen door of the main house. "..And a business that's already been hit by what you believe his bad luck. I don't need you turning up and adding more to my pile" he added and displayed a face of slowly-uncoiling annoyance towards the diminutive female in a too-big-for-her hat. Peggy peered up at the defiant man with the tightly-curled hair and mentally bit down on her want to cast a spell. It would be easier and much needed, the Sprite's explanation of his home being destroyed was at the whim of this man and in her view, not vital to his trade of horse racing. The little sorceress' pinkie-finger itched to solve the problem, but Peggy held firm. "Yer' seem te' be a reasonable fella, Mister Dawes and Ah' can see yer' a man of means, but this little favour te' me would stop a lot of bad luck comin' yer' way fur-sure..." she said in a slightly needy tone. "...Yer'll be aware that breaking a Fae's domain always brings such misfortune, surely yer' Ma must've told yer' this?" Peggy added and saw those briars above the horse trainer's stern eyes furrow. Stanley bent closer and hissed menacingly "are you threatening me, Witch?" This was all he needed today, some sqaut hussy who couldn't afford shoes casting bad ju-ju on him for a reason that belongs in a child's bedtime story. His brooding gaze showed his disdain for the trespassing woman and hoped it would be enough to send her on her way. Emulating the man's earlier exhale of exasperation, the Last Witch of Underhill held up her hands to indicate the palaver was over. Peggy knew she'd have to find another way to save Pommer's home and sadly, it may involve the use of majick. "Well, I tried me-best and Ah' can see yer' not fur' movin'. Fair travels Mister Dawes" she stated politely and was about turn and leave the yard, when providence decided to visit the Dawes estate. "If you wish to curse anything around here, that damned-horse in there would make a fine candidate" Stanley growled as he stood to his full height and subconsciously rubbed the base of his aching back. He guessed if such hocus-pocus existed -a notion that pragmatic businessmen like Stanley believed himself to be seriously doubted , then such a payment should be given to the appropriate applicant. Seeing the small visitor glance towards the stables and then offer a look of confusion, Stanley added to his ante to rid his yard of the nosy Witch in the poncho. "I'll tell you what, lady... if you can move muck-out my stables, win me a race or even fix that hell-horse Diablous, I'll reconsider digging out your silly copse" Stanley quipped and smiled inwardly as he turned to get on with his day. Just like the Fortune-Teller his late-father had named his winning mare after, these folk held no real power to do anything, they just used scare-tactics that belong in the world of little children's fears. Shaking his head at the lengths people go to try and get their way, the stable owner went to see if Jimmy's leg was any better. However, it was only Farra who saw the little woman nod as if in accord with something the ostler failed to hear. Pleasant Poe whinnied that her pelt wasn't fully preened and the lad who disliked fishing-nets went back to work. ................................................... The big silver moon shone its argent light down over the tall alder trees of the condemned copse and across the cobbled stones of Dawes' quiet stable yard. This limpid effulgence drew stick-thin shadows of tiny shapes stealing across the open ground to where the sleeping equine raced over chimerical prairie and felt a wild breeze stir their manes. If Farra Combs or Pip Farnby had roused himself from their respective cots in the loft above where the horses slept, they may have recognised one of these scuttling forms. The waddling shape was taller than the rest and wore -what some might call, a 'too-big-for-her' hat. Within that floppy headwear, a shadow darker than the silhouettes climbing through the open window of the stables smiled as the bargain was about to be implemented. "Reet yer' bugger, let's see how honourable you are, Mister Dawes" whispered Peggy Powler and stepped through the door that a Sprite politely held open for her. RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - ABNARTY - 04-28-2022 Thank you for the PP updates. I really do like reading them and for me, that is saying something. I find it difficult to find things I want to read after a short bit. The writer either has a difficult time putting the words into a readable format or difficulty coming up with a story that hasn't been done to death. You and PP do not have those issues. It gives me hope RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 04-28-2022 (04-28-2022, 06:26 PM)ABNARTY Wrote: Thank you for the PP updates. Thank you, my 'Writer's Block' stayed close for some time and I thought it would never leave! RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 04-29-2022 "...Nor me" agreed Pip Farnby and looked again at what had happened while they slept, even the small windows of the tack-room had been cleaned to the point that they sparkled. Farra Combs turned back from his own examination of the strange overnight event and waited for his boss' point of view. "And you're sure you heard nothing?" Stanley Dawes asked again as he kept his hazel-eyes on the immaculate stables of the three horses and scratched his head under his flat-cap in . The doors looked like they'd had a fresh lick of paint and -the year-round cobwebs that had resided under the guttering had gone. Fidgeting in the pockets of his waistcoat, Stanley wondered to himself whether this was the work of that bare-footed scallywag who came into the yard yesterday. Pip finished his own inspection and then without a word, walked-off to look around the corner where the manure was piled before Thomas Canning -a local farmer, came to collect it. Sure enough, the dung had been heaped into a neat pile that almost was pyramid-shaped. This wasn't the work of any ghostly muck-stealer he thought with some mirth, but straightened his face as he heard large hobnail boots approaching behind him. Arriving behind the small stable-lad, Stanley stared and resumed his search in his canvas vest. "It's a stumper for sure" he mumbled and then stared out into the morning mist along the track that led to his property. A little shape was appearing from the brume. "You two get on with your work, take the horses out for a run" the owner of said-acreage said firmly, but kept his gaze on the waddling figure in the large hat. "Leave Diabolus in his stall..." he called over his shoulder."...I've got a deal to settle" he added in a faint enough voice that Pip and Farra couldn't hear him. ................................................... Peggy Powler grinned at the man with the broad shoulders and tightly-curled hair as he repeated his warning that next time she trespassed on his land, he'd get his old crossbow and send her on her way with a bolt in her backside. She could see Stanley Dawes' annoyance of being held accountable for his words coming off him in waves. "You had no right sneaking in here and scaring my livestock..." he said loudly "...what if Diabolus had stomped you to death, huh?" he added pretentiously. The Last Witch of Underhill nodded understandingly and softy replied "but he didn't, did he?" and raised her lesser-hairy eyebrows than the Stable-owner to give him a clue to what may lay ahead. Stanley was about to spit onto the swept-clean cobbles, when he thought better of it. This woman wasn't buying his faux-anger. A rook passing overhead agreed with the false presentation of Dawes' pique and cawed its opinion on the matter, Peggy was sure the comment wasn't lost on the fellow who had made a deal and now trying to get out from under it. "It's a stumper fur' sure that yon stables got cleaned, but if Ah' recall..." Peggy looked skywards as if attempting to pull the exact words from the firmament."...Yer' mentioned yesterday something about if it happened, yer'd leave the copse alone" the smiling Witch responded. "Do yer' remember yer' words, Mister Dawes?" This last query was heavily weighted with sarcasm, although Peggy's face projected features similar to an irreproachable cherub happily binding an olive garland with a backdrop of empyrean wonderment. Stanley felt the chess-pieces moving and it was on his own board -for Herne's sake! He'd only said it to get rid of the... that was when what the diminutive sorceress had said earlier struck him. Somehow, this scruffy-looking midnight-cleaner had entered Diabolus' stall and hadn't been attacked, not a bruising bite or even a skin-flayed shin. A vague counter-plan began to form under the thumb-greased headwear of Stanley Dawes as he slowly surveyed the little bare-footed minx. "Yes, I remember" he answered absently as his thoughts clicked into some sort of order. "Miss Powler..." Stanley said in a tone entirely different from his tirade earlier, "...I said what I said in a fit of rage over what I'm currently struggling with. I know the overgrown area is important to you -just as I also know that you believe in such things as Pixies. Please, if you can help me deal with my dilemma, I vow that no harm will befall that untamed piece of my land as long as I'm alive." The horse trainer took off his cap, stooped slightly and chanced an earnest face to boost his statement. As the mist began to burn off with the sun breaking through the transparent vapour, Stanley scanned the pondering in his yard to see if so-called Witch would take the bait? It never stops -Peggy thought to herself. Pommer's folk had been open and honest about the danger they'd overheard from the man who raced horses around the home. There was no conniving or secondary goal, just a wish to be left alone and leave Stanley and his business alone. But here... here in the human world, the double-dealing scheming is alive and well, alive -and in Stanley Dawes' case, not very well presented. "Mister Dawes, all Diabolus needs is to trust..." Peggy said softly, "...he's highly-strung because he was taken from his mother far-too early and even though he's a winner in me-own books, the hoss struggles with trust. Can yer' ken what Ah' mean, Mister Dawes?" The angelic-looking Witch was almost at checkmate and Stanley knew it. Maybe tonight -he thought, that pile of horse shit will magically appear in his front-room with a note attached suggesting he should eat it. "Okay lady, you win. The copse won't be touched and you have my word on it" Stanley grunted resignedly and subconsciously reaching into his weskit pocket, he stood erect and turned away from the stunted necromancer to get on with his failing business. Precisely four steps were all those big boots took before he heard the Witch ask "Mister Dawes... who is Lord Tatem?" RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 05-01-2022 The surprising invite to inspect the young lad's broken leg and partake in a large mug of chicory-coffee was one thing, but as Peggy Powler listened to Stanley Dawes tale regarding Lord Archibald Tatem, she wagered it would be a fine line between which was best. With Jimmy Dougie sitting up and alert to the introduction of the small visitor of his boss' domain, the usually-grouchy man seemed to unburden himself of his querulous nature as he related history and poured the little Witch her decoction. Around fifty years ago, Lord Bennet Jasper Tatem -for reasons lost in time, decided to entertain the peasantry of the nearby rustic hamlet of Dibbleswith by the introduction of a horse race between himself and a rival gentleman of high office saddled with the name Sir Ivor Bentone. Since lack of respect was the norm from those of loftier birth towards the lowly plebeian who live and worked around Sir Bennet Tatem's large estate, this race would take place on the rural land where fences, hedges and natural hurdles assisted in making the competition's outcome more intriguing. The yokels came out and watched the alleged enjoyment and when it was announced that this 'amour propre' display would return next year, the Dibbleswith residents took it upon themselves to make it into a celebration that catered for their own class-level as well as the aristocratic variety. For those interested, Lord Tatem won the original contest and earned praise and twenty numma from his opponent. As an economy and notoriety blossomed from the annual event, other noblemen arrived with their expensive mounts to try their hand -or hoof, at the obstacle-ridden course. To expel the notion of domination that the blue-bloods were just cutting-up perfectly good sheep-browsing pasture and destroying shrubbery for their own hedonism, a small amount of men of Dibbleswith began a sub-rosa scheme that would not only effect any wagering on the race, it would promote the likelihood of physical injury to those who took their way of life for granted. To the average digitary, one could suggest that they'd guess wooden stakes could and would be used in the day-to-day erecting of agricultural barricades. However, the trick -something Lord Tatem only realised after Sir Julian Fairfax found himself impaled through the forearm on such a stave when attempting to vault a hedgerow, is to have the sharpened-end in the ground and not sticking upwards. This incident -and earlier possible happenings led to the race being deemed 'compromised' and so another group of men -those who sported better attire than the Dibbleswith-minions and would never envision themselves sullying their lily-white hands with menial tasks, to re-fashion the tournament and open it up as an official county event. Over the years, the hurdles had become more and more perilous and there'd even been talk of cancelling the crowd-attracting contest due to the fatal injuries to the horses. By the way, none of the assumed saboteurs were ever held accountable. The Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race came into existence five years after Lord Tatem boasted to a fellow patrician that one of his stable could out-run and out-jump any of his guest's mounts. As of last year, Lord Bennet Jasper's son had won the four-and-half mile race three times. Stanley Dawes' father had won it once and Stanley, never. ................................................... Sipping her refill and listening to her host's amble down memory lane, the Last Witch of Underhill recalled another tale of a certain Tatem household, a well-to-do brood who discovered the hidden home of a Gnome family. To those who research folklore -a term used by humans far-too easily, for Gnomes to settle-down in a family-unit is a rarity and even though the Tatems of that time had no idea of subterranean Good-Folk, the idea that 'something' was using their wine cellar as a home was unconscionable. Hence, they sent the dogs in and the Gnomes were lucky to flee with their lives. Peggy heard about it a few years after and wondered when her wayward path would peregrinate to the Tatems silk-stocking dominion. Maybe that day had come. "...And that's the story of the race I've been after for more than thirty years" Stanley sighed and noticed Jimmy's eyes were as big as saucers in wonderment of the yarn. His own drink was lukewarm and if he'd been alone, the stable-owner may have sought a stronger draft than coffee. "I had high-hopes this year, but..." Stanley murmured and looked again at the lad in the bed next to the fire. With the retrospection of how the Gnomes became homeless, Peggy slid from the chair and took another look at Jimmy's braced limb. "So yer'll be needin' a rider fur' yer' Devil-hoss, then?" she said softly and for a moment, the dark cloud above Stanley Dawes lifted. "I admire your pluck, Miss Powler, but we're talking about the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt and it's not something to take lightly." "A Witch and a steed called Diabolus..." Peggy lightly chaffed as she patted young Jimmy's hand and turned to warm her bare-behind at the embers of the dying fire. "...What could possibly gan' wrong?" RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 05-03-2022 Someone once wrote: "It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog" and for the bantam-sized Peggy Powler standing beside Stanley Dawes and staring up at the horse named Diabolus, she hoped the quote had some merit. "It's simple fact really, the damned-thing just doesn't like anyone riding on its back..." the indifferent stable-owner said plainly and emphasised his comment by sighing through his nose. "...I'd all but give-up on what to do, maybe sell the cursed-animal to the knacker-man... maybe" he dolefully added and sought solace by peering out of the clean window to see his employees leave for the other horses' early-morning canter. The little Witch neared the wooden partition where Diabolus was tethered and surveyed the sable-coloured stallion resting its left back-leg and giving the impression it was snoozing. Even though a half-closed eyelid offered a scene of serenity, Peggy noticed the sneaky inky-eye watching her every move. "Aye yer've been treated bad, haven't yer' yer' Bugger..." she whispered softly to the huge head, "...taken from yer' Ma and forced to run in a race that's simply too great for yer'" Peggy murmured and for an instant, the little woman suddenly grasped the level of intelligence that was buried deep within in the muscular brute. Realising that Diabolus could not only sense human's emotions, Peggy now knew the wily animal could also understand the actual language of those who sought to manage its life. Keeping her face from revealing what she'd discovered, the woman in the big hat motioned as if to lift her hand in order to caress Diabolus' hairy nostrils. Then suddenly, she turned and walked away from the peaceful scene and left the stallion flinching with surprise. Without a comment to Stanley -who had been focused on pondering the puzzling situation of how his recent visitor would be able to compete in the gruelling Hunt race clinging to such a spiteful mount, Peggy stepped out into the yard and scanned the sky -as if the heavens held the answer. When Stanley appeared from the shadows of the stable, the sun had finally broken through and now warmed the morning on the Dawes estate. He looked at the little pondering woman standing in on the freshly-swept cobbles of his yard and wondered what she was thinking. Reviving the possibility of taking part in the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race was a great idea, but the realities that Stanley and Peggy had at hand were just too outlandish to consider seriously taking part in the dangerous competition. Besides the hard facts that the only horse he believed could endure the four-and-half mile hurdle-bedevilled test of endurance held a disposition to ejecting its rider, today was the day Stanley was supposed to register at Lord Tatem's home if he was to enter Diabolus and the unfortunate passenger. The answer to Mister Dawes' wonder was that the Last Witch of Underhill had arrived at an impasse she had attempted to avoid in solving the problem. Majick, a simple spell of taking Diabolus' willpower and husbanding the horse to do what Peggy wanted, would be easy. But would it be right? The moral aspect of cheating would draw her more towards the human side of her parentage and be at-odds with the ethical values she believed lay in her semi-Fae heritage. A bugger-of-a-pickle indeed. Stanley nudged Peggy out of her wool-gathering when he remarked about the registration time and watched as she returned from wherever she'd been in her thinking. "Just to save face, I should go and tell him I'll not be entering the contest..." Stanley said sullenly. "...I know he'll laugh his fancy-pants off, but I'd rather him do it to my face than behind my back" he added and went to fetch his jacket. Peggy Powler breathed in deeply and subconsciously adjusted the satchel strap on her shoulder. "Would it be a bugger if 'Ah took that trudge wiv' yer, Mister Dawes?" she called to the broad shoulders of the man wandering towards the kitchen door. A vague wave on a hand indicated the stable-owner was bothered either way and glancing back into the gloom where the damaged stallion was pretending to not listen, the necromancer smiled at what she'd found out. "Thee'll be just another hoss when the evenin' comes, Diabolus..." Peggy said towards the dark rectangular entrance, "...Yer' old mother'll be proud of yer' to have bested a Witch and tossed away yer' destiny all in a single day, me-lad" she appended and theatrically re-setting her hat on her head, ambled over to wait beside the track out of the Dawes property. ................................................... "Ah need te' water the flowers, Mister Dawes" the little Witch said suddenly as the pair had been quietly walking along the lane that skirted his land. The other side of copse could be seen from this position and to Stanley, the overgrown foliage seemed worse than the jungle he'd witnessed in the years he'd been training horses. But now, this strange petite woman had disappeared into the tangle of brambles, ferns and twisting Honeysuckle on a mission he just didn't comprehend. As if to answer his mental puzzle, Peggy called back "Ah'm takin' a pee, Mister Dawes" and the stable-owner found refuge from his sudden embarrassment by rummaging through the pockets of his tweed coat. If the Witch's need to make water took longer, one can assume Stanley's trusty-waistcoat would be next on the roster for delving. Pommer frowned his own perplexity at what the Witch had said to the giant man on the trail as she now crouched down to speak to him. The jubilant Sprite had been the toast of his community after they had all taken part in cleaning the structures that the humans contained their animals in. For Pommer, this little woman who rebuffed undergarments and footwear, had saved their home by outwitting the pocket-foraging fellow with the bushy eyebrows. "Aye..." Peggy said hurriedly to stop the Sprite's whispered gratitude, "...yer can thank me wiv' flowers on me-grave when Ah' gan' over, but for now..." the susurrant sorceress took a glance towards where her fellow-traveller was waiting. "...Ah' need yer' te' do me a favour". Pommer -still elated from he and his group of Fae's part in the Witch's copse-saving scheme, nodded and listened with eyes of a child being told a fairy-story. ................................................... Lord Archibald Tatem's home was big and fancy just as Peggy had guessed. Lavish gothic architecture screamed out the aristocrat's accumulation of wealth and power. Large perfectly-manicured lawns lay on either side of the well-raked gravelled, neatly-clipped privet-hedged corridor that a large man and his smaller companion walked along, to make sure they felt the domineering opulence Lord Tatem enjoyed. Approaching the well-scrubbed steps that furthered the undermining the confidence of a caller's visit, Peggy decided due to the tale of the Gnomes and their displacement from the swanky house and the impressive trimmings of the massive building, she already didn't like Lord Tatem. A human-envy-failing, yes -she agreed to herself, but she was half-human and so, valid in her eyes. A pair of peacock-engraved marble pillars ox-carted in from the Gallen islands stood like sentinels either-side of a door that would allow six people aligned shoulder-to-shoulder to enter The oak of the huge iron-studded egress had been taken from forests now long gone in the Piltdown district and the dark metal hardware had been forged by a Blacksmith who only dealt with those of high birth. Soaking in all this terrible waste of material, Peggy emulated Stanley's earlier resistance and didn't spit on the ground. "Can we tek' it that this fella farts through silk, Mister Dawes?" she quipped from the side of her mouth as Stanley reached for the knocker that resembled Old Scratch with an iron ring in his mouth. The stable-owner -a man fully aware that he and the little Witch were way-out of their social league, replied "call me Stanley and let's get this over with quick, eh?". RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 05-04-2022 To Peggy Powler, the heraldic motifs and quatrefoils decorating the main hallway ceiling were a bit much for her taste, but decided not to mention it to Stanley Dawes, the man beside her with his cap in his hands. The gawking sorceress automatically reached for her own wide-brimmed headwear and made another decision. Bugger it -she thought, this Lord Tatem fellow can take as he finds, and held the strap of her satchel instead. The other person was a Butler, who after recognising the stable-owner and frowning when his cold eyes set upon the grubby-looking unshod female, waved a hand and allowed them entry. This same aloof servant now pointed to two large over-stuffed button-back armchairs and croaked "Lord Tatem will see you when he's ready" and walked away with what Peggy guessed, was a stick up his rear. "Whey, he's a bit snooty" Stanley's companion muttered as she plonked herself down onto the plush seat and peered up again at the four-lobed ornamental designs above her. Peggy had been in houses like this one before, the lavish display of wealth never failed to amaze her when considering one's home is where one is at peace and such trappings were obviously for others to appreciate. Smiling up at the large bold prints of flowers, scrolls and foliage surrounding the clover-shaped plasterwork, the Last Witch of Underhill thought such decorations were nothing more than the posters she and Mister Volcano used to put up in the villages when the Carnival was visiting. There were knights vanquishing serpents and other chivalric scenes that hinted of tales where humans valued honour, another thing that drew a smile of the ogling magician. Certainly days of yore -she thought sarcastically as she moved her interest to the fancy floor. This was patterned too and seeing Peggy's eyes track the symmetrical-pattern, Stanley explained the hallway was garnished with encaustic floor tiles. A returning nod from the leg-swinging floppy-hat woman was the payment for such a clarification. As time waited in the high corridor with the pair of out-of-place characters, the reason why they were there came back to upset any residue of placidity they'd been holding onto. For Stanley, it was to decline entering the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race and by doing so, also admit he wasn't even the assayer his father had been. For Peggy, the purpose for her dangling her bare legs from a posh chair was to see if this Gnome-banishing blue blood could ignite the gunpowder in her that she secretly wished for. It wasn't the plush surroundings or the waste of perfectly good arable land that annoyed her, nor even the yarn about the Gnomes being ousted from their 'borrowed' underground home. What really rubbed Peggy was the cruel waste of power that rippled its effect all through Stanley's business, his employees and then to the little thicket where the Sprites lived. Autocracy unbridled. ................................................... Lord Archibald Tatem perfectly fitted Peggy Powler's bill. He was well-spoken -with a constant lilt in his voice that told the pair in his home that they were obviously beneath his level of style. Haughty, with a pinched-face and hands that had never held a shovel or tilled soil. With a quick glance towards the smaller person in the hallway -as if Stanley had brought the poncho-wearing visitor in on the bottom of his boot, Lord Tatem lightly demanded -not asked, for the reason of the stable-owner's tarriance. Just as Stanley began to say his piece and explain that he wouldn't be attending the famous race, the sorceress' fuse twitched in its ignition and so she wiggled her finger. Stanley stopped speaking and began to sneeze. Lord Tatem's eyes widened as the big man in the tweed jacket jerked in the strange bout of sternutation. Every time it seemed the sneezes seemed to abate, the moment Stanley went to pronounce a word, a loud 'atchoo!' would echo in the hallway. Finally, Stanley shuffled towards the entrance and with the Butler appearing from nowhere and racing to open the huge door, the poor sniffing and sneezing man sought refuge out in the open air. Archibald's stare moved from the buckling man leaving his lush abode to the little vagabond gazing up at him. "Good heavens, do you think he is ill?" Tatem asked without thinking the pint-sized uncouth oik was worthy of responding. Peggy's grinned and replied "divna' yer' worry yer'self, me-old cocker, it's just hayfever. Now, about enterin' the race, how much is it?" and absently reached into her satchel. Like many other times, the little Witch silently hoped the magical bag would work its wonder and deliver what she required. With his gaze still on the still-open door, a bewildered Lord Tatem mumbled "er, ten numma... half or the original wager, of course". Sure enough, the delphian canvas pouch came through as Peggy's hand plucked out a velvet string-drawn sack. "Ah' think this'll help Diabolus beat whatever nag yer'll be bringin te' the race" she said in a pleasant tone and dropped the purse onto the chair where she'd been sitting. Now the dazed aristocrat's attention returned fully as he heard the horse's name and gathered his words as the little woman walked away to join the head-jolting horse-trainer standing on his expensive steps. "Diabolus...?" Archibald asked "Dawes is actually entering that hellion into the Hunt?" and watched the diminutive wayfarer turn to look back at the surprised wealthy socialite. "Aye, M'Lord..." Peggy replied softly and stretched her smile with malice, "...and Ah'll be ridin' him". RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 05-08-2022 The next couple of days were spent with Stanley Dawes and the seated Jimmy Dougie struggling to teach the little Witch called Peggy Powler how to ride a race horse. Even though Doctor Higgins had warned the stable-owner not to move the young lad from the bed in Stanley's front-room, it was quietly agreed upon -that with their boss' daily supervised carrying, Pip and Farra could lift Jimmy via a kitchen chair and position him near the area where the horses ran. True, the renowned necromancer had been a passenger on many a mount in her time travelling the highways and byways of the land, this transport was usually with the Midnight-Mail carriers who ferried various styles of information to the villages and towns for purely communal-adhesion reasons. These couriers were regular companions on Peggy's journeys and she'd befriended many of the emissaries that rode through the night to get to their destinations. It was a normal part of a roaming sorceress' vocation and she felt when it came to riding a horse, well... how difficult could it be? But when it comes to handling a large running animal between one's legs and urging that creature to endanger its life by vaulting over ridiculously-high obstacles, it seemed such an undertaking is not for for the faint-hearted or those who live their lives chasing demons and werewolves. Even with Stanley and the young ostler shouting out encouragement and tips on riding the unusually placid Diabolus, it seemed Peggy Powler would never make a good Jockey. Sitting on the dew-damp grass after her third fall from the tall black horse, the Last Witch of Underhill wondered if she had bitten off more than she could chew. Diabolus eyed the shoeless necromancer groaning as she got to her feet and if equine cognition does encompass judgment and evaluation, one could suggest the horse agreed with its rider. Patting the nose of the waiting horse, Peggy breathed "It's not you, honey, it's just me-legs aren't what they used te' be" and glanced over to where the two more-proficient wranglers of steeds watched-on with faces of forced-consolation. The towering slippery brute had changed and the big man in the canvas waistcoat and his younger employee with his leg in splints had noticed the transformation. Earlier, as the compliant Diabolus had been led out of his stall, Stanley had asked Pip and if the horse had been off its feed or had the stable-boy noticed anything unusual about Diabolus' behaviour. To the pair of remaining stable-hands, nothing had changed. One day, Diabolus had been the irascible stallion waiting to deliver a nasty kick to a careless shovel-wielding worker, the next he was whinnying merrily to the other horses in their respective stalls and submissive during grooming. "Something about the bugger has changed..." Stanley muttered to the boy grunting as he adjusted the position of his broken limb, "...I can't place my finger on it, but I'm wondering if that woman's put a hex on Diabolus. What do you think?" he asked Jimmy without looking at him. The lame stable-hand merely wondered why his superior had used the word 'bugger', a term he'd never heard before Peggy Powler had arrived at the Dawes stables. "Maybe" he offered and went back to tolerating the dull ache in his leg. The next day duplicated the previous bout of horse-riding instruction and unknown to everyone except the trainee-jockey in the big hat, the following day was the same due to the nightly visit to Diabolus' stall from little Pommer and a couple of his fellow-Sprites. Fae-folk have a way with some animals and it is true that high-moral discourse will fail between contrasting species if one the participants wishes to eat the other, but in the area of non-predatory disquisition, language is not a barrier for the Sprite. As Farra Combs snored away his dreams of hauling in fish-full nets with his Pa and Pip Farnby's slumber consisted of hopefully meeting the girl that smiled at him he'd spied when he'd visited Dibbleswith to fetch Doctor Higgins, Pommer and his companions talked to the horse that had lost the power to trust. Perched on the wooden partition holding the half stuffed hay-bag that separated Diabolus from the other Dawes racing-stock, faith in one's self and those who shared this realm with, were worked on. ................................................... "...Yes, well I can't get over the fact that yer' paid Lord Tatem to enter a race I'd categorically told yer' I had no intention of entering" Stanley stated as he and Peggy followed behind Pip and Farra hauling the Dougie-lad back to their Manager's home. The Witch of the roads kept her own gaze forward as Stanley went over this old-chestnut again, the loss of nasal control at the moment he was to cede his part in a dumb race his father had won once and the fact that Peggy had funded the entry-fee. It was late-afternoon of Day-five and in a couple of church candles time, that dreaded dawn would arrive on the Dawes estate for the annual Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. Here they were again, bickering via shallow abstracts about the one thing that Stanley subconsciously feared the most, bettering his father. The weary Witch switched the reins of the docile plodding Diabolus following its would-be rider from one hand to the other and nonchalantly replied "Ah' must of got me-brain in treacle 'cos of yer' sneezin' fit, Stanley." She now used his first name and also noticed the broad-shouldered man had taken to speaking similar to herself. Stanley peered ahead as he noticed the two stable-hands had changed his instructions on bringing and returning Jimmy Dougie. Farra was now carrying the sidelined horse-rider over his shoulder, whilst Pip lugged one of Stanley's mother's favourite kitchen chairs under his arm. For a brief moment, the annoyed stable-owner found himself unsure of which he was more concerned about and felt guilty that the thought had popped into his head in the first place. It seemed more and more, his authority on his own property was waning and his whole business was descending into a silly world of make-believe and random certitude. "...Divna' worry thee-self, Stanley, there's always a plan te' these things and yer've just got to trust it'll be reet in the end" Peggy added and gently elbowed the big man beside her in the thigh. "Eh... and yer' startin' te' sound like me, yer' bugger" she quipped with the hope of cheering the upset stable-owner as the strange pair ambled back to the yard. Stanley merely grunted and went back to deliberating on the odds of actually finishing the race. The rules were he would receive the entry-fee back if his horse succeeded in getting around the the four-and-half mile course and would improve if Diabolus could get within the top four. Of course, Stanley knew that the money was not his and really, it meant very little to him when weighed against the opportunity to take the trophy. The famous cup his father had won all those years ago. "I figure if yer' steer clear of the pack and just take yer..." he corrected himself, "...if you take your time when coming to the fences, there's a chance you might complete the race, Peggy..." he said earnestly and peered down towards the wide brim of the Witch's floppy hat. "...What do you think?" he said with the best buoyancy he could muster. Peggy Powler lifted her head, looked fixedly back at the giant with tightly-curled hair and showed a smile that slightly jittered Stanley for a moment. The horse trainer recognised that the woman's glare was another piece of evidence that his command of what he said regarding his business, the trio of ostlers' employment and even own future, was being undermined by those he deemed outsiders. "Aye, yer' the boss" the Witch replied and yet, her eyes told of something else. It wasn't until their long-stretched shadows touched the gate-posts of the yard that Peggy decided to say what she'd almost spoken when Stanley had offered his advice on how to conduct the Summertide and Barnstead event. She knew it would be cruel, but this well-meaning -but flawed human needed the special medication the easy-going animal wandering behind her had taken. For the last few nights, Diabolus had taken his nursing in spoon-fulls, Stanley Dawes was now going to glug down the whole bottle. "Is that a dandelion-seed in yer' hair, Stanley...?" Peggy said lightly and waved a hand for him to lean forward for checking. Stanley did so without thinking and right there-and-then, that silly world of make-believe that he'd been recently tolerating took a severe twist in its journey. For his smaller companion's part, it involved a whispered spell and an index-finger on the big man's forehead, the rest was straight from the heart. "Ah' think me-hoss and me will run pell-mell in the race yer' futha' always wanted yer' te' win. Ah' think yer' Pa did and will always love yer' and he'd want yer' to better him as his son. Do yer' hear me Stanley Dawes?" Peggy leaned close and softly breathed on the man who was now a boy watching how his father had hugged his mother in his triumph. It was Stanley's best moment, he'd been so proud of his Pa's achievement and it was this happiness his psyche feared to taint with a victory of his own "Me and me-hoss here, we're gonna run like Old Scratch himself is bitin' our asses, we're gonna jump them fences like we got wings, do yer' hear me Stanley Dawes?" the little Witch whispered menacingly. "Aye, it'll be a sight te' see alright, we're gonna win that race and yer' futha' will be proud of yer' anyway" she finished in a lighter tone and gently brushed the stable-owner's hair in a hint of affection. As Stanley came around from his odd bout of daydreaming and slowly stood to his true height, Diabolus the now-amiable eavesdropper, whinnied his agreement of Peggy's Powler's scheme. "Ah think Ah' got it all out" the Witch said and wiggled her fingers to show the imaginary floating seed-pod was no more. RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 05-10-2022 I suppose it would be a good idea around now to explain the layout of The Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. On the private property of Lord Tatem, it's technically a four-and-half mile steeplechase in which competitors from as far as Wildhorn County have encountered such fences and ditch-obstacles that it's said it'll make the average rider hesitant to take part in. The prize for the brave winner of this contest is one thousand numma and the Summertide and Barnstead trophy, a gold cup engraved with the distinguished title of the race and the victor. Six hurdles on a course travelled around twice and designed by the best landscape artists that Lord Tatem's money could buy to separate jockey from horse. One might be believe that such investment would be the reason why the fourth fence is named 'Archibald's Hindrance' by certain parties. The first two fences are fairly high and are constructed of long wooden boards with freshly-cut spruce branches strapped around them in the attempt to emulate a hedge. From what little information is available about the famous county chase, it was decided to erect these fences in this manner due to the memory of what certain residents of Dibbleswith did with a rather well-honed stake hidden in the naturally-grown hedges. The third obstacle -as a particular soothsayer would describe, is a 'bit-of-a-bugger'. It's basically two high fences placed fairly-close together and shrouded with the obligatory evergreen foliage. This is the one that always unseats the jockeys who never committed themselves to researching the Summertide and Barnstead race. You see, the ground on the other side of the hurdle is lower than where the horses launch themselves from and to some of the older patrons of The Merry Oak Tavern in Dibbleswith know the fence as 'The Fall'. If the valiant contestant finds his mount's legs aren't shattered by the alarming drop on the other side of The Fall, Archibald's Hindrance awaits and with it, quite a distance to reach the aristocratic-titled barrier. This is where the participants can jostle for a leading position, but this stretch to the next fence can be taxing on the horse and why it was designed that way. I heard that a professional equestrian once said this strategic scamper was the most crucial part of the whole race. Believe it or not, Archibald's Hindrance has a bower or pergola-type surround that stands high enough that if a jockey lifts his or her head up during the jump, their hat can be snagged and even cause said rider to become unseated. So a large circular trellis decked-out with ivy, Dutchman’s Pipe and Morning glory entwined in a garland-effect set to scare the Billy-Be-Jezus out of the tiring horse and beneath this elaborate nod to the dignitary who funded the construction, a five foot-high fence smothered with the usual spruce branches. This engagement isn't for the faint of heart. Following the white-painted barriers of the course, the group of entrants for the large prize money reward and the acclaimed cup now turn left to begin the last section of the actual course. However, this part is -in reality, only the second portion of the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. Twice around, remember? But to regain some stature from my smug reminder, one could suggest the next obstacle isn't a fence and they'd be correct, it's an artificial tributary of the River Skinny. Back in Lord Bennet Jasper Tatem's time, the Groundsmen of the estate decided to irrigate the massive vegetable gardens and thought it wise to dig a channel that would assist in growing the bountiful fare often found on the dinner table of Lord Archibald's father. However, halfway through the excavation, the Nurserymen realised that a single conduit needs an outlet to avoid flooding and so, the stream meandering back to the Skinny that's bordered by two three-foot fences became part of the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Race. It's a wide one and many riders have found themselves taking an early bath. The final obstacle is 'Ivor's Folly', a reversed-idea of The Fall. A three-foot spruce-branch covered fence succeeds a higher hurdle of five-feet with the land behind Ivor's Folly above the take-off side. This usually brings horses to their knees and the easy-looking obstruction is named after Lord Jasper's original rival, Sir Ivor Bentone. If all of this doesn't break legs, dislocates shoulders or draw concussion, the run-in on the second circuit seems like a million leagues long. Any remaining horses are exhausted and it takes great expertise to evoke an extra chunk of pace from one's mount in order to cross the winning-line first. Expertise -Peggy Powler came to realise as she was tucked-up in her satchel hanging in Diabolus' stall, she just hadn't been trained to obtain. But sleep brings its own type of salve and in the Last Witch of Underhill's dreams, she rode the race and remembered what the Sprites had told her. Morning mist makes a fine blind for covert observation, especially when one's home lies in the balance and a friend needs that extra chunk of help. RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 05-13-2022 Over bowls of unsalted porridge and lavishly-buttered toast, Stanley Dawes continued to explain his plan to Peggy Powler on how to proceed in the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. This morning, the usually-unsentimental stable-owner felt a lot more upbeat than yesterday and just chalked it down to resigning himself to the idea that his jockey's perception of what lay ahead was interwoven with a child-like magic and a featherbrained hope. The little nodding Witch chewed her breakfast and soaked-in the avid persona of the advising man with the slight butter-smear on his 'special' cravat. Today's illustrious event meant a great deal on Stanley's calendar and mingling among such pecunious luminaries required his usual waistcoat to take a day off. Baron Kessler would be there, an ancient gent who -along with his extravagantly-dressed wife of twenty-five years, was held in high regard because of mild manner and the added element that he owned most of the land north of Wheatland County. Not one for remembering names, Baron Nicholas Alexander Kessler always seemed recall the day when well-bred unaware vehicles and their disinclined riders would arrive to take part in the famous Summertide and Barnstead Race. Another of the elitist audience attending the event will be the Tanner Stable, a selection of well-trained horses owned by Bentley Tanner and a fellow-rival of Lord Tatem's. Bentley had a score to settle with Tatem after last year when he believed his best-mare took a side-shunt from Archibald's horse called 'Jester' at the sprint section just after the third hurdle. Jester will be the same steed riding today and its jockey had been warned -and will be warned loudly again in front of the only male heir to the Gnome-shooing Tatem estate, of the shenanigans that some people will reach to bilk those with better morals. As a side-note, this high profile family-owned stable sported a trotting ring and a treadmill to build-up muscle-mass for his animals, costly factors that are wasted when cheats impede one's endeavours. However, Bentley Tanner was no friend of Stanley and just like the other blue-bloods attending the race, he too looked down his nose at the failing Dawes estate. ................................................... Peggy's input to dressing differently for the famous race involved a piece of parcel-twine she'd found a few months ago after a 'sensual' encounter with a rather attractive Midnight Mail courier. Knowing the pace that Diabolus would need to vault and gallop during the gruelling steeplechase, this string would be used to strap her hat onto the sorceress' head. Said improvised millinery-bridle currently resided in one of her poncho pockets. Pouring a refill to his own and Peggy's cup, Stanley babbled on about the third fence being a deal-breaker. The ground on the other side of the obstacle could cause Diabolus to panic and so the stable-owner's solution was for Peggy to urge the horse to jump further and allow gravity to ease the drop. Again, the little leg-swinging woman slurping her brew and nodded without comment. If Pommer and his companions were correct, the right-hand side on the antipole of 'The Fall' has a milder gradient that could be useful. With his hair combed and a clean shirt that his Ma would've been pleased with, Pip Farnby appeared at the kitchen door and softly told the pair seated at the table that the rarely-used dray was ready and the groomed Jimmy Dougie was aboard. Rising from their quickly-eaten breakfast, Peggy patted Stanley's hand. "Just enjoy the day and divna' fret iffn' yer' see me bounce inte' Lord Tatem's lap" she joked, but received no gesture that the fidgety big man appreciated her light humour. ................................................... Accompanied by a singing blackbird -maybe the husband of the one that sought a nesting-site where Peggy Powler had sheltered from the thunderstorm, the mule-drawn buckboard with Diabolus tethered to one of its rear cleats trundled out of the Dawes Livery & Stables. Stanley clucked the half-breed to pick up the pace, but Marigold the Mule took as much attention to who owned her as the human's employees who attempt to also gain authority over her. The quote involving the word 'stubborn' is based in reality. "There are times when you just wouldn't believe I was an expert in the equine business" Stanley growled as he and his entourage left the lane near the Gallops and Pommer's overgrown and boggy habitat. Adjusting the strap of her satchel and absorbing the quaint sunny morning, the Last Witch of Underhill smiled under hat and decided she liked the adamant Hinny with the long ears. RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 05-14-2022 Peggy Powler had been to many grand fetes and outdoor festivals during her meanderings and she'd often been astonished by the size and colourful decorations put on by those who wished to celebrate a chosen occasion. But as Stanley Dawes' weathered buckboard turned off the leafy lane that paralleled Calder's Way, the little Witch could see that the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race was a hullabaloo deliberately meant to outshine all others. There must've been a hundred marquees lining the main thoroughfare towards the actual course and as Marigold the mule plodded her way down to where Stanley would be required to register his attendance in the steeplechase, Peggy couldn't-but recall her younger days at the Carnival. The smells of strange foods being cooked, aromatic spices for sale and the perfume of well-tanned leather wafted across the nostrils of small group bumping across the grass-flattened midway and twice, Diabolus flinched at something he didn't like the scent of. "Divna fret me-lad..." the Last Witch of Underhill said softly to the tethered horse behind her, "...it's just humans makin' money" she offered and leaned back from her place in the freight-section of the wagon beside Jimmy Dougie and gently patted Diabolus' quivering nose. Steering Marigold towards the large grey tent where riders, equipment and horses were to be examined, Stanley murmured from the side of his mouth to the two young men sitting beside him. "You're sure the saddle is in good-shape...?" he asked Farra Combs and Pip Farnby and pulled the reins to halt the wagon. The noise of fairground excitement was behind them now, but it still created the illusion of the inspection-area holding a carnival atmosphere. "...I just don't want that Tatem finding something to nit-pick me out of this race with" he warned and kept his gaze from checking his query. The two young men nodded, but it was Pip who spoke. "The saddle's fine, Boss, we heightened the stirrups for Peggy and we checked Diabolus' bridle again this morning before we left". Stanley copied their gesture and then turned to the little bare-footed woman sitting on an empty grain sack. "Well, this is it, Peggy... it's time to be inspected" he said and allowed the buckboard to creak as he dismounted. "Aye" was all the would-be jockey offered and discreetly climbed out of the back of the stable-owner's carriage. Passing the disinterested mule, she whispered "cheer me on, Marigold" and then quickly followed the big man into the bigger tent. ................................................... At first, Peggy thought the long trestle table would be where she'd be asked to lie upon and be physically checked over. Of course it was ridiculous -she knew, but for moment, the serious faces of the four men -including Lord Archibald Tatem, hinted at such at thorough examination. Farra stumbled in with Diabolus' tack and carefully and meekly placed them on the counter covered with green felt. From the lad's trembling hands, Peggy guessed that the frightened ostler was only a few clutches away from wetting his pants. "You prepared these yourself?" growled a man with four strands on hair meticulously greased back on his bald pate, someone Peggy heard later was titled Sir George Stills. Farra nodded, cleared his throat and replied "Yes Sir". Stills then prodded parts of the saddle and strained his aristocratic muscles against the bridle's strength before signalling with a more-dignified nod to his fellow judges. Stanley Dawes lightly took hold of Peggy's shoulder and steered her closer to the table. "This is my rider and her name is Peggy Powler, I declare this to be true and my warrant is for all to hear" he proclaimed and stared towards the long wooden pole that kept the marquee from falling on this bunch of jumped-up blue-bloods. A seated man garbed all in tweed and wore a matching fedora with a pheasant's feather sticking out of its band looked up at Stanley, but pointed towards the petite poncho-wearing person who'd be aboard the black stallion tied behind the buckboard. "I say Dawes, is this the one they call the Witch of Underhill?" Lord Grayson asked with a slight tone of suspicion and slowly got to his feet. Peggy's pinky-finger itched to be wiggled, but the woman stayed her digit and waited for any possible insults. Stanley breathed in deeply and answered in the affirmative, his ram-rod stance waned a little as the question implied possible negative effects on his participation in the race. "She... she is, my Lord" he stammered softly and if she'd been a gambler, Peggy would bet a whole numma that the man who had helpful Sprites living on his land and didn't believe in such superstitious mumbo -jumbo, had crossed his fingers behind his back. "Do you know who this is Nicholas...?" Lord Grayson asked the well-dressed corpse beside him and seemed to breathe animation into the old man who looked a thousand years-old. "...This is Peggy Powler, Madam Powler's daughter" he exclaimed with a note of friendliness that the woman in question noticed the warm altruism drew features of annoyance from Lord Tatem sitting at the end of the line of his peers. Baron Nicholas Alexander Kessler gazed around as if he'd been suddenly awaked from a deep sleep and then his bone-yellow eyes set upon the little Witch in the big hat. "Powler -you say, the little girl who used to race between the Carnival tents...?, that Peggy Powler?" the Baron asked and considering his age, Peggy silently congratulated the old bugger for his quick recall abilities and her little-finger became still. "Aye me-Lord..." the subject of question answered "...Ah' was that lassie who ran down the midway wiv' the breeze in me-hair" Peggy proudly boasted. "But iffn' Ah' may be so bold, isn't a travellin' fairground a little below yer' normal place of wanderings' Sire?" she asked and enjoyed the deep scarlet-hue of Lord Tatem's face listening to the parley between the elite and the unshod peasant who hadn't even removed her mangy hat. There are unique gracious moments in time when one wants to wallow in unearthed memories of folk one might not normally encounter. Evocations that connect us all and yet, these trails are rarely trodden and often follow un-traipsed to the grave. But this one had slipped the net as the two old men looked at each and smiled without a word. Peggy Powler, the girl in the green dress and now the Witch in the green poncho, ignored everyone else in the tent and smiled with them. "Surely you can't be serious?" Lord Tatem said loudly and suddenly standing up, angrily continued his pre-arranged protest. "If she is the sorceress you suggest, then surely she will curse or poison her competitors! This is outrageous and I demand..." but the rich rival of Stanley Dawes was cut-off by Lord Grayson's growling icy words. "Do not quickly equate one's social-stature solely in the realms of eminent peerage, Lord Tatem... this is Peggy Powler and her word is beyond contestation." Even though Grayson gave off a perception of a mild old man, he spat the words out as simple trues and whether one carries money in one's pocket or in the case of the little Witch, a piece of string, everyone in the marquee knew what the preeminent gentleman said was made of stone. And for the record, Peggy did not smirk at Lord Tatem, regardless what others may have told you. ................................................... Exiting through another opening, Peggy's arrogance dropped like the buckshot-filled owner of the feather in Lord Grayson's hat as she stepped out into the noisy paddock where the other riders awaited. "Good luck" Farra managed to say before Stanley urged her on to where Pip waited with a wide-eyed Diabolus experiencing the bedlam around him. "What the hell was all that about?" the relieved stable-owner hissed as they made their way to her mount and witnessing Pip dress Diabolus in his racing-tack, Peggy decided that some things are best acquired naturally than merely given. "The futures me-old mutha' told 'em must've come true" she replied flatly and felt the man suddenly grab her bottom. "Up yer' go, Peggy and for Herne's sake, don't fall off" the tightly-curled-haired groper said and for the first time in a long time, Stanley Dawes added seriously "Thank you for making my day". With Diabolus turning to get away from the noisy mayhem of the onlookers and seek a more serene place in the open-space of the fields, Peggy wondered if her taking part in a race Stanley held so dear was what his gratitude was for or was it that she'd made him feel better because he'd grabbed her ass? Who knows? RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 05-16-2022 Considering this would be Peggy Powler's first ever equine competition, the middle-aged man standing atop of a bunting-adorned platform beneath the ancient tree -that Lord Tatem had once suggested should be felled for better viewing access, believed the little woman tying her hat to her head with a piece of twine looked like she meant business. Seeing such amount of bare thigh was certainly inappropriate for such a noted contest, but Elmer Gooch -who'd been starting the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race for almost twelve years now assumed those with more-noble minds than himself had allowed such a bawdy display. Anyway, it was just a peasant and for Gooch, he believed he had a responsibility far-more important than denunciation of participants of the esteemed challenge of thoroughbreds. Peggy estimated that the crowd that lined the neat white-fence of the course must've been in the hundreds and the noise they were making only increased Diabolus' nervousness. A pale-faced Stanley Dawes -along with his three employees, stood near the wooden podium and shouted their troth along with the rest of the audience that had come to see the great race. Jimmy Dougie was leaning on the barrier and even he managed a thumbs-up when Peggy glanced his way. "De' yer' remember when yer' thought yer' were all alone in the world..?" the little woman on the big stallion's back said and patted his quivering neck in companionship. "...Then tek' a gander at those who muck yer' stall out and iffn' yer've got the time, look up in that big old elm tree there" Peggy whispered and leaned forward to keep her palaver private. The only evidence that Diabolus understood the Witch's quiet words were his cocked-ears and a slight relaxation in the muscles around his shoulders. It seemed that within the raucous ocean of noisy onlookers and pensive jockeys, the horse that had learned to trust again -with the aid of the wee-folk, had found an island of tranquillity to set his spirit upon. High up and beneath a canopy of leaves, a group of Sprites clung to the gnarled bark of the tree and almost in unison, dared to wave a hand at the raven-coloured animal standing away from the rest of the horses. "Yer' runnin' fur' them, me-lad, remember that yer' not alone when yer' got friends" Peggy hushed close to the captivated face of Diabolus and for a moment, she saw the familiar glint in the stallion's eye that told her of his true intelligence. ................................................... "Get in a line, gentlemen..." Elmer ordered and checked the bright-green flag in his raised hand was unfurled. "..Come on lady and gentlemen, get in line, please" he repeated and watched the grumbling jostling at the ribbon that his two daughters were holding. Ingrid and Petra Gooch were supposed to appreciate the honour of being chosen to assist in the starting-officiation of the race, but their glum, bored faces implied the converse. "Move over, yer' Saddle-goose" Wendell Penn growled towards the jockey riding for Bentley Tanner. His own mount -Grandee's Valour, snorted at Penn's demands to have him jammed against the chestnut-brown spittle-dripping mare of the Tanner stable. If pompousness is contagious, such a disease seemed rampant in Lord Tatem's livery as Tanner's jockey reluctantly steered his horse sideways. Wendell Penn had been given his orders from his lordship only minutes before climbing onto Grandee's Valour's back. Push the Witch on Dawes' crazy stallion towards the right as they approach the fourth fence, Archibald's Hindrance and there'll be a little surprise for the uncouth Blowsbella in the stupid hat. Wendell's narrowed eyes watched as the subject in question carefully steered the black horse who hated humans towards a small gap between the other riders and prepared himself for the Starter's bellow. ................................................... The Last Witch of Underhill wrapped the long reins around her right hand and gripped the front of the saddle with her left. Not quite the antics of a experienced equestrian, but if falling off whilst travelling at speed is a concern, it was Peggy's best notion she could come up with. In the few days that Stanley had shown her the ropes to riding Diabolus, the bantam sorceress had failed every time when it came to jumping a fence. Sitting beside a puzzled-looking rider on a beautiful palomino, Peggy smiled weakly at the man and tightened her grip on the leather straps. "Whey, it's nice day, isnt it?" she offered lamely and the lack of response told her that the expression 'outsider' in racing parlance meant more than just having a slim chance at winning a race. Percy Goodridge turned his gaze from the little face wrapped inside a bound-hat and wondered if Lord Grayson -his employer, was aware that the unwashed were now allowed in the competition. Goodridge's thoughts emulated his eyes and focused on the trial ahead. ................................................... "On your marks..." Elmer Gooch warned loudly and waved a hand to instruct Duty Bound's rider to get his mount back in line. "...Get set..." he said and nodded to his girls that the streamer they were holding was about to be snatched from their hands. "Oh Diabolus, divna' let me fall" Peggy Powler whimpered in a whisper as Elmer's arm raised his emerald-hued pennant to start the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. "GO!" the Starter yelled and in a hurricane of hot horse flesh, the little Witch who liked to walk along quiet lanes and listen to birds singing to the heavens, was thrust into a vociferous huddle of galloping bedlam. ................................................... Next: The Race. RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 05-17-2022 The Race. Amongst the thunder of powerful hooves, the multitude of cheering folk from many counties and the profane cursing of the riders around her, a mumbling Peggy Powler clung to the small saddle of Diabolus and hoped-to-Herne that her behind wouldn't feel the grass before finishing the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. For her own small input of the surrounding desecration of verbal good manners, if one could lean close to the little Witch's galloping horse, one would hear Peggy hissing the the word 'Bugger' over and over again as the flapping rim of her tightly-tied hat visually aped the cacophonous sounds of the running. Daring to raise her head, she saw that the first hurdle was fast approaching. There's were maybe many as eight horses ahead of her, but the glimpse of spruce branches reminded her to focus on the words Pommer had said after his clandestine research of the racecourse on Lord Tatem's land. Two planks, one higher than the other and hidden under a garnish of bound evergreen. "Get me over the first one n' Ah'll promise a lump of sugar in yer' feed tonight" Peggy spluttered as she felt the impact of another horse pushing to get into position. "Get out of the way, you Fussock" Orville Tipps shouted as he urged his dark bay onwards. The fence was high and in fact, higher than what the Last Witch of Underhill had understood from the little Sprite, there was no way a horse could leap this... but her thoughts of altitudinous ramparts and a hoofed creature's ability to ascend such barriers left her as the snorting Diabolus and Peggy Powler took to flight. Up she went with her legs sticking out in front of her and as the raincloud-free wild blue yonder rushed towards the elevated-necromancer, all she could think about was that she couldn't stop her poncho from billowing. ................................................... Not too far off and in the exclusive stand above the enclosure where the winner of the race would be awarded, Baron Nicholas Alexander Kessler gasped and smiled to himself as he peered through his expensive gold-adorned telescope. Standing with his long-time friend Lord Grayson, the old pair witnessed Peggy suddenly levitate as Diabolus made the jump and involuntarily display her lack of underwear. It was fleeting, but the memories of the grinning duo's drunken regalement with a certain Carnival clairvoyant long ago, would tarry longer. ................................................... Peggy's right arm ached as she slowly climbed the reins that tethered her to the hurtling animal and grasping the rim of the tiny saddle, she gave thanks to whatever Fates that had placed in this crazy situation that nobody had caught sight of her au naturel under-carriage. Seeing the next hurdle was coming up fast, the panting augurer jammed the strap of her satchel over where a pommel would normally be. It wasn't much, but it made Peggy feel a little more secure as she bumped along the track to another scary fence. Feeling this faint sense of self-preservation allowed the little Witch to quickly scan the group that made it over the first hurdle. She couldn't see the rider that had called her a Fussock and guessed his brown-hued mount had decided that common sense was better than valour. Peggy hoped Tipps had landed on his ass and hard. Taking some small solace from the thought she'd bettered someone more proficient in this noble sport, the warlock of the road watched suspiciously as two other horses closed in on Diabolus and with a quick glance at one of them, Peggy recognised the angry-looking jockey from the starting-line. As the galloping trio approached the second hurdle, the ornate 'T' on the rider's saddle-flap told the bouncing sorceress who the patron was of the man on the sorrel-coloured gelding. But Wendell Penn's next words told far more than any branded-leather ever could. "Get off this course, harlot, you're a disgrace to the Lord Tatem's property..." Penn barked as he leaned in and brandished his whip close to Peggy's wide-eyed face. "...I'll only warn you once" he added menacingly and went back to commanding his castrated racehorse. Feeling her inner-gyroscope relating the more-important information that she was leaving the ground again, Peggy clutched the saddle and believed for a moment she'd succeeded in retaining her seating. Then the sky came closer once more and the thin leather placenta was the only bond keeping the Witch from finding terra firma or a flailing hoof. "Yer Bugger!" she shrieked as she spun in mid-air and something that had never occurred before in the far-off opulent stadium of rich folk, took place. ................................................... Never in all the years Baron Kessler had frequented the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race had he called out for a favoured horse or rider. But the old man suddenly beamed with happiness, slapped his colleague on the shoulder and shouted "Come on yer' Bugger!" Later, it was noted that at least two of those who attend the well-to-do Meet merely to nuture their respective social standings, stared down at a list of riders in their hands to see who the elderly richling was cheering for. ................................................... Meanwhile, Diabolus landed confidently on the other side of the second fence and almost at the same time, his passenger -sans confidence, arrived from her dizzying air-dervish with a dull "Uh" back onto the leather pillion and immediately grabbed the edge of the saddle again. Catching her breath, Peggy hugged the seat and stifled a sudden giggle that wished to escape her throat. Sometimes, the enemy of fear clothes itself as a clown. Leaning slightly leftwards, Diabolus continued in his quest to bring joy to the ethereal nightly visitors of his stall and prove to himself that he was what his mother would be proud of. Leaning over and holding on for grim-life, his bare-assed chuckling rider continued to wish she'd kept to Calder's Way. For Stanley Dawes, seeing the vague shapes leap the fences from his place against the neatly-painted barrier caused his heart to race at almost the same pace as the horses. Pip assured him twice that he'd spotted Peggy and Diabolus clear the second hurdle and all Stanley could do was fumble for his non-existent waistcoat pockets. "She looks so alone out there" Farra had murmured as he spied the little form hunkered on the back of the black stallion, but surprisingly, his Boss gave him a smile and tousled the small stable-hand's hair. "That's Peggy Powler, the others will have respect for her, me-lad" Stanley softly replied as Pip, Jimmy Dougie and Farra all passed along silent communication between each other with their eyes that suggested otherwise. ................................................... Ahead lay the peril they call The Fall and not seeing the reddish-hued horse with the title 'Grandee's Valour' slowly moving to be beside the giggling spellbinder, Peggy Powler ventured the notion that the next obstacle could be easier if she just held Diabolus' mane. Lifting her body slightly from the seat, she grabbed her steed's wind-blown cockscomb and whispered "Take heed me-dear lad, the ground on tuther' side is further away than yer' think". The wily sorceress' advice was issued just as Wendell Penn's scything riding-crop suddenly came into view. RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 05-18-2022 (Continued from above) Long ago in Peggy Powler's time of witchery apprenticeship and during her wild forays beside her mentor Myrddin the Great Wizard to oust demons and the undead from back country villages, the young lady discovered a canvas bag that held magical qualities only beneficial to herself. For anyone searching the single-strapped satchel, their fingers would always find it empty. But for the Last Witch of Underhill, an item of what she needed at any precise moment would be invariably detected laid in one of the corners of the pouch. ................................................... Now, as Wendell Penn swung his whip towards the huddled figure on the back of the unhinged stallion called Diabolus, that well-worn satchel performed another trick to aid its owner's survival. Maybe it was the wind caused by her mount's momentum or maybe the thick fabric does have a life of its own, I cannot say which. But as Lord Tatem's jockey aimed to thrash the unshod peasant-woman across the face, Peggy's faithful tote suddenly flapped upwards and Penn's whip failed to find its mark. However, it was the strap that brought the coup de grace and tangling the rider's rawhide knout, Wendell felt himself being tugged from Grandee's Valour. Releasing the useless riding crop, the enraged employee of the aloof financier of the Summertide and Barnstead race hauled himself back into his saddle and quickly aimed his attention to the obstacle rushing towards him. "Blast you Witch...!" Penn yelled as he hastily hunkered down and prepared for his run-up, "Dawes is a lummox to have you compete in this race" Taking some small consolation that if his would-be victim managed to traverse the next fence, Penn grinned to himself in the knowledge a bone-jarring surprise was waiting for the scruffy runt at Archibald's Hindrance. But for now, The Fall was coming. ................................................... For Diabolus, it was easy. The leaping horse spotted his landing-point as he became airborne and reaching the apex of his jump, stretched his fore-legs out instead of keeping them tucked beneath his body. This ensured he was prepared for the impact of his arrival on the slightly higher ground than the immediate lower soil behind The Fall. Such an elongated jump also primed Diabolus to continue at the same pace he'd maintained before the fence. It's been put forth that if only steeplechase horses could communicate to humans -or even half-breeds such as Peggy, they could possibly relate their inner-fortitude and hunger to vault such heights and in the gasping sorceress' instance, stop her from screaming the words 'Oh Yer' Bugger' as she landed awkwardly back into Diabolus saddle. Alas, we still wait for that day. Six horses fell to The Fall that day and two of them had be later released from the agony of broken legs. Though Orville Tipps had found the grass before this formidable obstruction, his rider-less horse followed in Diabolus' wake and safely jumped to the other side. "Three down, three te' gan" Peggy whispered as she resettled herself and peered ahead. The thought of going through this hair-raising ordeal again was quickly shunned as her shaky gaze inspected the thing called 'Archibald's Hindrance'. To a casual onlooker, the large awning of flowering entwined foliage that adorned Archibald's Hindrance might seem a tad pretentious for a steeplechase. But to a galloping exhausted horse, such an approaching sight looks more like a decorative maw waiting to consume anything that ventured between the collection of creepers and the spruce-covered hurdle. As the little Witch cajoled Diabolus with what her own thoughts were on the grandiloquent cover of Archibald's Hindrance, Wendell Penn aimed his mount to get beside the black horse and drive them to the right-hand side. Although he had no idea what Lord Tatem had set-up for the ass-showing Jezebel clinging to her horse, Penn would take great enjoyment in seeing the trap unfold as crossed over the hurdle beside her. ................................................... Unknown to all, as the damp mist of dawn revelled in its reign around the private land of Lord Tatem, the titled gent had rose early to implement a project that would put-paid to Stanley Dawes' blue-collar daring of entering the esteemed race. A thin loop of twine, so slender that it could hardly be seen -and certainly not by a tired jockey focused on advancing on the hurdle, was hanging the colourful garland on the far-right of the canopy above the fence. It wasn't lethal, but it would certainly dislodge a rider and even someone who was small in stature as Peggy Powler. Lord Tatem felt confident in his scheme as he walked back to his mansion and thought about his breakfast. Maybe that was why he failed to see the the small head of Pommer the Sprite peeking over the outlandish impediment known as Archibald's Hindrance and examining the odd dangle in the foliage. ................................................... The man who worked for Tatem was back and this time, Peggy knew he meant business. Buffeting the raven-coloured stallion, Wendell Penn was attempting to push Diabolus to the right of the hurdle and if Pommer's idea of thwarting the plot to unseat her was correct, the little Sprite should be appearing soon. "Get over!" Penn growled and yanked the reins of Grandee's Valour and his attention on shepherding the Witch and Diabolus into the trap. No one heard it, but Wendell's horse saw it... the word Pommer used was 'Boo!' as he suddenly hung down from beneath main decoration of Lord Tatem's famous barrier. Grandee's Valour swerved left to avoid the weird creature beetling from the leaves and as Diabolus leapt through the ostentatious laurel, he was sure Pommer touched his ear. For the screaming Wendell Penn, there's a thin loop of twine, so slender that it could hardly be seen -and certainly not by a hate-filled jockey focused on putting someone he deemed lesser then himself out of the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. Grandee's Valour rapped his hooves on the edge of the five-foot fence, but managed to clear it. Sadly -possibly, Lord Tatem's favoured rider failed to negotiate the hurdle for never-spoken-about reasons and we'll leave it at that. Horse racing is precarious sport and many factors in succeeding in a race can effect the outcome. ................................................... Leaving the machinations of noblemen's follies behind, Peggy Powler hung on for grim-life as her canny friend between her thighs raced towards the wide stream and Ivor's Folly that lay in the home-stretch. Glancing to her left, the weary Witch saw that the pack was down to three. Herself, a pale horse with a rider carrying a face that hinted he'd already fouled his pants and a young lad with victory on his mind. Adjusting her hold on Diabolus' mane, Peggy whispered "Whey, now we've got a race" and stroked the neck of her galvanized mount. ................................................... "She's still in it Boss!" Farra shouted as the crowd errupted on seeing the approaching riders. A sweating Stanley Dawes craned his neck to see a dark-green shape bobbling up and down on the back of his own horse and intuitively reached for his waistcoat pocket. "She's still in it" he softly repeated his employee's words and took to pushing his fingers through his tightly-curled hair. ................................................... It isn't a stream that flows through Lord Tatem's expansive vegetable garden, it's an ocean that would rival the Great Sea when you're exhausted and just want to slake one's thirst with its waters. The jockey who seemed to have released his bowels and offered facial clues to such an accident, fell foul the width of the hurdle and would later blame the stain on his pants on the dark soil that escapes from the aristocrat's legume-growing allotment. The kid just made it and with Diabolus landing confidently beside him, he emulated Peggy's earlier thoughts. Now it was a race. Both took Ivor's Folly fairly easily and Marcus Jessup -the young man who stemmed from a stable out of Wheatland County, wondered how the bantam hat-wrapped woman hanging onto her mount's mane had managed to succeed where many -more qualified, had failed. If Master Jessup had known a bunch of copse-living Fae or the hand-clenching big man standing in the noisy crowd ahead or even asked two of the wealthiest men in the land watching from the grandiose stand near the winner's enclosure, the lad would have found his answer. That's Peggy Powler, the Last Witch of Underhill. Now, the final contestants in the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race had to go again around the circuit. But will they make it? RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - BIAD - 05-19-2022 As the only two riders left in the Great Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race passed the Winning-Post to begin their second circuit, Peggy Powler managed to look over at the wide-eyed group of men from the Dawes stables and offer a thumbs-up towards them. But the exhausted Witch's main focus was on the young Jockey slightly ahead of her, Marcus Jessup had absorbed the excitement from the yelling multitude and was now urging his horse 'Seraphic' to widen the small-gap between himself and Diabolus. Stanley Dawes -due to his height, stood above the cheering crowd around him and to the undulating sorceress finishing her first lap, his gormless features made him look like a lost man in sea of madness. But it was Pip Farnby who brought his employer out of his reverie as he pushed aside a hysterical man screaming Seraphic's name and tugged Stanley's shirt-sleeve. "Boss, Lord Tatem wants to speak to you" he shouted and due to the surrounding brouhaha, had to repeat his statement. Stanley stared at the ostler for a moment and then nodded that he understood Pip's words. Pushing through the frenzied collection of villagers, sellers and the odd pickpocket, the big man with a determination renewed by Peggy's endurance aimed his prow towards the Winner's enclosure and the once-haughty owner of a fallen rider. ................................................... What caught Peggy out was the appearance of the man who'd originally started the race. Elmer Gooch was frantically waving and indicating to avoid the first fence and following Seraphic's lead, she and Diabolus veered away from Gooch and some crouching men around a prone horse. Passing the official, the little sorceress hear his words of "stay off the course until you're directed back in" and with a slight nod to the poe-faced father of two daughters, went back to the task in hand. The second hurdle came into view and Marcus Jessup looked over his shoulder to abate his concerns that he'd been somehow tricked into losing the contest and yet, the woman with her hat tied around her head was still following him. Passing the second jump, three men were helping a couple of riders -one on a canvas stretcher and the other with his arm around another's shoulder, whilst a fourth man in a white coat produced a small crossbow from a large leather holdall. Peggy realised what was happening and stroked Diabolus' neck once more. "Keep yer' eyes on the hoss ahead..." she whispered towards the pricked-up ear, "...divna' get bogged-down wiv' bad thoughts" she appended and hoped what she'd seen would be the last of the tragedies. But the space between herself and the chestnut-coloured mare from Wheatland County was widening and the bouncing necromacer accepted that Diabolus was tiring. Ignoring the urge to wiggle her pinkie-finger, she adjusted her hold and went back to hanging onto the reins and saddle. "Tek' yer' time..." she softly crooned as Marcus Jessup agreed with a ruddy-faced portly gent directing the oncoming horse to get back onto the regular course. "...Remember what Pommer telled-us" she suggested as they passed the fat man who must've ate mustard for breakfast. The Fall sapped a lot of energy out of Diabolus and Peggy grimaced in her realisation of this fact as they landed on a lower part of the bank behind the deceptive hurdle and she thought for a moment that the stallion's legs were going to buckle. Reaching the top of the raised soil, Diabolus began to canter on and the lack of pace offered the little Witch more evidence that the midnight-hued animal's race is almost over. There were no more theatrics vaulting Archibald's Hindrance, simply a grunting-sound from Diabolus as he landed on the other side. Pommer the Sprite was nowhere to be seen and as her drained mount took up his weary trot with hopes of turning it into something more expeditious, Peggy gave silent thanks to the little Fae who'd foiled the skullduggery of the hurdle's owner. Looking past the weary nodding head of Diabolus, the saddle-hugging Witch could see that Seraphic was about to jump the trickling stream that looked a nice place to stop and wriggle one's toes in right now. Peggy let her thoughts dawdle in this callow moment and the worries of letting Stanley and the three ostlers down, eased slightly. Achieving second place was -at least something, considering some of the scrapes the Last Witch of Underhill had been in. Dastardly Demons and blood-lusting Werewolves tended to not perceive their achievements in a contest-like style, they either won or lost and for Peggy Powler, just ousting them from a property or bringing safety to a community was all she was bothered with. Whether these entities considered their exorcism as a defeat, she didn't know nor care. But as Diabolus put all he had into spanning the shallow water, the sorceress' musings became moot as she witnessed a reddish-toned horse grazing the soft grass on the stream's bank and its giggling rider laid on his back in the light current, looking up at the sky. Marcus Jessup had gone a cropper and he knew where he'd erred. ................................................... "...Don't give me that, the rules say she must travel the course twice and there's no mention of forfeiting the race because of casualties" Stanley Dawes roared and resisted the need to check the pockets of his left-at-home waistcoat. Lord Tatem smiled condescendingly and held the palm of his hand out towards the livid serf who owned a failed horse-racing business. "I understand your frustration, Dawes... I really do..." answered the well-dressed Tatem as he sipped a coupette of something Stanley guessed was expensive. "But you must agree that there were injuries and so, the basic tasks taken by the remaining riders in the steeplechase were not adhered to" he added with a calm, patronising tone and glanced towards a sullen-faced man that Dawes also guessed at. It was Tatem's jockey -Wendell Penn and he had mud-stains on his knees, a sight that demanded Stanley should smirk at and ask if he waved as Peggy passed Grandee's Valour and the so-called 'experienced' horseman. But the yearning sneer never arose and the Stanley kept the comment to himself. "I am sorry Dawes, it is just that if the participants do not complete the race in the full manner that it was originally..." Lord Tatem's pretentious statement faltered and died as two other people appeared in the marquee below the raised stand for the prosperous. One was Lord Charles Grayson and the other, Baron Nicholas Kessler. Whatever vibrant discourse had been existing in the white tent was quickly extinguished by the arrival of the distinguished. "What seems to be the problem here, gentlemen?" asked Lord Grayson and the silence was as deafening as the baying mob beyond the magnificent layout of foods, wine and clean canvas of awning. Stanley Dawes bowed and meekly cleared his throat. ................................................... "De' yer' need a hand there, fella'?" Peggy asked as she peered down at the prone paddler in Lord Tatem's faux-tributary. However, she felt it was common courtesy more than concern due to the young man's mirth. Marcus Jessup kept his gaze on the heavens and replied "I thank yer' Ma'am for yer' concern, but it's me-marbles -I think, need te' be looked at" and set off in another bout of chuckling. Still seated on Diabolus, the little Witch watched as the lad came to terms with what he'd thought he'd seen and yet, jovially held onto his rational-acuity that such things couldn't and didn't really exist. Marcus Jessup had lived his seventeen summers in a little village called Fennel's Hole, not too-far from Puddledown in Wheatland County and in all that time -including his job at Mister Cobble's racing stable, had never seen what Seraphic had nearly trodden on. Oh, he'd heard the tales that old women and milkmaids said about 'the wee-folk' getting up to things in the middle of the night, but those tales are for children and not for someone aiming their sights at being a well-known equestrian. The jump across the stream had seemed simple and Seraphic was in fine-form to go on and tackle Ivor's Folly. He was sure -with awareness being his watchword, he would be the victor of this year's Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. But how does one deal with the sight of a tiny frightened-looking gnome scrambling out of the way of a leaping horse and what's more, how did Mister Cobble's favourite chestnut mare deal with the situation? Feeling the coolness of the tinkling waters around him, Marcus allowed his giggle to expand to a full-throated laughter. Sadly, he never told the woman sitting on the grass-munching stallion the reason for his unseating. If he had, he believed she would think him mad... but if he had, she'd have told him the little Sprite he'd seen was called Pommer. ................................................... Stanley was still panting from his rushed-return to where Pip, Farr and Jimmy were waiting beside the winning-line. It seemed the surrounding crowd were in mass confusion as the empty course implied no outright winner. "If the pair of them haven't fallen off, Baron Kessler said the race should continue" Stanley gasped and brought the same perplexity to his employees as those around them. "I'll tell yer' later..." he gulped and then squinted towards the last fence before the run-in. "...Where are they?" ................................................... "Watch for the sudden landing Ma'am on the other side and good luck te' yer'" Marcus said from his wet position and received a slight bow from the woman who never wore shoes. "Fair travels, me-lad..." Peggy said and over shoulder, added with a smile "...and watch out for the Good-Folk in the future" Master Jessup merely stared at the back of the strange rider of the Great Race and wondered what Mister Cobble would say when he got back to the paddock. Diabolus -renewed by his short respite and that he was certain a red-brown beauty grazing close by winked at him, sailed the air above Ivor's Folly with ease. In fact, he was all set to accomplish a fair-paced gallop towards the arm-waving noisy crowd that lay ahead when he felt his passenger tug gently on the reins attached to his bridle. "Eh there, me-lovely..." Peggy said and once more caressed his well-muscled neck, "Yer' the last hoss standin' and Ah' think them-buggers can wait 'til we get a few things out of the way, don't you?" The black stallion walked and the scruffy Witch on his back talked. What was said isn't known, but I heard recently that Diabolus went on to be quite a winner in racing circles. Stanley Dawes received his coveted Hunt trophy and the winnings -along with the prestige of training champions, went a long way in securing the positions of the three lads who shovelled clart out of his stables. The Sprites kept their home and sometimes, they could hear the big man jabbering gratefully into the bushes, when the human brought the horses out for a morning run. For Peggy Powler -the Last Witch of Underhill...? Well, after enduring more innuendo that a pair of wealthy old men may have enjoyed a drunken jaunt on one of the rides not usually provided by travelling Fairgrounds and Carnivals, a giant stable-owner braying his eternal gratitude into her ear and taking some satisfaction in seeing the fuming faces of Lord Tatem and his cohort who went a clatter in their own trap, Peggy slipped away through the crowd and did what she does best. She buggered-off. The chap who brought the oats to Dawes' place via a jolt-wagon, do you remember him? I heard it on good authority that he he remarked to Doctor Higgins two days later that he'd seen a little bare-footed woman walking strangely along Calder's Way. When pressed, the deliverer of horse-cereal and gossip admitted that from her wide-kneed gait, she would struggle to catch a pig in an alley. The End. RE: Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead. - VioletDove - 05-19-2022 These stories just keep getting better! I hope there will be another one soon. |