Glancing at the woman with the flinty gaze, Duckworth Bowe instructed his daughter that whilst she was out on the rugged highway
that led to Shadrach's Corner, she should venture into the town of Fellowstone. Only a few hours ride from where Sarah would be
dropping Peggy off, the wealthy municipality held a wider variety of supplies than Barren Wayz and the Doctor assured the beaming
Sarah she would enjoy the experience.
"Maybe I can get some reading done in peace" he tacitly remarked to the little Witch standing beside him in hushed tones and seeing
the coy-wolf bound into the back of the cart, Duckworth felt a pang of relief mixed with a knowing that change lay somewhere up ahead.
"Whey, that's a quality idea" Peggy Powler agreed and both she and the grey-haired father of her ride reddened slightly at the sorcerer's
poor acting performance.
With a awkward hug of farewell for the man who had once been her lover, Peggy allowed Sarah to help her onto the cart and off they set
to another road and another day. They both waved until they disappeared around a large outcrop and then faced their respective futures
with a thin buoyancy. Sarah would meet a Bookkeeper in Fellowstone and a year later, they would marry. As a side note, Paxo would be
the ring-bearer and the bride's father would catch himself thinking of Peggy during the ceremony.
As the day lazily padded on during their passage, the last Witch of Underhill slowly extracted the story of Duckworth's time between the
last she'd seen him and today. Sarah had related her father's past with relish and considering the lassitude-of-a-trail they were on,
it helped to pass the time away.
When they stopped to water the horse and themselves, the usually reserved young woman was still babbling like a fishwife, but her listener
showed herself throughout the telling to be a keen adherent of what was said. Presumably after beating a hasty retreat from the horror of
Jack Dor, Duckworth had travelled to a city and gained an education in the modern imitation-version of majick, science.
As he progressed in this false field, he had aimed his prow towards medicine and cultivated a customer-base in a village that Sarah could
not recall the name of. It was there that the admired-Doctor Bowe met Sarah's mother and not long after, they wed. The tone of the woman
currently at the reins of the cart changed when she added that Victoria Bowe had died of consumption when Sarah was eight summers old.
Since then, both she and her grief-stricken father had hidden from the world that had cruelly taken the only woman they had loved and
existed in their desert-surrounded impasse ever since.
Peggy had smiled out at the barren topography when she heard that and switched the subject. Things would change and the bubble that
Sarah and Duckworth had used for all these years would be pricked in only a day's time. Leaning back and stroking the tongue-lolling beast
behind her, the nodding and listening Witch mused that such certain predictions were beyond the new-fangled mumbo jumbo called science.
Peggy and Sarah made camp at just a few yards from Shadrach's Corner and it might be reasonable to explain the layout of the area where
they were cooking supper of sausage and beans. With the foothills behind them, the terrain became as flat as a pancake. The trail came out
of a ravine Peggy was sure that within a couple of years, the lack of use would allow the desert's aboriginal flora to make the rutted-route
impassable.
With chaperons of giant Ferocactus and rows of sagebrush laced with withered Desert Lily, the track travelled in a fairly-straight line until
all that accompanied it was the remains of a wooden picket fence that Peggy guessed must be a half-a-mile long. Who built it is unknown
and just because it was part of the junction that was titled Shadrach's Corner, the name had nothing to do with the architect of the weather
-ravaged set of paling.
The rustic intersection acquired its name from a long-dead grumpy old bastard who took it upon himself to demand a toll for using -what
he assured any traveller, was his personal route. It mattered not to this enterprising idiot that anyone needing to visit Farraman County
could just steer around his imagined terminus and continue their journey. No, Shadrach the contumacious clodpoll would sit outside of his
tent positioned where the mysterious fence stopped and wait for someone to pay for the use of his alleged part of Wildhorn's road-system.
Some might say that it was a certainty that due to this stupidity and the old man's cantankerous nature, that he was found one morning
by a passing county law enforcement officer, with an axe protruding from his head and a single frollis in his grimy clenched hand.
And so this was why they call it Shadrach's Corner.
They talked into the night of many things, of Peggy's exploits and Sarah's aspirations. When Duckworth's daughter enquired about the
night in the desert with her father, the little Witch arranged her explanation to slightly hint at a revisit of a past romance and act of a
type of blessing for the strange graveyard in the desert.
When pressed on how Peggy met her Pa, Sarah was led to believe that it was a chance encounter that separated merely due to their
individual callings. Relishing her supper, sausage-chewing Peggy took it that her ambiguous account sat easy with the woman who'd
dispensed with the pony-tail.
They slept to calls of whip-poor-wills chasing their own style of night-feasts and the big moon looked down on easy dreams and hopeful trails.
...................................................
As Simon Butterworth woke unusally early to grab some breakfast and get back to finishing the dubious out-goings of his latest client, he
momentarily pondered on why he'd been dreaming of sausages. The handsome young man grabbed his spectacles from his side-dresser
and rising, went to slay the possibly apocryphal white whale basking in the account books of Collins Hardware & Horse Tack.
Mrs Blundell -the house-keeper at his parents' home was making her scrumptious Saguaro-cactus-shaped pancakes and they were not to be
missed. This was why a minute after bolting from his bed, the second son of the Butterworths of Fellowstone was assiduously rechecking his
poorly-scrawled figures draped across the well-thumbed ledger. To many, Bookkeeping seemed a tedious task, but for the twenty-nine year-old
splashing water onto his face, trailing financial transactions and recording day-to-day business was like reading an interesting story.
To be blunt, Simon unashamedly enjoyed his career.
Today was Tuesday and that meant another meeting with Fellowstone's major retailer, Myles Grissom. Nice guy, but hated paperwork and
detested showing where is money came from. Simon watched himself fasten his bow-tie in the large water-stained mirror and idly wondered
where he'd be next year.
...................................................
Epilogue.
Sarah Bowe was a dot on the horizon as Peggy Powler lost sight of her behind a long embankment of sand. Old journeys were ending and
new ones waited just around the bend and just over the borders of imagination and awareness. The bare-footed Witch peered at her sparse
surroundings and hoped her odyssey would quickly acquire better foliage than the dried Creosote Bush and unmoving Saguaro Cacti.
Leaving her fancies of lush greenery swaying to a warm breeze and the sound of busy bumble-bees, Peggy thought about the woman in the
horse-drawn cart and what lay ahead on her path. Would Sarah's prospective beau be Mr Right...? What would their children be called?
Maybe years from now, a little girl with ringlets would find a big hat in a dusty attic and putting it on, wonder why she was called Peggy?
Peggy grinned at a stark long-dead Torchwood tree and once more, appreciated the milestones that the Fates drew great humour from.
"You buggers never miss a trick" the Last Witch of Underhill whispered genially and set her path towards whatever the same facilitators
of destiny had in store for her.
The End.
![[Image: attachment.php?aid=10363]](http://rogue-nation3.com/attachment.php?aid=10363)
that led to Shadrach's Corner, she should venture into the town of Fellowstone. Only a few hours ride from where Sarah would be
dropping Peggy off, the wealthy municipality held a wider variety of supplies than Barren Wayz and the Doctor assured the beaming
Sarah she would enjoy the experience.
"Maybe I can get some reading done in peace" he tacitly remarked to the little Witch standing beside him in hushed tones and seeing
the coy-wolf bound into the back of the cart, Duckworth felt a pang of relief mixed with a knowing that change lay somewhere up ahead.
"Whey, that's a quality idea" Peggy Powler agreed and both she and the grey-haired father of her ride reddened slightly at the sorcerer's
poor acting performance.
With a awkward hug of farewell for the man who had once been her lover, Peggy allowed Sarah to help her onto the cart and off they set
to another road and another day. They both waved until they disappeared around a large outcrop and then faced their respective futures
with a thin buoyancy. Sarah would meet a Bookkeeper in Fellowstone and a year later, they would marry. As a side note, Paxo would be
the ring-bearer and the bride's father would catch himself thinking of Peggy during the ceremony.
As the day lazily padded on during their passage, the last Witch of Underhill slowly extracted the story of Duckworth's time between the
last she'd seen him and today. Sarah had related her father's past with relish and considering the lassitude-of-a-trail they were on,
it helped to pass the time away.
When they stopped to water the horse and themselves, the usually reserved young woman was still babbling like a fishwife, but her listener
showed herself throughout the telling to be a keen adherent of what was said. Presumably after beating a hasty retreat from the horror of
Jack Dor, Duckworth had travelled to a city and gained an education in the modern imitation-version of majick, science.
As he progressed in this false field, he had aimed his prow towards medicine and cultivated a customer-base in a village that Sarah could
not recall the name of. It was there that the admired-Doctor Bowe met Sarah's mother and not long after, they wed. The tone of the woman
currently at the reins of the cart changed when she added that Victoria Bowe had died of consumption when Sarah was eight summers old.
Since then, both she and her grief-stricken father had hidden from the world that had cruelly taken the only woman they had loved and
existed in their desert-surrounded impasse ever since.
Peggy had smiled out at the barren topography when she heard that and switched the subject. Things would change and the bubble that
Sarah and Duckworth had used for all these years would be pricked in only a day's time. Leaning back and stroking the tongue-lolling beast
behind her, the nodding and listening Witch mused that such certain predictions were beyond the new-fangled mumbo jumbo called science.
Peggy and Sarah made camp at just a few yards from Shadrach's Corner and it might be reasonable to explain the layout of the area where
they were cooking supper of sausage and beans. With the foothills behind them, the terrain became as flat as a pancake. The trail came out
of a ravine Peggy was sure that within a couple of years, the lack of use would allow the desert's aboriginal flora to make the rutted-route
impassable.
With chaperons of giant Ferocactus and rows of sagebrush laced with withered Desert Lily, the track travelled in a fairly-straight line until
all that accompanied it was the remains of a wooden picket fence that Peggy guessed must be a half-a-mile long. Who built it is unknown
and just because it was part of the junction that was titled Shadrach's Corner, the name had nothing to do with the architect of the weather
-ravaged set of paling.
The rustic intersection acquired its name from a long-dead grumpy old bastard who took it upon himself to demand a toll for using -what
he assured any traveller, was his personal route. It mattered not to this enterprising idiot that anyone needing to visit Farraman County
could just steer around his imagined terminus and continue their journey. No, Shadrach the contumacious clodpoll would sit outside of his
tent positioned where the mysterious fence stopped and wait for someone to pay for the use of his alleged part of Wildhorn's road-system.
Some might say that it was a certainty that due to this stupidity and the old man's cantankerous nature, that he was found one morning
by a passing county law enforcement officer, with an axe protruding from his head and a single frollis in his grimy clenched hand.
And so this was why they call it Shadrach's Corner.
They talked into the night of many things, of Peggy's exploits and Sarah's aspirations. When Duckworth's daughter enquired about the
night in the desert with her father, the little Witch arranged her explanation to slightly hint at a revisit of a past romance and act of a
type of blessing for the strange graveyard in the desert.
When pressed on how Peggy met her Pa, Sarah was led to believe that it was a chance encounter that separated merely due to their
individual callings. Relishing her supper, sausage-chewing Peggy took it that her ambiguous account sat easy with the woman who'd
dispensed with the pony-tail.
They slept to calls of whip-poor-wills chasing their own style of night-feasts and the big moon looked down on easy dreams and hopeful trails.
...................................................
As Simon Butterworth woke unusally early to grab some breakfast and get back to finishing the dubious out-goings of his latest client, he
momentarily pondered on why he'd been dreaming of sausages. The handsome young man grabbed his spectacles from his side-dresser
and rising, went to slay the possibly apocryphal white whale basking in the account books of Collins Hardware & Horse Tack.
Mrs Blundell -the house-keeper at his parents' home was making her scrumptious Saguaro-cactus-shaped pancakes and they were not to be
missed. This was why a minute after bolting from his bed, the second son of the Butterworths of Fellowstone was assiduously rechecking his
poorly-scrawled figures draped across the well-thumbed ledger. To many, Bookkeeping seemed a tedious task, but for the twenty-nine year-old
splashing water onto his face, trailing financial transactions and recording day-to-day business was like reading an interesting story.
To be blunt, Simon unashamedly enjoyed his career.
Today was Tuesday and that meant another meeting with Fellowstone's major retailer, Myles Grissom. Nice guy, but hated paperwork and
detested showing where is money came from. Simon watched himself fasten his bow-tie in the large water-stained mirror and idly wondered
where he'd be next year.
...................................................
Epilogue.
Sarah Bowe was a dot on the horizon as Peggy Powler lost sight of her behind a long embankment of sand. Old journeys were ending and
new ones waited just around the bend and just over the borders of imagination and awareness. The bare-footed Witch peered at her sparse
surroundings and hoped her odyssey would quickly acquire better foliage than the dried Creosote Bush and unmoving Saguaro Cacti.
Leaving her fancies of lush greenery swaying to a warm breeze and the sound of busy bumble-bees, Peggy thought about the woman in the
horse-drawn cart and what lay ahead on her path. Would Sarah's prospective beau be Mr Right...? What would their children be called?
Maybe years from now, a little girl with ringlets would find a big hat in a dusty attic and putting it on, wonder why she was called Peggy?
Peggy grinned at a stark long-dead Torchwood tree and once more, appreciated the milestones that the Fates drew great humour from.
"You buggers never miss a trick" the Last Witch of Underhill whispered genially and set her path towards whatever the same facilitators
of destiny had in store for her.
The End.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.