It had been a while since Peggy Powler enjoyed a sit-down meal and she was determined to enjoy this one.
On the mainland, there was always this cool distancing among families and the little Witch who'd occasionally take supper
with them. Maybe they feared a poor fare would provoke an evil curse from a hungry and angry necromancer and hence the
lack of simple good will. Kin can be strange some times.
But here amongst the Gurnard clan, no such uncertainty prevailed, Pa Gurnard had come into the home a few minutes after
she and Samuel arrived, nodded his introduction to Peggy, asked about the lack of moisture on her feet and then rumbled
past the small visitor and disappeared into the kitchen to speak to his wife.
He was a door of a man, wide and with arms that told of hard labour and long days. He carried a shock of white hair that
confused a person from guessing his age and his well-lined -but unruffled face, assured a viewer he wasn't a greenhorn
to the Great Sea's weather. Decked-out in a home-made set of dungarees, a plain brown collar-less shirt and knee-high
boots, Pa Gurnard was a restrained man who knew the world didn't owe him any favours.
But just like nature desired, Ma Gurnard was the total antithesis of her man. With a body the shape of a brewer's barrel and
a face of someone who had pushed two sons from her body, daily shovelled nutrition into her men and kept that nosy Tawny
Codswell from suggesting her house was dusty, Mary Gurnard's height assured the same viewer that she was burdened to
only carry half of her husband's self-restraint.
The evidence for such a headstrong behaviour came from a female's raised voice strongly advising Mr Gurnard to "Wash yer'
bloomin' hands yer' great galoot and get yer' big-backside at the table". Tucking the hat into her bag, Peggy readied herself
to be steered by Samuel to the wooden furniture mentioned and accepted who was truly the head of the Gurnard household.
...................................................
Pa Gurnard assured his wife that the potatoes and fish were tasty, but it was the chunk of plum-duff that had done him in.
The meal was grand and Peggy had to agree with the content man sitting back at the head of the table, the hot thick fruity suet
was a treat and guaranteed to stick to one's ribs. "Ah thank yer Missus Gurnard fur' the fine meal" the little Witch said respectfully
and glanced over again at the handsome young man sitting beside his brother.
Jessie Gurnard was what Peggy guessed his father looked like at nineteen summers-old. His hair was coal-black like a crow's
wing and his Pa's physical essence was already in the making. He looked strong and when arriving home with two arm-loads
of kindling, he carried them with an ease of well-used muscles that could give a honest day's work.
"I've got to agree with Miss Powler, Ma'am, you outdone yer'self again, fur' sure" Jessie affirmed and offered Peggy a smile
that she made her toes fizz and her cheeks redden slightly.
"Aye, Ah' can confidently say me-task on Murdigon will be made quicker now wiv' such grand tuck onboard..." the little Witch
said when she felt the quietness of the supper-table had ran its course. "...Yon water-Kelpie will be botherin' yer' nay-more,
when Ah get me hands on it" she added with an upbeat nod and quickly read her audience after the statement.
All four of them stared back at their diminutive guest like she'd asked to remove her poncho, Peggy meekly smiled back at
a quartet of confused country bumpkins hearing something that was beyond their grasp. But it was Ma Gurnard who spoke
first as she rose to take the empty bowls back to the kitchen. "Yer'll be referrin' to Moosa, the critter in the pond -I take it?"
she proposed enigmatically and left before an answer could be delivered.
Samuel stared miserably across the table at the woman who'd saved his life and his backside from his mother's wrath.
The lad's features spoke of his inability to understand an adult's cunningness to decieve the innocent and his words gave
form to what he was thinking. "Oh no Miss Powler, Moosa's done no harm, he's gentle as a lamb, ain't he Pa?" Sam said
and looked to his father for support. "Don't magic him away... please, Miss Powler" he bleated and with quickly grabbing
the remaining crockery, fled to the kitchen.
Peggy looked down at the bare wood of the rustic table and attempted to calculate her situation. Who or whatever Moosa
was didn't sound like a devious body-snatcher. She'd assumed the reports she'd heard from the Midnight Mail Carrier were
not only true, but obviously evident enough that those who lived on the island would be fully aware of the hybrid monster.
"As there been complaints on the mainland about the animal?..." Pa Gurnard flatly asked and grunting to leave the table, he
reached to the stone mantle-piece to plug his pipe with tobacco. "...The dumb creature never leaves the pond and I honestly
can't see it being strong enough to get to the sea" he mused as he stoked the pipe's embers alive.
Peggy looked towards the kitchen and then at the man making clouds of smoke next the fire. "Ah've maybe got me signals
crossed and Ah' apologise fur' upsettin' the boy...." she said abjectly, "...Me-task here seems te'' be unwarranted" the wistful
Witch murmured to nobody in particular.
But it was Jessie who broke the coldness that their sullen guest seemed to be dealing with, when he patted her hand and
whispered "Yer' not referrin' to the Caldwell children going missin' are yer'?". It was Peggy's turn to look puzzled now.
The bonny young man showed a visage of simple genuineness as he looked over at his father, "Yer' know Pa, the two
kids that were said to have drowned just off the sandy-bit facin' the mainland. Maybe their Grandpa was right about
what he said he saw?" Jessie offered to the man deliberating in the aromatic fog.
The biggest of the Gurnards looked shrewdly towards the tiny figure sitting on the too-large chair of his dining table, she
had followed his son's gaze and now searched the father's facial countenance for a clue to what he was thinking.
"There's no devil-sprite swimmin' around Murdigon, Miss Powler... the old man is crazy after losing his grand-bairns,
that's all" he said in a tone of confidence that failed to convince his eyes.
"Whey, it would'na do me any harm te' speak to this old fella, now would it?" Peggy asked in the form that was almost a
mewl and gathering herself, she appended "Then we'll know fur' certain whether a water-Kelpie took 'em or Ah'm just
flappin' me-arms at windmills" This last statement drew a terse giggle from the eldest son of who she was attempting
to seek counsel from.
Pa Gurnard nodded and tapping the cinders of his late-father's pipe onto the hearth of the fire, he nodded his accord.
"Aye, well the old man lives in a shack just outside of Camden Bight since his Lillian passed over. He's a rum bugger,
so have yer' wits about yer'" he advised and with that, strode into the kitchen.
The Last Witch of Underhill turned back to the strapping young man sitting across the table and allowed the silky hush
between them decipher any feelings other than genuine civility for being with a supper-guest. Then the deep coffee
-brown pools that Peggy wished to dive into, moved to peer at the kitchen doorway and the moment was lost.
"Did yer' hear Samuel...? Miss Powler thinks Moosa isn't the culprit she's huntin' for and that the Caldwell young un's
might have been grabbed by a water-Kippa" Jessie said enthusiastically and the lustful spellbinder steeled herself
from correcting him. "She's goin' to see Grampa Caldwell to find out what he saw" and again, patted Peggy's hand.
The teenager's glee almost caused the woman he was smiling at to forget to ask who Lillian was.
...................................................
"Are yer' sure yer'll be okay out here?" Samuel asked earnestly as the little Witch fastened the strap of her satchel
over one of the low beams in the shed where the Gurnards kept their work-tools. Old fishing nets and a threadbare
lobster-pot squatted amongst chunks of wood still waiting to hewn into handles for axes, hoes and backside whips.
Peggy made sure her makeshift bed was secure before she turned to answer the lad who had now forgiven her,
the tousled-hair Samuel waited beneath a small horseshoe nailed to the shed's doorframe. "This'll be fine" she
said absently as she pondered on the old charm.
"Yer divna' have any twine, do yer?" the smirking sorceress asked mysteriously.
On the mainland, there was always this cool distancing among families and the little Witch who'd occasionally take supper
with them. Maybe they feared a poor fare would provoke an evil curse from a hungry and angry necromancer and hence the
lack of simple good will. Kin can be strange some times.
But here amongst the Gurnard clan, no such uncertainty prevailed, Pa Gurnard had come into the home a few minutes after
she and Samuel arrived, nodded his introduction to Peggy, asked about the lack of moisture on her feet and then rumbled
past the small visitor and disappeared into the kitchen to speak to his wife.
He was a door of a man, wide and with arms that told of hard labour and long days. He carried a shock of white hair that
confused a person from guessing his age and his well-lined -but unruffled face, assured a viewer he wasn't a greenhorn
to the Great Sea's weather. Decked-out in a home-made set of dungarees, a plain brown collar-less shirt and knee-high
boots, Pa Gurnard was a restrained man who knew the world didn't owe him any favours.
But just like nature desired, Ma Gurnard was the total antithesis of her man. With a body the shape of a brewer's barrel and
a face of someone who had pushed two sons from her body, daily shovelled nutrition into her men and kept that nosy Tawny
Codswell from suggesting her house was dusty, Mary Gurnard's height assured the same viewer that she was burdened to
only carry half of her husband's self-restraint.
The evidence for such a headstrong behaviour came from a female's raised voice strongly advising Mr Gurnard to "Wash yer'
bloomin' hands yer' great galoot and get yer' big-backside at the table". Tucking the hat into her bag, Peggy readied herself
to be steered by Samuel to the wooden furniture mentioned and accepted who was truly the head of the Gurnard household.
...................................................
Pa Gurnard assured his wife that the potatoes and fish were tasty, but it was the chunk of plum-duff that had done him in.
The meal was grand and Peggy had to agree with the content man sitting back at the head of the table, the hot thick fruity suet
was a treat and guaranteed to stick to one's ribs. "Ah thank yer Missus Gurnard fur' the fine meal" the little Witch said respectfully
and glanced over again at the handsome young man sitting beside his brother.
Jessie Gurnard was what Peggy guessed his father looked like at nineteen summers-old. His hair was coal-black like a crow's
wing and his Pa's physical essence was already in the making. He looked strong and when arriving home with two arm-loads
of kindling, he carried them with an ease of well-used muscles that could give a honest day's work.
"I've got to agree with Miss Powler, Ma'am, you outdone yer'self again, fur' sure" Jessie affirmed and offered Peggy a smile
that she made her toes fizz and her cheeks redden slightly.
"Aye, Ah' can confidently say me-task on Murdigon will be made quicker now wiv' such grand tuck onboard..." the little Witch
said when she felt the quietness of the supper-table had ran its course. "...Yon water-Kelpie will be botherin' yer' nay-more,
when Ah get me hands on it" she added with an upbeat nod and quickly read her audience after the statement.
All four of them stared back at their diminutive guest like she'd asked to remove her poncho, Peggy meekly smiled back at
a quartet of confused country bumpkins hearing something that was beyond their grasp. But it was Ma Gurnard who spoke
first as she rose to take the empty bowls back to the kitchen. "Yer'll be referrin' to Moosa, the critter in the pond -I take it?"
she proposed enigmatically and left before an answer could be delivered.
Samuel stared miserably across the table at the woman who'd saved his life and his backside from his mother's wrath.
The lad's features spoke of his inability to understand an adult's cunningness to decieve the innocent and his words gave
form to what he was thinking. "Oh no Miss Powler, Moosa's done no harm, he's gentle as a lamb, ain't he Pa?" Sam said
and looked to his father for support. "Don't magic him away... please, Miss Powler" he bleated and with quickly grabbing
the remaining crockery, fled to the kitchen.
Peggy looked down at the bare wood of the rustic table and attempted to calculate her situation. Who or whatever Moosa
was didn't sound like a devious body-snatcher. She'd assumed the reports she'd heard from the Midnight Mail Carrier were
not only true, but obviously evident enough that those who lived on the island would be fully aware of the hybrid monster.
"As there been complaints on the mainland about the animal?..." Pa Gurnard flatly asked and grunting to leave the table, he
reached to the stone mantle-piece to plug his pipe with tobacco. "...The dumb creature never leaves the pond and I honestly
can't see it being strong enough to get to the sea" he mused as he stoked the pipe's embers alive.
Peggy looked towards the kitchen and then at the man making clouds of smoke next the fire. "Ah've maybe got me signals
crossed and Ah' apologise fur' upsettin' the boy...." she said abjectly, "...Me-task here seems te'' be unwarranted" the wistful
Witch murmured to nobody in particular.
But it was Jessie who broke the coldness that their sullen guest seemed to be dealing with, when he patted her hand and
whispered "Yer' not referrin' to the Caldwell children going missin' are yer'?". It was Peggy's turn to look puzzled now.
The bonny young man showed a visage of simple genuineness as he looked over at his father, "Yer' know Pa, the two
kids that were said to have drowned just off the sandy-bit facin' the mainland. Maybe their Grandpa was right about
what he said he saw?" Jessie offered to the man deliberating in the aromatic fog.
The biggest of the Gurnards looked shrewdly towards the tiny figure sitting on the too-large chair of his dining table, she
had followed his son's gaze and now searched the father's facial countenance for a clue to what he was thinking.
"There's no devil-sprite swimmin' around Murdigon, Miss Powler... the old man is crazy after losing his grand-bairns,
that's all" he said in a tone of confidence that failed to convince his eyes.
"Whey, it would'na do me any harm te' speak to this old fella, now would it?" Peggy asked in the form that was almost a
mewl and gathering herself, she appended "Then we'll know fur' certain whether a water-Kelpie took 'em or Ah'm just
flappin' me-arms at windmills" This last statement drew a terse giggle from the eldest son of who she was attempting
to seek counsel from.
Pa Gurnard nodded and tapping the cinders of his late-father's pipe onto the hearth of the fire, he nodded his accord.
"Aye, well the old man lives in a shack just outside of Camden Bight since his Lillian passed over. He's a rum bugger,
so have yer' wits about yer'" he advised and with that, strode into the kitchen.
The Last Witch of Underhill turned back to the strapping young man sitting across the table and allowed the silky hush
between them decipher any feelings other than genuine civility for being with a supper-guest. Then the deep coffee
-brown pools that Peggy wished to dive into, moved to peer at the kitchen doorway and the moment was lost.
"Did yer' hear Samuel...? Miss Powler thinks Moosa isn't the culprit she's huntin' for and that the Caldwell young un's
might have been grabbed by a water-Kippa" Jessie said enthusiastically and the lustful spellbinder steeled herself
from correcting him. "She's goin' to see Grampa Caldwell to find out what he saw" and again, patted Peggy's hand.
The teenager's glee almost caused the woman he was smiling at to forget to ask who Lillian was.
...................................................
"Are yer' sure yer'll be okay out here?" Samuel asked earnestly as the little Witch fastened the strap of her satchel
over one of the low beams in the shed where the Gurnards kept their work-tools. Old fishing nets and a threadbare
lobster-pot squatted amongst chunks of wood still waiting to hewn into handles for axes, hoes and backside whips.
Peggy made sure her makeshift bed was secure before she turned to answer the lad who had now forgiven her,
the tousled-hair Samuel waited beneath a small horseshoe nailed to the shed's doorframe. "This'll be fine" she
said absently as she pondered on the old charm.
"Yer divna' have any twine, do yer?" the smirking sorceress asked mysteriously.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.