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.
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.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.