Where the protective burrow-ridden mound of Byefleet Howe relents to the sharp Marram grass and swaying clumps of Thrift
of coastal land, the half-buried boulders poking from the sand looked like forsaken bald guardians to the bare-footed woman
making her way down to the beach. The cartilage remains of a massive Blubbershark lay just before the ebbs of the low tide
and seemed like a skulking watcher of the curious visitor to the Isle of Murdigon.
The Gurnard's home was behind her and after graciously declining Ma Gurnard's midday meal, Peggy Powler had decided to
take in the serene environs of the small village beside the sea. From where she stood, the rear of the few homes that made up
the community could be viewed and to the curious onlooker, the upside-down rowboats and heaps of nets showed that the folks
of Byefleet Howe weren't what one could call an everyday sea-going populace.
The cheerful sorceress felt the tide-sodden sand squelch between her toes as she wandered along the shore contrary to where
she'd first met Samuel yesterday. With the breeze wafting her shoulder-length hair, the warm tranquility of solitude returned like
an old friend she was more than willing to embrace. It was nice to be alone with her own thoughts and even though the puzzle
of Murdigon was still to be untangled, the buoyant Last Witch of Underhill accepted that a few moments of self-indulgence was
good medicine for her recently-dented psyche.
Peering ahead, two unusual structures stood like tall spiders among the smooth boulders and nearing the rickety constructions,
she realised their functions and answered the reason for so many of Byefleet Howe's vessels being beached. One of the wooden
legs of these spindly supports held stubs where a person could climb into the tiny one-man hut precariously set on the top.
Peggy assumed one of these flimsy buildings would be where Pa Gurnard spent the early hours of each day and how he obtained
his wife's appetising fish-pie ingredients. With an imperceptible whimsical nod to acknowledge that -at least, one enigma was now
solved, Peggy ambled onwards along the peaceful shoreline and accepting that her time of personal soul-soothing was over, began
her analysis of what she currently knew about the ambiguous report of a water-Kelpie.
...................................................
The animal called 'Moosa' was certainly not part of the Murdigon riddle, but had offered -in its own primitive manner of speak, that
some sort of evil force was lurking on the island. The meek Soap Dragon had hinted at a ghost or translucent shape via the use of
the rudimentary expression 'glay-way manna', meaning a form of a glowing intelligence. Sadly, due to Samuel Gurnard's presence
at Moosa's pool, Peggy felt it unseemly to question the timid beast any longer.
From listening to the boy's family, she felt confident that Byefleet Howe was not a place where any cryptic anomaly frequented.
The sparse village imparted no impact of an insidious residence, nor did Peggy get the notion that the few cottages were a false
stage of banality that her first interaction on Murdigon implied. The social daily rituals of the folk of Byefleet Howe prompted little
in the way of convincing the little Witch that such a malevolent force was hiding here.
...................................................
So what was the original story Peggy had heard from the postal-messenger finding the wandering warlock on a country lane two
weeks ago? Watching a piebald Skimfeather trailing its beak along the surface of the sedate water, she tugged at the memory of
her encounter with the Midnight Mail Man called Fletcher.
"I heard Pucklewatch was cancelling their Plough Monday festivities..." Fletcher said as he thrust his legs down the sleeves of his
pants. "...It seems the Elders are getting a little tired of the wilder-side of the celebrations" he quipped and lifting his eyebrows to
display his position on such political correctness, looked back at the prone naked woman laying on her poncho.
Peggy mentally shrugged to herself and accepted their time together was drawing to a close. Lovemaking was not a common act
for the roving Fae-wizard, it was just something that the chatting pair had realised would occur during their journey together along
Calder's Way. Midnight Mail Carriers were regular travellers of the renown highway and Peggy's wayfaring was often quickened by
these dutiful messengers on horseback offering her the back of their saddle.
Shrugging on his tunic, the long-haired Postman waited for the little Witch to finish dressing without looking. Even out here in the leafy
boondocks, one's comportment is important when rolling in the grass with passionate spellbinders. "So Widdicombe is where you're
heading then, Peggy?" Fletcher asked and turned to find his hitch-hiker setting the too-big hat on her head. A cat that seemed to have
got the cream peered back from under the wide-brimmed bonnet and nodded her answer.
It wasn't until Fletcher was reaching to haul the Witch up onto his grass-chewing gelding that he mentioned another piece of gossip
he'd heard about the county of Sandingham and the villain specifically being a water-Kelpie. Knowing the results that such spirits can
bring, Peggy had contemplated the news during the two-mile trek to where she and Fletcher would part company. Widdicombe Fair
was a frivolous destination compared to ridding an island of a people-stealing hellion and so with a wink and a wave to the Midnight
Mail Carrier, she set her bare feet towards the coast.
...................................................
Maybe the herald of information and deliverer of epistles had misheard or had misconceived the details of this wiggle-waggle, but
Fletcher wouldn't have chanced pulling the Witch's chain for personal gratification. That had only happened once and the rascal had
endured a whole day as a lizard fastened to the tail of the horse he'd once rode. No, the message was sincere, but the spine of the
account was hidden.
Alas, any further rumination on the subject of a water-Kelpie fled as a small shadow appeared from beneath her feet and spead onto
the virginal sand in front of the musing investigator." Ma sent me to get yer', Miss Powler..." Samuel called and releasing a breath of
relief, the lone shore-walker turned to smile another sort of messenger. "...Yer' not to be late for her scrumptious apple pie" the boy
stated and his stern face showed the conviction in his words.
It would be Peggy's last night at the Gurnard household and if Samuel's recollection of the tallow-deliverer's routine was correct, she
would be travelling by cart to the village of Camden Bight tomorrow. The treat of a homemade dessert was a welcoming thought and
grabbing the youngster's hand, they ambled back towards the huddled houses of Byefleet Howe and talked about their respective
afternoon.
If a Kelpie -or whatever the Isle of Mudigon is sheltering, was out there, it would have to wait for its nemesis to finish her pudding.
of coastal land, the half-buried boulders poking from the sand looked like forsaken bald guardians to the bare-footed woman
making her way down to the beach. The cartilage remains of a massive Blubbershark lay just before the ebbs of the low tide
and seemed like a skulking watcher of the curious visitor to the Isle of Murdigon.
The Gurnard's home was behind her and after graciously declining Ma Gurnard's midday meal, Peggy Powler had decided to
take in the serene environs of the small village beside the sea. From where she stood, the rear of the few homes that made up
the community could be viewed and to the curious onlooker, the upside-down rowboats and heaps of nets showed that the folks
of Byefleet Howe weren't what one could call an everyday sea-going populace.
The cheerful sorceress felt the tide-sodden sand squelch between her toes as she wandered along the shore contrary to where
she'd first met Samuel yesterday. With the breeze wafting her shoulder-length hair, the warm tranquility of solitude returned like
an old friend she was more than willing to embrace. It was nice to be alone with her own thoughts and even though the puzzle
of Murdigon was still to be untangled, the buoyant Last Witch of Underhill accepted that a few moments of self-indulgence was
good medicine for her recently-dented psyche.
Peering ahead, two unusual structures stood like tall spiders among the smooth boulders and nearing the rickety constructions,
she realised their functions and answered the reason for so many of Byefleet Howe's vessels being beached. One of the wooden
legs of these spindly supports held stubs where a person could climb into the tiny one-man hut precariously set on the top.
Peggy assumed one of these flimsy buildings would be where Pa Gurnard spent the early hours of each day and how he obtained
his wife's appetising fish-pie ingredients. With an imperceptible whimsical nod to acknowledge that -at least, one enigma was now
solved, Peggy ambled onwards along the peaceful shoreline and accepting that her time of personal soul-soothing was over, began
her analysis of what she currently knew about the ambiguous report of a water-Kelpie.
...................................................
The animal called 'Moosa' was certainly not part of the Murdigon riddle, but had offered -in its own primitive manner of speak, that
some sort of evil force was lurking on the island. The meek Soap Dragon had hinted at a ghost or translucent shape via the use of
the rudimentary expression 'glay-way manna', meaning a form of a glowing intelligence. Sadly, due to Samuel Gurnard's presence
at Moosa's pool, Peggy felt it unseemly to question the timid beast any longer.
From listening to the boy's family, she felt confident that Byefleet Howe was not a place where any cryptic anomaly frequented.
The sparse village imparted no impact of an insidious residence, nor did Peggy get the notion that the few cottages were a false
stage of banality that her first interaction on Murdigon implied. The social daily rituals of the folk of Byefleet Howe prompted little
in the way of convincing the little Witch that such a malevolent force was hiding here.
...................................................
So what was the original story Peggy had heard from the postal-messenger finding the wandering warlock on a country lane two
weeks ago? Watching a piebald Skimfeather trailing its beak along the surface of the sedate water, she tugged at the memory of
her encounter with the Midnight Mail Man called Fletcher.
"I heard Pucklewatch was cancelling their Plough Monday festivities..." Fletcher said as he thrust his legs down the sleeves of his
pants. "...It seems the Elders are getting a little tired of the wilder-side of the celebrations" he quipped and lifting his eyebrows to
display his position on such political correctness, looked back at the prone naked woman laying on her poncho.
Peggy mentally shrugged to herself and accepted their time together was drawing to a close. Lovemaking was not a common act
for the roving Fae-wizard, it was just something that the chatting pair had realised would occur during their journey together along
Calder's Way. Midnight Mail Carriers were regular travellers of the renown highway and Peggy's wayfaring was often quickened by
these dutiful messengers on horseback offering her the back of their saddle.
Shrugging on his tunic, the long-haired Postman waited for the little Witch to finish dressing without looking. Even out here in the leafy
boondocks, one's comportment is important when rolling in the grass with passionate spellbinders. "So Widdicombe is where you're
heading then, Peggy?" Fletcher asked and turned to find his hitch-hiker setting the too-big hat on her head. A cat that seemed to have
got the cream peered back from under the wide-brimmed bonnet and nodded her answer.
It wasn't until Fletcher was reaching to haul the Witch up onto his grass-chewing gelding that he mentioned another piece of gossip
he'd heard about the county of Sandingham and the villain specifically being a water-Kelpie. Knowing the results that such spirits can
bring, Peggy had contemplated the news during the two-mile trek to where she and Fletcher would part company. Widdicombe Fair
was a frivolous destination compared to ridding an island of a people-stealing hellion and so with a wink and a wave to the Midnight
Mail Carrier, she set her bare feet towards the coast.
...................................................
Maybe the herald of information and deliverer of epistles had misheard or had misconceived the details of this wiggle-waggle, but
Fletcher wouldn't have chanced pulling the Witch's chain for personal gratification. That had only happened once and the rascal had
endured a whole day as a lizard fastened to the tail of the horse he'd once rode. No, the message was sincere, but the spine of the
account was hidden.
Alas, any further rumination on the subject of a water-Kelpie fled as a small shadow appeared from beneath her feet and spead onto
the virginal sand in front of the musing investigator." Ma sent me to get yer', Miss Powler..." Samuel called and releasing a breath of
relief, the lone shore-walker turned to smile another sort of messenger. "...Yer' not to be late for her scrumptious apple pie" the boy
stated and his stern face showed the conviction in his words.
It would be Peggy's last night at the Gurnard household and if Samuel's recollection of the tallow-deliverer's routine was correct, she
would be travelling by cart to the village of Camden Bight tomorrow. The treat of a homemade dessert was a welcoming thought and
grabbing the youngster's hand, they ambled back towards the huddled houses of Byefleet Howe and talked about their respective
afternoon.
If a Kelpie -or whatever the Isle of Mudigon is sheltering, was out there, it would have to wait for its nemesis to finish her pudding.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.