(02-15-2022, 01:15 PM)ABNARTY Wrote: Thank you so much for your stories...
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During her trek towards the Gurnard's locale, Peggy Powler wondered if the longer route from Byefleet Howe back to Camden Bight
for Alf Slater to sell his wares to old-man Tuttle was really worth it. Was a couple of nummas and a jabber with a half-baked hermit
something beneficial enough to endure the extra couple of hours of bumping along on the unruly track behind a flatulent mule?
Adjusting the satchel-strap on her shoulder the Last Witch of Underhill concluded that money held strange bedroom-eyes that could
make the most disciplined of humans behave peculiarly. But was it the possessiveness of gold that made those who sought these
riches the cause of their lust or was money merely the lubricant to ease the journey to power? In the world of the Fae, the coin was
nothing more than a tolerable materialism of trust between two strangers and the power -real power, appeared when such trinkets
were no longer needed to certificate another's credence.
Leaving the subjects of extra mileage and the appeal of avarice, the shorter walk to Byefleet Howe was just fine for the woman in the
large hat following the four Replacements. They never fluctuated in their sequence, one behind the other and all of them travelled at
the same pace. Even when Peggy needed to use the back of a tree to relieve herself, she was confident that just up ahead on the
bumpy trail, the quaternary puppet of Herman Goddard's head would be seen bobbing along towards the goal. A destination that
hopefully was an area near a certain Rhododendron bush of Peggy's first encounter with what was happening on the island.
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A long-shadowed Martin Caldwell waited impatiently for the bedraggled fellow sitting on the stoop of his little shack to ponder on the
request he'd been sent to The Narrows with and accepting he wouldn't be invited into the shade from the afternoon sun, decided to
perform some analysis of what he and his family had been through for himself.
He'd initially accepted that for some reason, his parents had refused to enter the doorway to The Wool-pit possibly due to their fear
of the unknown. But when discovering what horrors lay on the other side of the Beams of King Stephen, the son of Chester and Lillian
Caldwell rapidly came to realise that wisdom via experience was a commodity usually only sold to the old.
How he'd managed to survive the demands of the creatures that dwelled beneath that eternally dark sky and keep his family from
being separated was still a puzzle to the lad who'd never consorted with those deemed more masculine in the lower classes. Martin
knew his upbringing had been easier than the men who dealt with the perils of the Great Sea or those who sought income from selling
their respective wares, but to be thrust into a world where drudgery and labour had been assigned to you based solely on where you
came from, well it was an eye-opener, to say the least.
Then out of the blue came a blessing in the shape of a bare-footed woman in a big hat and gathering the exiled folks of Camden Bight,
she returned us through a portal only she knew of. For the Witch called Peggy Powler, it had only took a moment, but for Martin and the
others, the time at The Wool-Pit seemed to be an eternity.
"So yer' say this lassie wants me te' aim yon light te' the other end of Murdigon?" the lighthouse custodian asked as he gazed down into
the unlit chamber of his pipe and lured his younger visitor back from his wool-gathering. Mangus Marle took out his penknife and began
scraping out his briar's bowl. He knew of Martin's parentage and was old enough to know who Peggy Powler is, but didn't want to let the
kid know of either.
"Yes Sir..." Martin replied "...she told me to ask the the handsome chap who steers the pharos to perform such an arduous task exactly
at dusk". Mangus kept his eyes on his task of cleaning and focused on not revealing a grin. Even though he'd spent most of his life on
the island, the seventy year-old had visited the mainland enough and spoken to clever fellas than himself to know you didn't mess around
with a request from the Powler woman.
Knocking his pipe against the arm of his rocking-chair, the old man rose and looking directly into Chester Caldwell's son's eyes. "Then
me-lad, let's get the balefire ready..." Mangus said "...Yer' back is stronger than me-own and humpin' a barrel of Cullett oil up there isn't
one of me favourite things" and drew a smile from the serious-looking youngster with his good-humoured wink.
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"Don't worry Ma'am, when candle-lit comes, I can assure you that me-man will feel the lash of me-tongue for his own loose gob" the little
round woman in the headscarf attested to Lillian Caldwell. Ma Gurnard had at first been guarded when she'd spotted the ragged female
in the blue gown walking beside Slater's cart alongside some stranger she presumed was also from down Camden way.
But after a few minutes of blather with the tired soul, the hardened mother of the two lads helping to haul something from the Tallow-man's
buggy, knew she'd taken the bait of cliquish gossip and was now just fish-head saying sorry. Pa Gurnard grunted under the weight of the
milky-coloured crystal and said nothing, he'll be lucky to get supper tonight -he thought.
"I thank you for your sympathy, Mrs Gurnard and for the task your men are undertaking..." Lillian answered and peered towards the big
man and his sons assisting Alf Slater positioning the Calcite Spar into the arms of Adjef. Indigo Dunth elected himself as the manager
of the correctly situating the crystal. This also meant he didn't need to the leave the seat of the cart. "...I just my own man can be saved"
she added and looked towards the little trail leading away into the woods.
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The sun was going down as four automatons and their poncho-wearing guardian reached a riotous growth of Rhododendron bush.
The human-moulded dolls stopped as one and stood facing the direction Peggy would go to find John Potter's boat, but it was the
dark shadows beneath the evergreen shrub that held the little Witch's interest.
There near the trunk of the bush was a small clump of floating sparks that undulated together in their own type of waltz. Peggy grinned
in the gloom and ignoring that her bare-behind was on full view to the silent clockwork clones, she watched with fascination as the tiny
spluttering mites grew in intensity. "Aye yer, bugger..." the kneeling necromancer hissed with glee, "...Tonight, Chester Caldwell will see
the light and come home".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.