02-27-2022, 09:34 PM
As the sun began its arc westwards, Peggy Powler finished reading a hand-written poem left in one of the many memorial
shrines along Calder's Way and deliberating on the words of lost-love, wondered what the woman in the framed picture had
died of. Such is the price of companionship, a bond that -when taken, is accepted to be broken by a stark reality that would
never even know the deceased's name.
With a flick of her thumb, Peggy brought a flame to reignite the remains of a candle within the wooden chantry and as she did
so, caught sight of a figure cutting a wake through a nearby field of barley. He was a young man and wore a tunic that bore a
colour that the bantam exorcist recognised from her past.
Whoever was trampling a farmer's crop beneath his feet was from a place Peggy hadn't incorporated into her calculations.
However -and staying upbeat in a place of someone's sorrow, there was also the possibility that his ambition wasn't to meet
with the little woman standing on tip-toes investigating the contents of the roadside shrine.
But she knew... she knew something lay ahead for her that didn't involve soothing hot water and the aroma of rotten eggs.
"Ah' hope yer' enjoyin' yer'self" Peggy growled a whisper to the imaginary Fates giggling somewhere amongst the cereal.
...................................................
Albert Hobson tugged a couple of barley-awns from his dull-blue smock before he announced his reason for meeting with
the little Witch sitting on the dry-stone wall. Peggy looked the young man up and down and guessed he'd only just reached
twenty summers, his dark-blue knee-length smock was fairly new and she was versed enough in his sect to know this was
indicative of someone who had just been allotted the status of novice in his home village.
...................................................
Pook Hill is a faith-based community that Peggy had always attempted to steer clear of. Their faddism is planted firmly in a
detached style of living and the family-unit is paramount that only takes second place to their focus of worship. 'Pook' is deity
that the followers believe requires partial seclusion from other populace and requires a strict code of living.
Being a divine spirit of the land, 'Pookers' do not believe in harming their guardian's haven and adhere to only one type of crop
to limit the supposed damage to the reclusive Spirit's habitat. As it turned out, Hops were deemed an appropriate harvest that
-not only brought a hefty income to the community, but displayed an approved discipline via the straight lines of hop vines.
It seems the great God Pook desires rows and rows of beer-flavouring plants that just happens to be bring a good income to
his worshippers. The architect of the religion -Crispin Hobson, created a system of stern sustainment and one of his customs
was that all who take benediction to Pook, must take on the founder's surname.
Devotees to the soil-dwelling eidolon wear long smocks of different hues. Dark Blue -as with Albert, defines a beginner to the
service of maintaining the sacred crops. As one advances through the four-tiered stratum of the questionable denomination,
these garments change in colour to identify the wearer's status. Green would be next for Albert to aim for and then red would
see the lad placed in a supervisory position connected to village's farming and the ceremonial acts within his veneration.
...................................................
The little sorceress waiting for Albert to speak his piece recalled that orange was the ultimate dyed-shirt to acheive to be a
full-blown Pooker and wondered if the brown-haired youngster clearing his throat ever wondered about what he was missing
in the lands outside of his cloistral group. Preparing for his speech, young Albert did what all Pook-worshippers performed
when having to formally interact with outsiders, he turned his back on his single audience.
"Greetings and fair travels, Miss Powler. My name is Albert Hobson..." Albert began, "...I represent the sincere residents of Pook
Hill and those who minister the dedication to our faith. I have been instructed to ask you to accompany myself back to my village
and speak with those who hold a higher standing than myself. Miss Powler, we need your help".
...................................................
Peggy had only entered Pook Hill once and that was just after Crispin Hobson had passed away. A dour-faced woman in a dull
-green tunic called Brenna had met her at the lychgate of the village, performed the observance of showing her back and without
salutation, advised the bare-footed stranger to consider another route. After explaining who she was and why she'd arrived at
the fenced-off colony, Peggy was asked to wait whilst Brenna went to seek further direction from one of her superiors.
A bald-headed man called Alaric had arrived and showed the little Witch into Pook Hill, a place she'd been astounded by due to
its strict construction. All the one-storey wooden houses were the same, plain-brown abodes facing inwards to a roofed-well, a
raised planked-platform and bolted-iron cage dangling from a post that Peggy was sure had once been a gallows.
The split-rail fence that surrounded Pook Hill didn't hide the settlement, it was merely a barrier to imply a difference in territory
to anyone approaching from any direction. The conifer-covered hill that formed part of the village's title was in the shape of a
horseshoe and the devotees of Pook had simply utilised the valley at the bottom of the natural bluff for their home.
Walking in single-file along the neatly-raked gravelled track behind Brenna and the red-smocked Alaric, Peggy marvelled at
the anally retentive need for tidiness and straight lines of their plantation and domiciles. Hundreds of rows of hop vines stood
in neatly-kept fields and shrouded with the fir trees that seemed common around the Pook Hill community. "Whey, Ah'd like te'
see the shape of yer' bloomin' cart-wheels" the diminutive Wizard had mumbled to herself as the weird trio approached a group
of similar-attired folk standing silently beside the well.
...................................................
Following his chosen religious protocol, Albert Hobson waited patiently with his back turned on the person his home required
assistance from and the youngster's assumed-saviour grinned at both the physical behaviour of monastic cults and admiration
for Albert's equanimity of the situation.
"Lead on me-lad" Peggy sighed and carefully climbed down from her perch. Jamming her large hat on her head, the Last Witch
of Underhill set off on her next mission and undoubtedly -she resigned to herself, more strangeness.
shrines along Calder's Way and deliberating on the words of lost-love, wondered what the woman in the framed picture had
died of. Such is the price of companionship, a bond that -when taken, is accepted to be broken by a stark reality that would
never even know the deceased's name.
With a flick of her thumb, Peggy brought a flame to reignite the remains of a candle within the wooden chantry and as she did
so, caught sight of a figure cutting a wake through a nearby field of barley. He was a young man and wore a tunic that bore a
colour that the bantam exorcist recognised from her past.
Whoever was trampling a farmer's crop beneath his feet was from a place Peggy hadn't incorporated into her calculations.
However -and staying upbeat in a place of someone's sorrow, there was also the possibility that his ambition wasn't to meet
with the little woman standing on tip-toes investigating the contents of the roadside shrine.
But she knew... she knew something lay ahead for her that didn't involve soothing hot water and the aroma of rotten eggs.
"Ah' hope yer' enjoyin' yer'self" Peggy growled a whisper to the imaginary Fates giggling somewhere amongst the cereal.
...................................................
Albert Hobson tugged a couple of barley-awns from his dull-blue smock before he announced his reason for meeting with
the little Witch sitting on the dry-stone wall. Peggy looked the young man up and down and guessed he'd only just reached
twenty summers, his dark-blue knee-length smock was fairly new and she was versed enough in his sect to know this was
indicative of someone who had just been allotted the status of novice in his home village.
...................................................
Pook Hill is a faith-based community that Peggy had always attempted to steer clear of. Their faddism is planted firmly in a
detached style of living and the family-unit is paramount that only takes second place to their focus of worship. 'Pook' is deity
that the followers believe requires partial seclusion from other populace and requires a strict code of living.
Being a divine spirit of the land, 'Pookers' do not believe in harming their guardian's haven and adhere to only one type of crop
to limit the supposed damage to the reclusive Spirit's habitat. As it turned out, Hops were deemed an appropriate harvest that
-not only brought a hefty income to the community, but displayed an approved discipline via the straight lines of hop vines.
It seems the great God Pook desires rows and rows of beer-flavouring plants that just happens to be bring a good income to
his worshippers. The architect of the religion -Crispin Hobson, created a system of stern sustainment and one of his customs
was that all who take benediction to Pook, must take on the founder's surname.
Devotees to the soil-dwelling eidolon wear long smocks of different hues. Dark Blue -as with Albert, defines a beginner to the
service of maintaining the sacred crops. As one advances through the four-tiered stratum of the questionable denomination,
these garments change in colour to identify the wearer's status. Green would be next for Albert to aim for and then red would
see the lad placed in a supervisory position connected to village's farming and the ceremonial acts within his veneration.
...................................................
The little sorceress waiting for Albert to speak his piece recalled that orange was the ultimate dyed-shirt to acheive to be a
full-blown Pooker and wondered if the brown-haired youngster clearing his throat ever wondered about what he was missing
in the lands outside of his cloistral group. Preparing for his speech, young Albert did what all Pook-worshippers performed
when having to formally interact with outsiders, he turned his back on his single audience.
"Greetings and fair travels, Miss Powler. My name is Albert Hobson..." Albert began, "...I represent the sincere residents of Pook
Hill and those who minister the dedication to our faith. I have been instructed to ask you to accompany myself back to my village
and speak with those who hold a higher standing than myself. Miss Powler, we need your help".
...................................................
Peggy had only entered Pook Hill once and that was just after Crispin Hobson had passed away. A dour-faced woman in a dull
-green tunic called Brenna had met her at the lychgate of the village, performed the observance of showing her back and without
salutation, advised the bare-footed stranger to consider another route. After explaining who she was and why she'd arrived at
the fenced-off colony, Peggy was asked to wait whilst Brenna went to seek further direction from one of her superiors.
A bald-headed man called Alaric had arrived and showed the little Witch into Pook Hill, a place she'd been astounded by due to
its strict construction. All the one-storey wooden houses were the same, plain-brown abodes facing inwards to a roofed-well, a
raised planked-platform and bolted-iron cage dangling from a post that Peggy was sure had once been a gallows.
The split-rail fence that surrounded Pook Hill didn't hide the settlement, it was merely a barrier to imply a difference in territory
to anyone approaching from any direction. The conifer-covered hill that formed part of the village's title was in the shape of a
horseshoe and the devotees of Pook had simply utilised the valley at the bottom of the natural bluff for their home.
Walking in single-file along the neatly-raked gravelled track behind Brenna and the red-smocked Alaric, Peggy marvelled at
the anally retentive need for tidiness and straight lines of their plantation and domiciles. Hundreds of rows of hop vines stood
in neatly-kept fields and shrouded with the fir trees that seemed common around the Pook Hill community. "Whey, Ah'd like te'
see the shape of yer' bloomin' cart-wheels" the diminutive Wizard had mumbled to herself as the weird trio approached a group
of similar-attired folk standing silently beside the well.
...................................................
Following his chosen religious protocol, Albert Hobson waited patiently with his back turned on the person his home required
assistance from and the youngster's assumed-saviour grinned at both the physical behaviour of monastic cults and admiration
for Albert's equanimity of the situation.
"Lead on me-lad" Peggy sighed and carefully climbed down from her perch. Jamming her large hat on her head, the Last Witch
of Underhill set off on her next mission and undoubtedly -she resigned to herself, more strangeness.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.