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Peggy Powler & The Great Race Of Summertide and Barnstead.
#1
As Doctor Theodore Higgins dried his hands and peered over his tiny spectacles at the sleeping lad in the bed near the
roaring fire hearth, he dutifully waited for the impending question from the man toying with the frayed piece of harness at
the kitchen table. There were dark circles under Jimmy Dougie's eyes and considering the squeals of pain he'd released
during the setting of his leg, Higgins concluded the would-be jockey's body was reacting by transporting him into the less
strenuous world of dreams. Some call it a faint.

The kid was young, but that leg would certainly put treacle on riding in the race next week. Even though Higgins had been
in the business for almost thirty years, a broken leg still required over six weeks to recover. It didn't matter how you cut the
pie, you still had pie he thought to himself as he watched young man's chest rise and fall steadily.
Anyway -he mused, Dawes can always get one of his other stable-hands to ride that damned horse.

Moving the badly-daubed ceramic bowl of water over to the gnarled oak sideboard near where Stanley Dawes sat brooding
on today's misadventure in the paddock, Doctor Higgins noticed it matched an equally repugnant container standing further
along the bureau. He'd known Stanley's mother before she'd gone over and just like her son with his taste in crazy horses,
she'd had no penchant for nice things either.

"How long Doc?" Stanley Dawes asked sullenly, the wall-lantern's glow dulled slightly as if to display the stable owner's mood
visually. Moving his gaze from the equipment that had caused the accident to the boy's splint-wrapped leg sticking out from
beneath the bed covers, Stanley resisted explaining to the saw-bones that the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race
was to be the biggest event around these parts and it was only a week away.

"James won't be riding in the Hunt, if that's what you're asking..." Doctor Higgins replied frankly and folded the towel into his
dark-leather bag, "...the lad needs rest and I won't allow him to be on that leg until spring comes around" he added sternly as
he picked up his coat from the nearby armchair.

The bushy eyebrows of the fifty year-old arched in a pleading expression to the village's time-worn practitioner as he looked out
of the window at the frog-striper flooding the muddy track from Dawes' sprawling property to his little house in Dibbleswith. But
Stanley's gesture of supplication went unseen by the good Doctor and so the tactile examination of the worn leather resumed. 
"You'll heed my words, Stanley, the boy isn't to be moved until I say so" Theodore warned again and steeled himself from the
inevitable thunder that came after the bright flash of lightning.

Stanley's shoulders sagged his response and listening to God moving his furniture about in the dark sky, the glum stable owner
was about to begin his mental gander of who could replace the Dougie boy, when he saw the Doctor pull his coat-collar up. The
usual hint that a payment was due. Grunting in his exertion, Stanley rose and went to a large ornate -but ugly, urn that his mother
had left him when she'd passed over ten years ago.

The woolly-haired man in the weathered canvas waistcoat glanced over to see if the Doctor was watching his antics as he quietly
lifted the porcelain lid with the half-naked mermaid on it that the stable-owner had guessed was painted by a semi-talented drunk,
but Higgins seemed more interested in the deluge that had been hanging over the Dawes estate since yesterday.

Plucking a single numma from the small pile of coins and deftly replacing the marine-themed cover back on the varnished clay pot,
Stanley ran his thick fingers through his tightly-curled hair and prepared himself to give money away. It took a lot of mettle and the
fifty year-old bachelor mentally wagered it hurt like Jimmy's leg, but he paid his bill. Ferrymen and Doctors.
...................................................

The stable-hand murmured in his sleep as his boss twiddled with a broken piece of bridle, Diabolus was well-named, the black
stallion had tossed three of his ostlers into the dirt since Stanley had bought him. He knew good running stock, his late-father had
taught him well and when Stanley had first set eyes on the young Stygian-hued colt at Hexham Horse Fair, he knew that somewhere
in that two year-olds lean body lay the need to be a winner.

Maybe the saddle-girth had been missed during his inspections and maybe Stanley had deliberately avoided close scrutiny due
to his funds dwindling, but he now felt bad on taking out his anger on Pip and Farra -the other two grooms, for the cause of the
accident. Gazing towards the fireplace and allowing the hypnotic flames take him to a similar realm Jimmy currently frolicked in,
the last member of the Dawes family capered in own his memories of the day his Pa had brought home the Annual Summertide
and Barnstead Hunt trophy.

Oracle's Grace had been a fine mare, a brave horse supposedly named after a fortune-teller his father had visited at a travelling
carnival when he'd been Jimmy's age. And by Herne -Stanley fondly recalled, that thing could jump and when thinking about those
treacherous fences of the Hunt race, it needed to.

With a wincing cough from Jimmy, Stanley left his daydreaming of those halcyon days and returned to thinking about his dilemma
with Diabolus. It was looking good that the big brute may have took a shine to Doogie, Jimmy had walked it around the stable-yard
as he'd done many times and taking it out for a morning run hadn't seemed a problem. The watchful owner's hopes were dashed
during a mild canter on the Gallops this morning and even though Stanley would like to blame the muddy conditions and his own
lax approach on tack, in his heart he knew the midnight-coloured monster had thrown Jimmy just for the hell of it.

The lightning set the night alight again outside and for a moment, Stanley spotted the huddled silhouette of Doctor Higgins slipping
and sliding his way to his little home and his cantankerous wife. The rain was coming down in bucket-loads and the miserable vista
only added to the stable-owner's woes. Still, poor Higgins had to endure the drencher and then suffer the storm clouds of his Missus,
Stanley attempted to take some solace from the fact that the horse-from-Hell had ruined his season and maybe this weather would
put-paid to Lord Tatem's chance to take the cup again. But it didn't work.

Pushing the frayed strip of leather into his trouser pocket as another ribbon of white lightning tore across the night sky, the forlorn
stable-owner pondered that bad-luck may have two hands and deals its misfortune like manure being spread across a field.
Everyone gets a bit.

Yes, a hefty dollop of misery had certainly spattered itself on the front door of the Dawes Riding Stables for sure, but as Stanley
left the rain-laced window to warm himself at the fire, he also considered that a person would have to be as crazy as that cursed
Diabolus to be out on a night like this.
...................................................

"Next time yer' daft bugger, yer'll choose te' check the weather before yer' leave a warmer place of shelter" Peggy Powler scowled
to herself as Herne the Hunter's grumble once again vibrated the cob-web-covered eaves above her. Holding her arms across her
bare breasts and remaining resolute to keep her hat on, she spat at the torrent and muttered a cuss. It wasn't much of a campfire,
but Peggy could gain some comfort from the couple of flickering flames, another act of defiance towards the drumming rain on the
roof.

The thunderstorm had been crossing the land until it seemed it had found the Last Witch of Underhill travelling along a tiny country
track that paralleled Calder's Way and decided to accompany the little sorceress on her wanderings. The surrounding bushes and
her wide-brimmed hat had done their their best to deter the rain from soaking Peggy's poncho, but she knew if a cow byre or a barn
didn't appear soon, she'd be sleeping damp in her satchel when the night came.

The old remains of a long-forgotten stable came into view ten minutes later and considering what the Fates had threw at her back
at Pook Hill, Peggy deemed their principle-compass must swing in a more favourable cardinal direction from time to time. Now, with
her only garment hanging on a nail close to where the struggling fire fought with a chilly breeze that had snuck into the tumbledown
structure, the little Witch shivered in her nakedness and returned to question her evaluation of what the guardians of her destiny had
considered a good place to get in out of the rain.

As the darkness approached the rickety home of a once-champion of the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race, lightning
would expose an unclothed grumbling woman clambering into a canvas bag dangling from a wooden peg in the out-of-the-way stable.
Oddly enough, this same hook once held the bridle-ware of the famous horse from around these parts, but now the dusty timber stay
accepted the weight of someone of similar renown, but not as tolerant to the elements.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#2
Maybe resilience is a special magic all of its own and those who frown at a situation for selfish reasons can change the nature of their
quandaries by their stubbornness to tolerate what life throws at them. Whatever the possible web of confluences, Stanley Dawes and
Peggy Powler opened a sleepy eye and smirked from their respective style of beds that the rainstorm had buggered-off.

For the little bare-assed Witch, a female Blackbird clucked its indignation of an intruder residing in its potential nesting place. For
the man slouched across his table with the mouth tasting like such a bird had defecated in it, Jimmy Dougie was grunting in pain as
he tried to sit up. "I'm sorry Master Dawes..." the ginger-haired teenager croaked in his endeavours, "...I was sure Diabolus had
settled and was up for a run". Stanley nodded vaguely and went to make some breakfast, he'd unintentionally fallen asleep where
he'd been sat and now Jimmy thought his boss had stood vigil over him during his own painful slumber.

"Aye, well can kiss the race goodbye and that monster can be fed to the dogs for all I care" the dishevelled livery owner growled as
he disappeared into the kitchen. The day would took some time in drying out, but the rumbling storm inside Stanley Dawes would
take longer to dissipate.
...................................................

"Though thee snorts at me-talent, Ah'll still thank yer' fur the much-needed brew" Peggy said over the mug of hot chicory towards the
aloof-looking Doctor of Dibbleswith. There was one slice of buttered-bread left on her plate and she felt it would be good manners
to leave it that way, be that as she was still the last Witch of Underhill, Peggy knew she was also an ambassador for her trade.

The village was as quaint as many the sorceress had passed through and even though most of its residents were still beneath their
covers, she'd been surprised to see that the community's practitioner of the body was up and taking in the quietness of the hour.
Peggy's flabber was gasted further when the Doctor had invited her onto his small garden to take breakfast with him, a mild beseech
that caused the puzzled Witch to forget to check the garden entrance for twisted sixpences or knots of horse-hair.

Such appeals were not regular occurrences for a resident healer of the body, yet Peggy believed the tall wiry-man in the tiny spectacles
wanted to seem gracious enough to appreciate a fellow-proctor of well-being. The truth was -and the cherubic-looking necromancer
knew it, that Doctor Higgins needed a favour from the little woman in the grubby poncho.

Theodore -for he felt this hour of the morning was not a time for titles, nodded and sipped at his own beverage, the birds were twittering
over their own type of sustenance in the privet hedge he'd grown himself and the bright sunshine seemed to be drying his self-sown lawn.
"I'm hoping last night's alluvion will be the last of the year" he replied absently and resisted the urge to check out a possible face-full of
confusion from the rustic woman who didn't mind showing some thigh.

The diminutive Witch swinging those shapely limbs back and forth in contentment from the high garden seat followed the Doctor's gaze
and agreed with "Aye, it was a frog-striper all-reet". Wiping her mouth with back of her hand, Peggy smiled inwardly at the slight flinch
of Higgins' eyelids.

The victual-orientated discussions of the feathered visitors to the Doctor's garden became the only pleasant sounds as the pair waited
for what was to come and Peggy pondered on whether to offer her leave as a prompt to the pinch-faced man's want. Placing her empty
pot down at the same time as Higgins on the wooden table, she knew that time had arrived. "Miss Powler...?" Theodore began in a weak
tone and quickly cleared his throat, "...I've heard that at times, you have a way of solving certain points of the compass where those like
myself sometimes struggle to make headwind"

Peggy halted her climb-down from the weathered outdoor chair and cocked her head in a way that offered mild-interest. "Whey Sir,
some say things that Ah' cannot reach is te' me-stature bein' how it is" she joked and turned her body back to show she was willing
to hear him out. A blackbird struck-up its territorial warble and the grass continued to grow as Doctor Higgins glanced towards the
bedroom window of his orderly-kept cottage.

"It's in regards of my wife and I..." Theodore whispered as he leaned forward to the attentive Witch who didn't wear shoes.
...................................................

Stanley Dawes stared about at the area of the Gallops where Diabolus had unseated his rider and struggled to find something to
take his anger out on. Pip Farnby stood beside his boss and watched him survey the clumps of woodland near where the horses
took their workouts, the smaller young man with hair that matched Dawes' tangled mane waited for Mr Dawes' annoyance to land
on him again.

"It might have been a dead branch that come down and scared the horse... maybe a crow or something nesting in there flew out"
Stanley mused out-loud and rasped the stubble on his chin. Pip shrugged and kept his mouth shut, the stable-owner's suggestion
could mean hard work to remove the copse of tall alders and thickly-packed shrubbery. With Jimmy out of the picture for a while,
the labour would be doubly difficult.

Stanley sighed softly and turned to go back to the stables, Pip emulated the move and wondered why the grouchy man just didn't
accept that Diabolus was a bad horse, 'a wrong-un' as his Pa would say when he was alive. The other horses would would watch
for curiosity-sake as he and Farra would muck-out the stables and wash down the yard, but Diabolus... that damned-thing watched
for different reasons and Pip knew it was looking for a chance to dispatch a swift kick or bruising bite to a daydreaming ostler.

"I think we'll have that thicket out and get some grass in there" Stanley murmured as he climbed over the fence where the paddock
waited and clambering after his employer, the lad who'd taken the position four years ago sighed softly and wondered what Farra
would say.
...................................................

The bacon bun provided by the never-seen spouse of Dibbleswith's only physician was a grand gift to send Peggy on her way and
touching her nose to ensure the waving Doctor's secret was safe with the wandering thaumaturge, she gently closed the garden gate
as she set off to see what was around the corner.

The driver of a passing jolt-wagon doffed his cap at the little Witch and wished her fair travels as she made her way along a puddled
lane away from the village. This wasn't by accident, Peggy was enjoying her solitude and happy to find a track that didn't require her
special kind of help. It seemed more and more, the Fae in her was calling out to slip into the undergrowth and leave the world of the
humans. Every shadow under a bush caught her eye and seemingly-impenetrable thickets drew her attention, a prerequisite of the
Good-Folk.

Sitting down on a grassy bank beneath a creaking oak, Peggy took a sip of water from her canteen and surveyed the neatly-fenced
trail that lay ahead. An overgrown mound sat across from her beside a stagnant pool of fanwort and water-lilies and as dragonflies
hovered in their dragnet for their own kind of food, the little Witch became enchanted with the little scene of wilderness squatting in
a world of man-made conformity and structure.

Juggling with whether to scoff her bacon delight before setting off again, the sorceress concluded this was horse country by the
clipped-grass fields and the organised manner of the railings. For a moment, she thought she heard distant voices, but enjoying her
perch and the vista of nature again after being with the humans, Peggy chewed on her sandwich and continued to follow the aerial
dance of the flitting Devil's Darning-Needles.

As the lofty branches of the great tree spoke again, the solitary woman in the big hat carefully folded the remains of the hoagie back
into the wax-paper it had been packed in and agreed that these few moments were the real magic she enjoyed. The land she knew
so well was changing and there may be a time when the likes of Peggy Powler were no longer needed, but when that juncture arrived,
she'd secretly welcome it and slip away into a world not dissimilar to the disorderly thicket she was currently admiring.

"Help us..." a large clump of wild garlic said softly and rising to her feet, Peggy stared towards the dense pungent cluster of blooming
Ramsoms that resided beside the water. "...Help us please, Shaman" the voice came again and the peering Witch absently stowed
away her half-eaten meal noticed two small eyes blinking below a large shadowy leaf.

He was a Sprite child, a tiny being with a look on its face of someone who's worries could not be ignored by a fellow-Fae. Long curls
from his shoes jutted out from beneath his bent knees and a similar-shaped hat hung from the frightened Sprite-boy's hand. Daring
to step into the daylight, Peggy could see the little creature had nut-brown hair that hung either side of his pointed ears as he scoured
the sky for any passing predator.

"Will you'll be the Witch of Underhill, Miss?" the wee figure asked and brought the curly-whirly hat in front of him and fingered its
short brim nervously. The Sprite's face showed he was still frightened at being out in the open, Peggy guessed his interaction with
herself didn't help with the terror he was feeling either.

"Aye, me-name is Peggy Powler who Ah'm a' talkin' to, young fella?" she asked as softly as she could, the necromancer gazing at
the reclusive being knew that the average human's voice was always too loud for them to bear. With a sight bow of the head, the
Sprite introduced himself. "My name is Pommer and my people are in grave danger, Miss Powler. We need your help" Pommer
replied and scanned the lane between them for any oncoming intruder to their chin-wag.

Removing her own hat, Peggy leaned forward just as Doctor Higgins had and whispered "then tell me how Ah' can help".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#3
Stanley Dawes placed the last sack of oats into the storeroom next to the stall where he kept Diablous and even with
the tack-decorated wooden wall separating them, the irritable stable-owner could sense the sly animal next-door was
mocking him. Setting the bag of cereal on top of the others, Stanley wondered how much longer he would be able to
afford such feed for his remaining livestock.

Jack Pennington had given him a funny look from his wagon when he'd only purchased four sacks of the stuff, a look
that Stanley knew would send tongues wagging back in Dibbleswith. Glaring daggers at the partition between the bane
of his livelihood and himself, the bushy-eyebrow manager sighed and wondered when his luck would turn.

"Is there anyone in there?" a woman's chirpy voice slid into the cramped storehouse and the buoyant tone pulled Stanley
from his malaise. To the man who'd steered clear of women and focused his attention on his trade, the question hinted at
a small female, maybe a Gypsy selling her gift of fortune-telling or even a village girl looking for work.
Wiping his hands on his moleskin trousers and quickly finger-combing his hair, Stanley prepared himself to chase the
woman off his property.
...................................................

Taking the strand of straw from his mouth, Farra Combs watched with curiosity as his boss talked to the little bare-footed
woman in the big floppy hat. The blonde-haired lad now standing at the open top-part of the stable's Dutch door had been
earlier currying his favourite horse -Pleasant Poe and humming quietly to himself as he combed the crusted-dirt the mare
had acquired from this morning's canter.

It had been a long journey from Truro to where he currently stood soothing the half-snoozing thoroughbred, Farra had left
his coastal home because he didn't want to follow in his father's footsteps and trawl the Great Sea for Puttsie-fins and
Danderheads. It wasn't the gruelling work that he had shunned, it was the monotony of the tasks of the fishermen. Farra
had believed his destiny lay inland and here he was cleaning mud from an animal, just like he had done yesterday.

But Farra's upbeat disposition was forced after hearing from Pip that the thicket next to the Gallops was to be cleared
and since it had been a whole year since Mr Dawes had employed anyone else, the straw-chewing young stable-hand
didn't want to think about the hard work that lay ahead. Now -watching his stooping boss discussing something with the
midget-stranger, Farra wondered if a woman was now joining their not-so-merry band.
...................................................

"Listen to me Miss..." Stanley said forebodingly, "...this is my land and if I say that overgrown mess out there is to be hauled
out, it's to be hauled out. I've got real problems with a kid in there with a broken leg..." a thick callused thumb pointed to the
kitchen door of the main house. "..And a business that's already been hit by what you believe his bad luck. I don't need you
turning up and adding more to my pile" he added and displayed a face of slowly-uncoiling annoyance towards the diminutive
female in a too-big-for-her hat.

Peggy peered up at the defiant man with the tightly-curled hair and mentally bit down on her want to cast a spell. It would
be easier and much needed, the Sprite's explanation of his home being destroyed was at the whim of this man and in her
view, not vital to his trade of horse racing. The little sorceress' pinkie-finger itched to solve the problem, but Peggy held firm.

"Yer' seem te' be a reasonable fella, Mister Dawes and Ah' can see yer' a man of means, but this little favour te' me would
stop a lot of bad luck comin' yer' way fur-sure..." she said in a slightly needy tone. "...Yer'll be aware that breaking a Fae's
domain always brings such misfortune, surely yer' Ma must've told yer' this?" Peggy added and saw those briars above
the horse trainer's stern eyes furrow.

Stanley bent closer and hissed menacingly "are you threatening me, Witch?" This was all he needed today, some sqaut
hussy who couldn't afford shoes casting bad ju-ju on him for a reason that belongs in a child's bedtime story. His brooding
gaze showed his disdain for the trespassing woman and hoped it would be enough to send her on her way.

Emulating the man's earlier exhale of exasperation, the Last Witch of Underhill held up her hands to indicate the palaver
was over. Peggy knew she'd have to find another way to save Pommer's home and sadly, it may involve the use of majick.
"Well, I tried me-best and Ah' can see yer' not fur' movin'. Fair travels Mister Dawes" she stated politely and was about
turn and leave the yard, when providence decided to visit the Dawes estate.

"If you wish to curse anything around here, that damned-horse in there would make a fine candidate" Stanley growled as
he stood to his full height and subconsciously rubbed the base of his aching back. He guessed if such hocus-pocus existed
-a notion that pragmatic businessmen like Stanley believed himself to be seriously doubted , then such a payment should
be given to the appropriate applicant.

Seeing the small visitor glance towards the stables and then offer a look of confusion, Stanley added to his ante to rid his
yard of the nosy Witch in the poncho. "I'll tell you what, lady... if you can move muck-out my stables, win me a race or even
fix that hell-horse Diablous, I'll reconsider digging out your silly copse" Stanley quipped and smiled inwardly as he turned
to get on with his day.

Just like the Fortune-Teller his late-father had named his winning mare after, these folk held no real power to do anything,
they just used scare-tactics that belong in the world of little children's fears. Shaking his head at the lengths people go to
try and get their way, the stable owner went to see if Jimmy's leg was any better. However, it was only Farra who saw the
little woman nod as if in accord with something the ostler failed to hear. Pleasant Poe whinnied that her pelt wasn't fully
preened and the lad who disliked fishing-nets went back to work.
...................................................

The big silver moon shone its argent light down over the tall alder trees of the condemned copse and across the cobbled
stones of Dawes' quiet stable yard. This limpid effulgence drew stick-thin shadows of tiny shapes stealing across the open
ground to where the sleeping equine raced over chimerical prairie and felt a wild breeze stir their manes.

If Farra Combs or Pip Farnby had roused himself from their respective cots in the loft above where the horses slept, they
may have recognised one of these scuttling forms. The waddling shape was taller than the rest and wore -what some might
call, a 'too-big-for-her' hat.

Within that floppy headwear, a shadow darker than the silhouettes climbing through the open window of the stables smiled
as the bargain was about to be implemented. "Reet yer' bugger, let's see how honourable you are, Mister Dawes" whispered
Peggy Powler and stepped through the door that a Sprite politely held open for her.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#4
Thank you for the PP updates. 

I really do like reading them and for me, that is saying something. I find it difficult to find things I want to read after a short bit. 

The writer either has a difficult time putting the words into a readable format or difficulty coming up with a story that hasn't been done to death. 

You and PP do not have those issues. It gives me hope  tinybiggrin
#5
(04-28-2022, 06:26 PM)ABNARTY Wrote: Thank you for the PP updates. 

I really do like reading them and for me, that is saying something. I find it difficult to find things I want to read after a short bit. 

The writer either has a difficult time putting the words into a readable format or difficulty coming up with a story that hasn't been done to death. 

You and PP do not have those issues. It gives me hope  tinybiggrin

tinybiggrin Thank you, my 'Writer's Block' stayed close for some time and I thought it would never leave!
minusculethumbsup
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#6
"...Nor me" agreed Pip Farnby and looked again at what had happened while they slept, even the small windows of
the tack-room had been cleaned to the point that they sparkled. Farra Combs turned back from his own examination
of the strange overnight event and waited for his boss' point of view.

"And you're sure you heard nothing?" Stanley Dawes asked again as he kept his hazel-eyes on the immaculate stables
of the three horses and scratched his head under his flat-cap in . The doors looked like they'd had a fresh lick of paint
and -the year-round cobwebs that had resided under the guttering had gone. Fidgeting in the pockets of his waistcoat,
Stanley wondered to himself whether this was the work of that bare-footed scallywag who came into the yard yesterday.

Pip finished his own inspection and then without a word, walked-off to look around the corner where the manure was piled
before Thomas Canning -a local farmer, came to collect it. Sure enough, the dung had been heaped into a neat pile that
almost was pyramid-shaped. This wasn't the work of any ghostly muck-stealer he thought with some mirth, but straightened
his face as he heard large hobnail boots approaching behind him.

Arriving behind the small stable-lad, Stanley stared and resumed his search in his canvas vest. "It's a stumper for sure" he
mumbled and then stared out into the morning mist along the track that led to his property. A little shape was appearing from
the brume. "You two get on with your work, take the horses out for a run" the owner of said-acreage said firmly, but kept his
gaze on the waddling figure in the large hat. "Leave Diabolus in his stall..." he called over his shoulder."...I've got a deal to
settle" he added in a faint enough voice that Pip and Farra couldn't hear him.
...................................................

Peggy Powler grinned at the man with the broad shoulders and tightly-curled hair as he repeated his warning that next time
she trespassed on his land, he'd get his old crossbow and send her on her way with a bolt in her backside. She could see
Stanley Dawes' annoyance of being held accountable for his words coming off him in waves. "You had no right sneaking in
here and scaring my livestock..." he said loudly "...what if Diabolus had stomped you to death, huh?" he added pretentiously.

The Last Witch of Underhill nodded understandingly and softy replied "but he didn't, did he?" and raised her lesser-hairy
eyebrows than the Stable-owner to give him a clue to what may lay ahead. Stanley was about to spit onto the swept-clean
cobbles, when he thought better of it. This woman wasn't buying his faux-anger.

A rook passing overhead agreed with the false presentation of Dawes' pique and cawed its opinion on the matter, Peggy
was sure the comment wasn't lost on the fellow who had made a deal and now trying to get out from under it.

"It's a stumper fur' sure that yon stables got cleaned, but if Ah' recall..." Peggy looked skywards as if attempting to pull the
exact words from the firmament."...Yer' mentioned yesterday something about if it happened, yer'd leave the copse alone"
the smiling Witch responded. "Do yer' remember yer' words, Mister Dawes?" This last query was heavily weighted with
sarcasm, although Peggy's face projected features similar to an irreproachable cherub happily binding an olive garland
with a backdrop of empyrean wonderment.

Stanley felt the chess-pieces moving and it was on his own board -for Herne's sake! He'd only said it to get rid of the... that
was when what the diminutive sorceress had said earlier struck him. Somehow, this scruffy-looking midnight-cleaner had
entered Diabolus' stall and hadn't been attacked, not a bruising bite or even a skin-flayed shin.

A vague counter-plan began to form under the thumb-greased headwear of Stanley Dawes as he slowly surveyed the little
bare-footed minx. "Yes, I remember" he answered absently as his thoughts clicked into some sort of order.

"Miss Powler..." Stanley said in a tone entirely different from his tirade earlier, "...I said what I said in a fit of rage over what
I'm currently struggling with. I know the overgrown area is important to you -just as I also know that you believe in such things
as Pixies. Please, if you can help me deal with my dilemma, I vow that no harm will befall that untamed piece of my land as
long as I'm alive."

The horse trainer took off his cap, stooped slightly and chanced an earnest face to boost his statement. As the mist began
to burn off with the sun breaking through the transparent vapour, Stanley scanned the pondering in his yard to see if so-called
Witch would take the bait?

It never stops -Peggy thought to herself. Pommer's folk had been open and honest about the danger they'd overheard from
the man who raced horses around the home. There was no conniving or secondary goal, just a wish to be left alone and leave
Stanley and his business alone. But here... here in the human world, the double-dealing scheming is alive and well, alive -and
in Stanley Dawes' case, not very well presented.

"Mister Dawes, all Diabolus needs is to trust..." Peggy said softly, "...he's highly-strung because he was taken from his mother
far-too early and even though he's a winner in me-own books, the hoss struggles with trust. Can yer' ken what Ah' mean, Mister
Dawes?" The angelic-looking Witch was almost at checkmate and Stanley knew it. Maybe tonight -he thought, that pile of horse
shit will magically appear in his front-room with a note attached suggesting he should eat it.

"Okay lady, you win. The copse won't be touched and you have my word on it" Stanley grunted resignedly and subconsciously
reaching into his weskit pocket, he stood erect and turned away from the stunted necromancer to get on with his failing business.

Precisely four steps were all those big boots took before he heard the Witch ask "Mister Dawes... who is Lord Tatem?"
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#7
The surprising invite to inspect the young lad's broken leg and partake in a large mug of chicory-coffee was one thing,
but as Peggy Powler listened to Stanley Dawes tale regarding Lord Archibald Tatem, she wagered it would be a fine
line between which was best. With Jimmy Dougie sitting up and alert to the introduction of the small visitor of his boss'
domain, the usually-grouchy man seemed to unburden himself of his querulous nature as he related history and poured
the little Witch her decoction.

Around fifty years ago, Lord Bennet Jasper Tatem -for reasons lost in time, decided to entertain the peasantry of the
nearby rustic hamlet of Dibbleswith by the introduction of a horse race between himself and a rival gentleman of high
office saddled with the name Sir Ivor Bentone.

Since lack of respect was the norm from those of loftier birth towards the lowly plebeian who live and worked around
Sir Bennet Tatem's large estate, this race would take place on the rural land where fences, hedges and natural hurdles
assisted in making the competition's outcome more intriguing.

The yokels came out and watched the alleged enjoyment and when it was announced that this 'amour propre' display
would return next year, the Dibbleswith residents took it upon themselves to make it into a celebration that catered for
their own class-level as well as the aristocratic variety. For those interested, Lord Tatem won the original contest and
earned praise and twenty numma from his opponent.

As an economy and notoriety blossomed from the annual event, other noblemen arrived with their expensive mounts to
try their hand -or hoof, at the obstacle-ridden course. To expel the notion of domination that the blue-bloods were just
cutting-up perfectly good sheep-browsing pasture and destroying shrubbery for their own hedonism, a small amount of
men of Dibbleswith began a sub-rosa scheme that would not only effect any wagering on the race, it would promote the
likelihood of physical injury to those who took their way of life for granted.

To the average digitary, one could suggest that they'd guess wooden stakes could and would be used in the day-to-day
erecting of agricultural barricades. However, the trick -something Lord Tatem only realised after Sir Julian Fairfax found
himself impaled through the forearm on such a stave when attempting to vault a hedgerow, is to have the sharpened-end
in the ground and not sticking upwards.

This incident -and earlier possible happenings led to the race being deemed 'compromised' and so another group of men
-those who sported better attire than the Dibbleswith-minions and would never envision themselves sullying their lily-white
hands with menial tasks, to re-fashion the tournament and open it up as an official county event. Over the years, the hurdles
had become more and more perilous and there'd even been talk of cancelling the crowd-attracting contest due to the fatal
injuries to the horses. By the way, none of the assumed saboteurs were ever held accountable.

The Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race came into existence five years after Lord Tatem boasted to a fellow
patrician that one of his stable could out-run and out-jump any of his guest's mounts. As of last year, Lord Bennet Jasper's
son had won the four-and-half mile race three times.
Stanley Dawes' father had won it once and Stanley, never.
...................................................

Sipping her refill and listening to her host's amble down memory lane, the Last Witch of Underhill recalled another tale
of a certain Tatem household, a well-to-do brood who discovered the hidden home of a Gnome family. To those who
research folklore -a term used by humans far-too easily, for Gnomes to settle-down in a family-unit is a rarity and even
though the Tatems of that time had no idea of subterranean Good-Folk, the idea that 'something' was using their wine
cellar as a home was unconscionable.

Hence, they sent the dogs in and the Gnomes were lucky to flee with their lives. Peggy heard about it a few years after
and wondered when her wayward path would peregrinate to the Tatems silk-stocking dominion. Maybe that day had come.

"...And that's the story of the race I've been after for more than thirty years" Stanley sighed and noticed Jimmy's eyes were
as big as saucers in wonderment of the yarn. His own drink was lukewarm and if he'd been alone, the stable-owner may
have sought a stronger draft than coffee. "I had high-hopes this year, but..." Stanley murmured and looked again at the
lad in the bed next to the fire.

With the retrospection of how the Gnomes became homeless, Peggy slid from the chair and took another look at Jimmy's
braced limb. "So yer'll be needin' a rider fur' yer' Devil-hoss, then?" she said softly and for a moment, the dark cloud above
Stanley Dawes lifted. "I admire your pluck, Miss Powler, but we're talking about the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt and
it's not something to take lightly."

"A Witch and a steed called Diabolus..." Peggy lightly chaffed as she patted young Jimmy's hand and turned to warm her
bare-behind at the embers of the dying fire. "...What could possibly gan' wrong?"
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#8
Someone once wrote: "It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog" and for the bantam-sized
Peggy Powler standing beside Stanley Dawes and staring up at the horse named Diabolus, she hoped the quote had some
merit.

"It's simple fact really, the damned-thing just doesn't like anyone riding on its back..." the indifferent stable-owner said plainly
and emphasised his comment by sighing through his nose. "...I'd all but give-up on what to do, maybe sell the cursed-animal
to the knacker-man... maybe" he dolefully added and sought solace by peering out of the clean window to see his employees
leave for the other horses' early-morning canter.

The little Witch neared the wooden partition where Diabolus was tethered and surveyed the sable-coloured stallion resting its
left back-leg and giving the impression it was snoozing. Even though a half-closed eyelid offered a scene of serenity, Peggy
noticed the sneaky inky-eye watching her every move. "Aye yer've been treated bad, haven't yer' yer' Bugger..." she whispered
softly to the huge head, "...taken from yer' Ma and forced to run in a race that's simply too great for yer'" Peggy murmured and
for an instant, the little woman suddenly grasped the level of intelligence that was buried deep within in the muscular brute.

Realising that Diabolus could not only sense human's emotions, Peggy now knew the wily animal could also understand the
actual language of those who sought to manage its life. Keeping her face from revealing what she'd discovered, the woman
in the big hat motioned as if to lift her hand in order to caress Diabolus' hairy nostrils. Then suddenly, she turned and walked
away from the peaceful scene and left the stallion flinching with surprise.

Without a comment to Stanley -who had been focused on pondering the puzzling situation of how his recent visitor would be
able to compete in the gruelling Hunt race clinging to such a spiteful mount, Peggy stepped out into the yard and scanned the
sky -as if the heavens held the answer.

When Stanley appeared from the shadows of the stable, the sun had finally broken through and now warmed the morning on
the Dawes estate. He looked at the little pondering woman standing in on the freshly-swept cobbles of his yard and wondered
what she was thinking.

Reviving the possibility of taking part in the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race was a great idea, but the realities
that Stanley and Peggy had at hand were just too outlandish to consider seriously taking part in the dangerous competition.
Besides the hard facts that the only horse he believed could endure the four-and-half mile hurdle-bedevilled test of endurance
held a disposition to ejecting its rider, today was the day Stanley was supposed to register at Lord Tatem's home if he was to
enter Diabolus and the unfortunate passenger.

The answer to Mister Dawes' wonder was that the Last Witch of Underhill had arrived at an impasse she had attempted to
avoid in solving the problem. Majick, a simple spell of taking Diabolus' willpower and husbanding the horse to do what Peggy
wanted, would be easy. But would it be right? The moral aspect of cheating would draw her more towards the human side of
her parentage and be at-odds with the ethical values she believed lay in her semi-Fae heritage. A bugger-of-a-pickle indeed.

Stanley nudged Peggy out of her wool-gathering when he remarked about the registration time and watched as she returned
from wherever she'd been in her thinking. "Just to save face, I should go and tell him I'll not be entering the contest..." Stanley
said sullenly. "...I know he'll laugh his fancy-pants off, but I'd rather him do it to my face than behind my back" he added and
went to fetch his jacket.

Peggy Powler breathed in deeply and subconsciously adjusted the satchel strap on her shoulder. "Would it be a bugger if
'Ah took that trudge wiv' yer, Mister Dawes?" she called to the broad shoulders of the man wandering towards the kitchen
door. A vague wave on a hand indicated the stable-owner was bothered either way and glancing back into the gloom where
the damaged stallion was pretending to not listen, the necromancer smiled at what she'd found out.

"Thee'll be just another hoss when the evenin' comes, Diabolus..." Peggy said towards the dark rectangular entrance,
"...Yer' old mother'll be proud of yer' to have bested a Witch and tossed away yer' destiny all in a single day, me-lad" she
appended and theatrically re-setting her hat on her head, ambled over to wait beside the track out of the Dawes property.
...................................................

"Ah need te' water the flowers, Mister Dawes" the little Witch said suddenly as the pair had been quietly walking along the
lane that skirted his land. The other side of copse could be seen from this position and to Stanley, the overgrown foliage
seemed worse than the jungle he'd witnessed in the years he'd been training horses. But now, this strange petite woman
had disappeared into the tangle of brambles, ferns and twisting Honeysuckle on a mission he just didn't comprehend.

As if to answer his mental puzzle, Peggy called back "Ah'm takin' a pee, Mister Dawes" and the stable-owner found refuge
from his sudden embarrassment by rummaging through the pockets of his tweed coat. If the Witch's need to make water
took longer, one can assume Stanley's trusty-waistcoat would be next on the roster for delving.

Pommer frowned his own perplexity at what the Witch had said to the giant man on the trail as she now crouched down to
speak to him. The jubilant Sprite had been the toast of his community after they had all taken part in cleaning the structures
that the humans contained their animals in. For Pommer, this little woman who rebuffed undergarments and footwear, had
saved their home by outwitting the pocket-foraging fellow with the bushy eyebrows.

"Aye..." Peggy said hurriedly to stop the Sprite's whispered gratitude, "...yer can thank me wiv' flowers on me-grave when
Ah' gan' over, but for now..." the susurrant sorceress took a glance towards where her fellow-traveller was waiting. "...Ah'
need yer' te' do me a favour". Pommer -still elated from he and his group of Fae's part in the Witch's copse-saving scheme,
nodded and listened with eyes of a child being told a fairy-story.
...................................................

Lord Archibald Tatem's home was big and fancy just as Peggy had guessed. Lavish gothic architecture screamed out the
aristocrat's accumulation of wealth and power. Large perfectly-manicured lawns lay on either side of the well-raked gravelled,
neatly-clipped privet-hedged corridor that a large man and his smaller companion walked along, to make sure they felt the
domineering opulence Lord Tatem enjoyed.

Approaching the well-scrubbed steps that furthered the undermining the confidence of a caller's visit, Peggy decided due to
the tale of the Gnomes and their displacement from the swanky house and the impressive trimmings of the massive building,
she already didn't like Lord Tatem. A human-envy-failing, yes -she agreed to herself, but she was half-human and so, valid in
her eyes.

A pair of peacock-engraved marble pillars ox-carted in from the Gallen islands stood like sentinels either-side of a door that
would allow six people aligned shoulder-to-shoulder to enter The oak of the huge iron-studded egress had been taken from
forests now long gone in the Piltdown district and the dark metal hardware had been forged by a Blacksmith who only dealt
with those of high birth. Soaking in all this terrible waste of material, Peggy emulated Stanley's earlier resistance and didn't
spit on the ground.

"Can we tek' it that this fella farts through silk, Mister Dawes?" she quipped from the side of her mouth as Stanley reached
for the knocker that resembled Old Scratch with an iron ring in his mouth. The stable-owner -a man fully aware that he and
the little Witch were way-out of their social league, replied "call me Stanley and let's get this over with quick, eh?".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#9
To Peggy Powler, the heraldic motifs and quatrefoils decorating the main hallway ceiling were a bit much for her taste,
but decided not to mention it to Stanley Dawes, the man beside her with his cap in his hands. The gawking sorceress
automatically reached for her own wide-brimmed headwear and made another decision. Bugger it -she thought, this
Lord Tatem fellow can take as he finds, and held the strap of her satchel instead.

The other person was a Butler, who after recognising the stable-owner and frowning when his cold eyes set upon the
grubby-looking unshod female, waved a hand and allowed them entry. This same aloof servant now pointed to two
large over-stuffed button-back armchairs and croaked "Lord Tatem will see you when he's ready" and walked away
with what Peggy guessed, was a stick up his rear.

"Whey, he's a bit snooty" Stanley's companion muttered as she plonked herself down onto the plush seat and peered
up again at the four-lobed ornamental designs above her. Peggy had been in houses like this one before, the lavish
display of wealth never failed to amaze her when considering one's home is where one is at peace and such trappings
were obviously for others to appreciate.

Smiling up at the large bold prints of flowers, scrolls and foliage surrounding the clover-shaped plasterwork, the Last
Witch of Underhill thought such decorations were nothing more than the posters she and Mister Volcano used to put
up in the villages when the Carnival was visiting.

There were knights vanquishing serpents and other chivalric scenes that hinted of tales where humans valued honour,
another thing that drew a smile of the ogling magician. Certainly days of yore -she thought sarcastically as she moved
her interest to the fancy floor. This was patterned too and seeing Peggy's eyes track the symmetrical-pattern, Stanley
explained the hallway was garnished with encaustic floor tiles. A returning nod from the leg-swinging floppy-hat woman
was the payment for such a clarification.

As time waited in the high corridor with the pair of out-of-place characters, the reason why they were there came back
to upset any residue of placidity they'd been holding onto. For Stanley, it was to decline entering the Summertide and
Barnstead Hunt Horse Race and by doing so, also admit he wasn't even the assayer his father had been.

For Peggy, the purpose for her dangling her bare legs from a posh chair was to see if this Gnome-banishing blue blood
could ignite the gunpowder in her that she secretly wished for. It wasn't the plush surroundings or the waste of perfectly
good arable land that annoyed her, nor even the yarn about the Gnomes being ousted from their 'borrowed' underground
home. What really rubbed Peggy was the cruel waste of power that rippled its effect all through Stanley's business, his
employees and then to the little thicket where the Sprites lived.
Autocracy unbridled.
...................................................

Lord Archibald Tatem perfectly fitted Peggy Powler's bill. He was well-spoken -with a constant lilt in his voice that told
the pair in his home that they were obviously beneath his level of style. Haughty, with a pinched-face and hands that had
never held a shovel or tilled soil. With a quick glance towards the smaller person in the hallway -as if Stanley had brought
the poncho-wearing visitor in on the bottom of his boot, Lord Tatem lightly demanded -not asked, for the reason of the
stable-owner's tarriance.

Just as Stanley began to say his piece and explain that he wouldn't be attending the famous race, the sorceress' fuse
twitched in its ignition and so she wiggled her finger. Stanley stopped speaking and began to sneeze. Lord Tatem's
eyes widened as the big man in the tweed jacket jerked in the strange bout of sternutation. Every time it seemed the
sneezes seemed to abate, the moment Stanley went to pronounce a word, a loud 'atchoo!' would echo in the hallway.

Finally, Stanley shuffled towards the entrance and with the Butler appearing from nowhere and racing to open the huge
door, the poor sniffing and sneezing man sought refuge out in the open air. Archibald's stare moved from the buckling
man leaving his lush abode to the little vagabond gazing up at him. "Good heavens, do you think he is ill?" Tatem asked
without thinking the pint-sized uncouth oik was worthy of responding.

Peggy's grinned and replied "divna' yer' worry yer'self, me-old cocker, it's just hayfever. Now, about enterin' the race, how
much is it?" and absently reached into her satchel. Like many other times, the little Witch silently hoped the magical bag
would work its wonder and deliver what she required. With his gaze still on the still-open door, a bewildered Lord Tatem
mumbled "er, ten numma... half or the original wager, of course".

Sure enough, the delphian canvas pouch came through as Peggy's hand plucked out a velvet string-drawn sack.
"Ah' think this'll help Diabolus beat whatever nag yer'll be bringin te' the race" she said in a pleasant tone and dropped
the purse onto the chair where she'd been sitting. Now the dazed aristocrat's attention returned fully as he heard the
horse's name and gathered his words as the little woman walked away to join the head-jolting horse-trainer standing
on his expensive steps.

"Diabolus...?" Archibald asked "Dawes is actually entering that hellion into the Hunt?" and watched the diminutive wayfarer
turn to look back at the surprised wealthy socialite. "Aye, M'Lord..." Peggy replied softly and stretched her smile with malice,
"...and Ah'll be ridin' him".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#10
The next couple of days were spent with Stanley Dawes and the seated Jimmy Dougie struggling to teach the little Witch
called Peggy Powler how to ride a race horse. Even though Doctor Higgins had warned the stable-owner not to move the
young lad from the bed in Stanley's front-room, it was quietly agreed upon -that with their boss' daily supervised carrying,
Pip and Farra could lift Jimmy via a kitchen chair and position him near the area where the horses ran.

True, the renowned necromancer had been a passenger on many a mount in her time travelling the highways and byways
of the land, this transport was usually with the Midnight-Mail carriers who ferried various styles of information to the villages
and towns for purely communal-adhesion reasons. These couriers were regular companions on Peggy's journeys and she'd
befriended many of the emissaries that rode through the night to get to their destinations. It was a normal part of a roaming
sorceress' vocation and she felt when it came to riding a horse, well... how difficult could it be?

But when it comes to handling a large running animal between one's legs and urging that creature to endanger its life by
vaulting over ridiculously-high obstacles, it seemed such an undertaking is not for for the faint-hearted or those who live
their lives chasing demons and werewolves. Even with Stanley and the young ostler shouting out encouragement and tips
on riding the unusually placid Diabolus, it seemed Peggy Powler would never make a good Jockey.

Sitting on the dew-damp grass after her third fall from the tall black horse, the Last Witch of Underhill wondered if she had
bitten off more than she could chew. Diabolus eyed the shoeless necromancer groaning as she got to her feet and if equine
cognition does encompass judgment and evaluation, one could suggest the horse agreed with its rider. Patting the nose
of the waiting horse, Peggy breathed "It's not you, honey, it's just me-legs aren't what they used te' be" and glanced over
to where the two more-proficient wranglers of steeds watched-on with faces of forced-consolation.

The towering slippery brute had changed and the big man in the canvas waistcoat and his younger employee with his leg
in splints had noticed the transformation. Earlier, as the compliant Diabolus had been led out of his stall, Stanley had asked
Pip and  if the horse had been off its feed or had the stable-boy noticed anything unusual about Diabolus' behaviour. To the
pair of remaining stable-hands, nothing had changed. One day, Diabolus had been the irascible stallion waiting to deliver
a nasty kick to a careless shovel-wielding worker, the next he was whinnying merrily to the other horses in their respective
stalls and submissive during grooming.

"Something about the bugger has changed..." Stanley muttered to the boy grunting as he adjusted the position of his broken
limb, "...I can't place my finger on it, but I'm wondering if that woman's put a hex on Diabolus. What do you think?" he asked
Jimmy without looking at him. The lame stable-hand merely wondered why his superior had used the word 'bugger', a term
he'd never heard before Peggy Powler had arrived at the Dawes stables. "Maybe" he offered and went back to tolerating
the dull ache in his leg.

The next day duplicated the previous bout of horse-riding instruction and unknown to everyone except the trainee-jockey in
the big hat, the following day was the same due to the nightly visit to Diabolus' stall from little Pommer and a couple of his
fellow-Sprites. Fae-folk have a way with some animals and it is true that high-moral discourse will fail between contrasting
species if one the participants wishes to eat the other, but in the area of non-predatory disquisition, language is not a
barrier for the Sprite.

As Farra Combs snored away his dreams of hauling in fish-full nets with his Pa and Pip Farnby's slumber consisted of
hopefully meeting the girl that smiled at him he'd spied when he'd visited Dibbleswith to fetch Doctor Higgins, Pommer
and his companions talked to the horse that had lost the power to trust. Perched on the wooden partition holding the half
stuffed hay-bag that separated Diabolus from the other Dawes racing-stock, faith in one's self and those who shared this
realm with, were worked on.
...................................................

"...Yes, well I can't get over the fact that yer' paid Lord Tatem to enter a race I'd categorically told yer' I had no intention of
entering" Stanley stated as he and Peggy followed behind Pip and Farra hauling the Dougie-lad back to their Manager's
home. The Witch of the roads kept her own gaze forward as Stanley went over this old-chestnut again, the loss of nasal
control at the moment he was to cede his part in a dumb race his father had won once and the fact that Peggy had funded
the entry-fee.

It was late-afternoon of Day-five and in a couple of church candles time, that dreaded dawn would arrive on the Dawes estate
for the annual Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. Here they were again, bickering via shallow abstracts about the
one thing that Stanley subconsciously feared the most, bettering his father.

The weary Witch switched the reins of the docile plodding Diabolus following its would-be rider from one hand to the other
and nonchalantly replied "Ah' must of got me-brain in treacle 'cos of yer' sneezin' fit, Stanley." She now used his first name
and also noticed the broad-shouldered man had taken to speaking similar to herself.

Stanley peered ahead as he noticed the two stable-hands had changed his instructions on bringing and returning Jimmy
Dougie. Farra was now carrying the sidelined horse-rider over his shoulder, whilst Pip lugged one of Stanley's mother's
favourite kitchen chairs under his arm. For a brief moment, the annoyed stable-owner found himself unsure of which he
was more concerned about and felt guilty that the thought had popped into his head in the first place.

It seemed more and more, his authority on his own property was waning and his whole business was descending into a
silly world of make-believe and random certitude. "...Divna' worry thee-self, Stanley, there's always a plan te' these things
and yer've just got to trust it'll be reet in the end" Peggy added and gently elbowed the big man beside her in the thigh.

"Eh... and yer' startin' te' sound like me, yer' bugger" she quipped with the hope of cheering the upset stable-owner as the
strange pair ambled back to the yard. Stanley merely grunted and went back to deliberating on the odds of actually finishing
the race.

The rules were he would receive the entry-fee back if his horse succeeded in getting around the the four-and-half mile course
and would improve if Diabolus could get within the top four. Of course, Stanley knew that the money was not his and really, it
meant very little to him when weighed against the opportunity to take the trophy. The famous cup his father had won all those
years ago.

"I figure if yer' steer clear of the pack and just take yer..." he corrected himself, "...if you take your time when coming to the
fences, there's a chance you might complete the race, Peggy..." he said earnestly and peered down towards the wide brim
of the Witch's floppy hat. "...What do you think?" he said with the best buoyancy he could muster.

Peggy Powler lifted her head, looked fixedly back at the giant with tightly-curled hair and showed a smile that slightly jittered
Stanley for a moment. The horse trainer recognised that the woman's glare was another piece of evidence that his command
of what he said regarding his business, the trio of ostlers' employment and even own future, was being undermined by those
he deemed outsiders. "Aye, yer' the boss" the Witch replied and yet, her eyes told of something else.

It wasn't until their long-stretched shadows touched the gate-posts of the yard that Peggy decided to say what she'd almost
spoken when Stanley had offered his advice on how to conduct the Summertide and Barnstead event. She knew it would be
cruel, but this well-meaning -but flawed human needed the special medication the easy-going animal wandering behind her
had taken. For the last few nights, Diabolus had taken his nursing in spoon-fulls, Stanley Dawes was now going to glug down
the whole bottle.

"Is that a dandelion-seed in yer' hair, Stanley...?" Peggy said lightly and waved a hand for him to lean forward for checking.
Stanley did so without thinking and right there-and-then, that silly world of make-believe that he'd been recently tolerating
took a severe twist in its journey. For his smaller companion's part, it involved a whispered spell and an index-finger on the
big man's forehead, the rest was straight from the heart.

"Ah' think me-hoss and me will run pell-mell in the race yer' futha' always wanted yer' te' win. Ah' think yer' Pa did and will
always love yer' and he'd want yer' to better him as his son. Do yer' hear me Stanley Dawes?" Peggy leaned close and softly
breathed on the man who was now a boy watching how his father had hugged his mother in his triumph. It was Stanley's
best moment, he'd been so proud of his Pa's achievement and it was this happiness his psyche feared to taint with a victory
of his own

"Me and me-hoss here, we're gonna run like Old Scratch himself is bitin' our asses, we're gonna jump them fences like
we got wings, do yer' hear me Stanley Dawes?" the little Witch whispered menacingly. "Aye, it'll be a sight te' see alright,
we're gonna win that race and yer' futha' will be proud of yer' anyway" she finished in a lighter tone and gently brushed the
stable-owner's hair in a hint of affection.

As Stanley came around from his odd bout of daydreaming and slowly stood to his true height, Diabolus the now-amiable
eavesdropper, whinnied his agreement of Peggy's Powler's scheme. "Ah think Ah' got it all out" the Witch said and wiggled
her fingers to show the imaginary floating seed-pod was no more.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#11
I suppose it would be a good idea around now to explain the layout of The Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race.
On the private property of Lord Tatem, it's technically a four-and-half mile steeplechase in which competitors from as far
as Wildhorn County have encountered such fences and ditch-obstacles that it's said it'll make the average rider hesitant
to take part in. The prize for the brave winner of this contest is one thousand numma and the Summertide and Barnstead
trophy, a gold cup engraved with the distinguished title of the race and the victor.

Six hurdles on a course travelled around twice and designed by the best landscape artists that Lord Tatem's money could
buy to separate jockey from horse. One might be believe that such investment would be the reason why the fourth fence
is named 'Archibald's Hindrance' by certain parties.

The first two fences are fairly high and are constructed of long wooden boards with freshly-cut spruce branches strapped
around them in the attempt to emulate a hedge. From what little information is available about the famous county chase,
it was decided to erect these fences in this manner due to the memory of what certain residents of Dibbleswith did with
a rather well-honed stake hidden in the naturally-grown hedges.

The third obstacle -as a particular soothsayer would describe, is a 'bit-of-a-bugger'. It's basically two high fences placed
fairly-close together and shrouded with the obligatory evergreen foliage. This is the one that always unseats the jockeys
who never committed themselves to researching the Summertide and Barnstead race. You see, the ground on the other
side of the hurdle is lower than where the horses launch themselves from and to some of the older patrons of The Merry
Oak Tavern in Dibbleswith know the fence as 'The Fall'.

If the valiant contestant finds his mount's legs aren't shattered by the alarming drop on the other side of The Fall, Archibald's
Hindrance awaits and with it, quite a distance to reach the aristocratic-titled barrier. This is where the participants can jostle
for a leading position, but this stretch to the next fence can be taxing on the horse and why it was designed that way. I heard
that a professional equestrian once said this strategic scamper was the most crucial part of the whole race.

Believe it or not, Archibald's Hindrance has a bower or pergola-type surround that stands high enough that if a jockey lifts his
or her head up during the jump, their hat can be snagged and even cause said rider to become unseated. So a large circular
trellis decked-out with ivy, Dutchman’s Pipe and Morning glory entwined in a garland-effect set to scare the Billy-Be-Jezus out
of the tiring horse and beneath this elaborate nod to the dignitary who funded the construction, a five foot-high fence smothered
with the usual spruce branches. This engagement isn't for the faint of heart.

Following the white-painted barriers of the course, the group of entrants for the large prize money reward and the acclaimed
cup now turn left to begin the last section of the actual course. However, this part is -in reality, only the second portion of the
Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. Twice around, remember?

But to regain some stature from my smug reminder, one could suggest the next obstacle isn't a fence and they'd be correct,
it's an artificial tributary of the River Skinny. Back in Lord Bennet Jasper Tatem's time, the Groundsmen of the estate decided
to irrigate the massive vegetable gardens and thought it wise to dig a channel that would assist in growing the bountiful fare
often found on the dinner table of Lord Archibald's father.

However, halfway through the excavation, the Nurserymen realised that a single conduit needs an outlet to avoid flooding and
so, the stream meandering back to the Skinny that's bordered by two three-foot fences became part of the Summertide and
Barnstead Hunt Race. It's a wide one and many riders have found themselves taking an early bath.

The final obstacle is 'Ivor's Folly', a reversed-idea of The Fall. A three-foot spruce-branch covered fence succeeds a higher
hurdle of five-feet with the land behind Ivor's Folly above the take-off side. This usually brings horses to their knees and the
easy-looking obstruction is named after Lord Jasper's original rival, Sir Ivor Bentone.

If all of this doesn't break legs, dislocates shoulders or draw concussion, the run-in on the second circuit seems like a million
leagues long. Any remaining horses are exhausted and it takes great expertise to evoke an extra chunk of pace from one's
mount in order to cross the winning-line first. Expertise -Peggy Powler came to realise as she was tucked-up in her satchel
hanging in Diabolus' stall, she just hadn't been trained to obtain.

But sleep brings its own type of salve and in the Last Witch of Underhill's dreams, she rode the race and remembered what
the Sprites had told her. Morning mist makes a fine blind for covert observation, especially when one's home lies in the balance
and a friend needs that extra chunk of help.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#12
Over bowls of unsalted porridge and lavishly-buttered toast, Stanley Dawes continued to explain his plan to Peggy Powler on
how to proceed in the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. This morning, the usually-unsentimental stable-owner felt
a lot more upbeat than yesterday and just chalked it down to resigning himself to the idea that his jockey's perception of what
lay ahead was interwoven with a child-like magic and a featherbrained hope.

The little nodding Witch chewed her breakfast and soaked-in the avid persona of the advising man with the slight butter-smear
on his 'special' cravat. Today's illustrious event meant a great deal on Stanley's calendar and mingling among such pecunious
luminaries required his usual waistcoat to take a day off.

Baron Kessler would be there, an ancient gent who -along with his extravagantly-dressed wife of twenty-five years, was held in
high regard because of mild manner and the added element that he owned most of the land north of Wheatland County. Not one
for remembering names, Baron Nicholas Alexander Kessler always seemed recall the day when well-bred unaware vehicles and
their disinclined riders would arrive to take part in the famous Summertide and Barnstead Race.

Another of the elitist audience attending the event will be the Tanner Stable, a selection of well-trained horses owned by Bentley
Tanner and a fellow-rival of Lord Tatem's. Bentley had a score to settle with Tatem after last year when he believed his best-mare
took a side-shunt from Archibald's horse called 'Jester' at the sprint section just after the third hurdle. Jester will be the same steed
riding today and its jockey had been warned -and will be warned loudly again in front of the only male heir to the Gnome-shooing
Tatem estate, of the shenanigans that some people will reach to bilk those with better morals.

As a side-note, this high profile family-owned stable sported a trotting ring and a treadmill to build-up muscle-mass for his animals,
costly factors that are wasted when cheats impede one's endeavours. However, Bentley Tanner was no friend of Stanley and just
like the other blue-bloods attending the race, he too looked down his nose at the failing Dawes estate.
...................................................

Peggy's input to dressing differently for the famous race involved a piece of parcel-twine she'd found a few months ago after a
'sensual' encounter with a rather attractive Midnight Mail courier. Knowing the pace that Diabolus would need to vault and gallop
during the gruelling steeplechase, this string would be used to strap her hat onto the sorceress' head.
Said improvised millinery-bridle currently resided in one of her poncho pockets.

Pouring a refill to his own and Peggy's cup, Stanley babbled on about the third fence being a deal-breaker. The ground on the
other side of the obstacle could cause Diabolus to panic and so the stable-owner's solution was for Peggy to urge the horse
to jump further and allow gravity to ease the drop. Again, the little leg-swinging woman slurping her brew and nodded without
comment. If Pommer and his companions were correct, the right-hand side on the antipole of 'The Fall' has a milder gradient
that could be useful.

With his hair combed and a clean shirt that his Ma would've been pleased with, Pip Farnby appeared at the kitchen door and
softly told the pair seated at the table that the rarely-used dray was ready and the groomed Jimmy Dougie was aboard. Rising
from their quickly-eaten breakfast, Peggy patted Stanley's hand. "Just enjoy the day and divna' fret iffn' yer' see me bounce inte'
Lord Tatem's lap" she joked, but received no gesture that the fidgety big man appreciated her light humour.
...................................................

Accompanied by a singing blackbird -maybe the husband of the one that sought a nesting-site where Peggy Powler had sheltered
from the thunderstorm, the mule-drawn buckboard with Diabolus tethered to one of its rear cleats trundled out of the Dawes Livery
& Stables. Stanley clucked the half-breed to pick up the pace, but Marigold the Mule took as much attention to who owned her as
the human's employees who attempt to also gain authority over her. The quote involving the word 'stubborn' is based in reality.

"There are times when you just wouldn't believe I was an expert in the equine business" Stanley growled as he and his entourage
left the lane near the Gallops and Pommer's overgrown and boggy habitat. Adjusting the strap of her satchel and absorbing the
quaint sunny morning, the Last Witch of Underhill smiled under hat and decided she liked the adamant Hinny with the long ears.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#13
Peggy Powler had been to many grand fetes and outdoor festivals during her meanderings and she'd often been astonished
by the size and colourful decorations put on by those who wished to celebrate a chosen occasion. But as Stanley Dawes'
weathered buckboard turned off the leafy lane that paralleled Calder's Way, the little Witch could see that the Summertide
and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race was a hullabaloo deliberately meant to outshine all others.

There must've been a hundred marquees lining the main thoroughfare towards the actual course and as Marigold the mule
plodded her way down to where Stanley would be required to register his attendance in the steeplechase, Peggy couldn't-but
recall her younger days at the Carnival.

The smells of strange foods being cooked, aromatic spices for sale and the perfume of well-tanned leather wafted across the
nostrils of small group bumping across the grass-flattened midway and twice, Diabolus flinched at something he didn't like the
scent of. "Divna fret me-lad..." the Last Witch of Underhill said softly to the tethered horse behind her, "...it's just humans makin'
money" she offered and leaned back from her place in the freight-section of the wagon beside Jimmy Dougie and gently patted
Diabolus' quivering nose.

Steering Marigold towards the large grey tent where riders, equipment and horses were to be examined, Stanley murmured
from the side of his mouth to the two young men sitting beside him. "You're sure the saddle is in good-shape...?" he asked Farra
Combs and Pip Farnby and pulled the reins to halt the wagon. The noise of fairground excitement was behind them now, but it
still created the illusion of the inspection-area holding a carnival atmosphere. "...I just don't want that Tatem finding something
to nit-pick me out of this race with" he warned and kept his gaze from checking his query.

The two young men nodded, but it was Pip who spoke. "The saddle's fine, Boss, we heightened the stirrups for Peggy and we
checked Diabolus' bridle again this morning before we left". Stanley copied their gesture and then turned to the little bare-footed
woman sitting on an empty grain sack. "Well, this is it, Peggy... it's time to be inspected" he said and allowed the buckboard to
creak as he dismounted. "Aye" was all the would-be jockey offered and discreetly climbed out of the back of the stable-owner's
carriage. Passing the disinterested mule, she whispered "cheer me on, Marigold" and then quickly followed the big man into the
bigger tent.
...................................................

At first, Peggy thought the long trestle table would be where she'd be asked to lie upon and be physically checked over. Of course
it was ridiculous -she knew, but for moment, the serious faces of the four men -including Lord Archibald Tatem, hinted at such at
thorough examination. Farra stumbled in with Diabolus' tack and carefully and meekly placed them on the counter covered with
green felt. From the lad's trembling hands, Peggy guessed that the frightened ostler was only a few clutches away from wetting
his pants.

"You prepared these yourself?" growled a man with four strands on hair meticulously greased back on his bald pate, someone
Peggy heard later was titled Sir George Stills. Farra nodded, cleared his throat and replied "Yes Sir". Stills then prodded parts
of the saddle and strained his aristocratic muscles against the bridle's strength before signalling with a more-dignified nod to
his fellow judges.

Stanley Dawes lightly took hold of Peggy's shoulder and steered her closer to the table. "This is my rider and her name is Peggy
Powler, I declare this to be true and my warrant is for all to hear" he proclaimed and stared towards the long wooden pole that
kept the marquee from falling on this bunch of jumped-up blue-bloods.

A seated man garbed all in tweed and wore a matching fedora with a pheasant's feather sticking out of its band looked up at
Stanley, but pointed towards the petite poncho-wearing person who'd be aboard the black stallion tied behind the buckboard.
"I say Dawes, is this the one they call the Witch of Underhill?" Lord Grayson asked with a slight tone of suspicion and slowly
got to his feet. Peggy's pinky-finger itched to be wiggled, but the woman stayed her digit and waited for any possible insults.

Stanley breathed in deeply and answered in the affirmative, his ram-rod stance waned a little as the question implied possible
negative effects on his participation in the race. "She... she is, my Lord" he stammered softly and if she'd been a gambler, Peggy
would bet a whole numma that the man who had helpful Sprites living on his land and didn't believe in such superstitious mumbo
-jumbo, had crossed his fingers behind his back.

"Do you know who this is Nicholas...?" Lord Grayson asked the well-dressed corpse beside him and seemed to breathe animation
into the old man who looked a thousand years-old. "...This is Peggy Powler, Madam Powler's daughter" he exclaimed with a note
of friendliness that the woman in question noticed the warm altruism drew features of annoyance from Lord Tatem sitting at the
end of the line of his peers.

Baron Nicholas Alexander Kessler gazed around as if he'd been suddenly awaked from a deep sleep and then his bone-yellow
eyes set upon the little Witch in the big hat. "Powler -you say, the little girl who used to race between the Carnival tents...?, that
Peggy Powler?" the Baron asked and considering his age, Peggy silently congratulated the old bugger for his quick recall abilities
and her little-finger became still.

"Aye me-Lord..." the subject of question answered "...Ah' was that lassie who ran down the midway wiv' the breeze in me-hair"
Peggy proudly boasted. "But iffn' Ah' may be so bold, isn't a travellin' fairground a little below yer' normal place of wanderings'
Sire?" she asked and enjoyed the deep scarlet-hue of Lord Tatem's face listening to the parley between the elite and the unshod
peasant who hadn't even removed her mangy hat.

There are unique gracious moments in time when one wants to wallow in unearthed memories of folk one might not normally
encounter. Evocations that connect us all and yet, these trails are rarely trodden and often follow un-traipsed to the grave. But
this one had slipped the net as the two old men looked at each and smiled without a word. Peggy Powler, the girl in the green
dress and now the Witch in the green poncho, ignored everyone else in the tent and smiled with them.

"Surely you can't be serious?" Lord Tatem said loudly and suddenly standing up, angrily continued his pre-arranged protest.
"If she is the sorceress you suggest, then surely she will  curse or poison her competitors! This is outrageous and I demand..."
but the rich rival of Stanley Dawes was cut-off by Lord Grayson's growling icy words. "Do not quickly equate one's social-stature
solely in the realms of eminent peerage, Lord Tatem... this is Peggy Powler and her word is beyond contestation."

Even though Grayson gave off a perception of a mild old man, he spat the words out as simple trues and whether one carries money
in one's pocket or in the case of the little Witch, a piece of string, everyone in the marquee knew what the preeminent gentleman said
was made of stone. And for the record, Peggy did not smirk at Lord Tatem, regardless what others may have told you.
...................................................

Exiting through another opening, Peggy's arrogance dropped like the buckshot-filled owner of the feather in Lord Grayson's hat as
she stepped out into the noisy paddock where the other riders awaited. "Good luck" Farra managed to say before Stanley urged her
on to where Pip waited with a wide-eyed Diabolus experiencing the bedlam around him.

"What the hell was all that about?" the relieved stable-owner hissed as they made their way to her mount and witnessing Pip dress
Diabolus in his racing-tack, Peggy decided that some things are best acquired naturally than merely given. "The futures me-old mutha'
told 'em must've come true" she replied flatly and felt the man suddenly grab her bottom.

"Up yer' go, Peggy and for Herne's sake, don't fall off" the tightly-curled-haired groper said and for the first time in a long time, Stanley
Dawes added seriously "Thank you for making my day". With Diabolus turning to get away from the noisy mayhem of the onlookers and
seek a more serene place in the open-space of the fields, Peggy wondered if her taking part in a race Stanley held so dear was what his
gratitude was for or was it that she'd made him feel better because he'd grabbed her ass?
Who knows?
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#14
Considering this would be Peggy Powler's first ever equine competition, the middle-aged man standing atop of a
bunting-adorned platform beneath the ancient tree -that Lord Tatem had once suggested should be felled for better
viewing access,  believed the little woman tying her hat to her head with a piece of twine looked like she meant
business.

Seeing such amount of bare thigh was certainly inappropriate for such a noted contest, but Elmer Gooch -who'd been
starting the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race for almost twelve years now assumed those with more-noble
minds than himself had allowed such a bawdy display. Anyway, it was just a peasant and for Gooch, he believed he had
a responsibility far-more important than denunciation of participants of the esteemed challenge of thoroughbreds.

Peggy estimated that the crowd that lined the neat white-fence of the course must've been in the hundreds and the noise
they were making only increased Diabolus' nervousness. A pale-faced Stanley Dawes -along with his three employees,
stood near the wooden podium and shouted their troth along with the rest of the audience that had come to see the great
race. Jimmy Dougie was leaning on the barrier and even he managed a thumbs-up when Peggy glanced his way.

"De' yer' remember when yer' thought yer' were all alone in the world..?" the little woman on the big stallion's back said
and patted his quivering neck in companionship. "...Then tek' a gander at those who muck yer' stall out and iffn' yer've
got the time, look up in that big old elm tree there" Peggy whispered and leaned forward to keep her palaver private.

The only evidence that Diabolus understood the Witch's quiet words were his cocked-ears and a slight relaxation in the
muscles around his shoulders. It seemed that within the raucous ocean of noisy onlookers and pensive jockeys, the horse
that had learned to trust again -with the aid of the wee-folk, had found an island of tranquillity to set his spirit upon.

High up and beneath a canopy of leaves, a group of Sprites clung to the gnarled bark of the tree and almost in unison,
dared to wave a hand at the raven-coloured animal standing away from the rest of the horses. "Yer' runnin' fur' them,
me-lad, remember that yer' not alone when yer' got friends" Peggy hushed close to the captivated face of Diabolus and
for a moment, she saw the familiar glint in the stallion's eye that told her of his true intelligence.
...................................................

"Get in a line, gentlemen..." Elmer ordered and checked the bright-green flag in his raised hand was unfurled.
"..Come on lady and gentlemen, get in line, please" he repeated and watched the grumbling jostling at the ribbon that
his two daughters were holding. Ingrid and Petra Gooch were supposed to appreciate the honour of being chosen to
assist in the starting-officiation of the race, but their glum, bored faces implied the converse.

"Move over, yer' Saddle-goose" Wendell Penn growled towards the jockey riding for Bentley Tanner. His own mount
-Grandee's Valour, snorted at Penn's demands to have him jammed against the chestnut-brown spittle-dripping mare
of the Tanner stable. If pompousness is contagious, such a disease seemed rampant in Lord Tatem's livery as Tanner's
jockey reluctantly steered his horse sideways.

Wendell Penn had been given his orders from his lordship only minutes before climbing onto Grandee's Valour's back.
Push the Witch on Dawes' crazy stallion towards the right as they approach the fourth fence, Archibald's Hindrance and
there'll be a little surprise for the uncouth Blowsbella in the stupid hat. Wendell's narrowed eyes watched as the subject in
question carefully steered the black horse who hated humans towards a small gap between the other riders and prepared
himself for the Starter's bellow.
...................................................

The Last Witch of Underhill wrapped the long reins around her right hand and gripped the front of the saddle with her left.
Not quite the antics of a experienced equestrian, but if falling off whilst travelling at speed is a concern, it was Peggy's
best notion she could come up with. In the few days that Stanley had shown her the ropes to riding Diabolus, the bantam
sorceress had failed every time when it came to jumping a fence.

Sitting beside a puzzled-looking rider on a beautiful palomino, Peggy smiled weakly at the man and tightened her grip
on the leather straps. "Whey, it's nice day, isnt it?" she offered lamely and the lack of response told her that the expression
'outsider' in racing parlance meant more than just having a slim chance at winning a race. Percy Goodridge turned his gaze
from the little face wrapped inside a bound-hat and wondered if Lord Grayson -his employer, was aware that the unwashed
were now allowed in the competition. Goodridge's thoughts emulated his eyes and focused on the trial ahead.
...................................................

"On your marks..." Elmer Gooch warned loudly and waved a hand to instruct Duty Bound's rider to get his mount back in line.
"...Get set..." he said and nodded to his girls that the streamer they were holding was about to be snatched from their hands.
"Oh Diabolus, divna' let me fall" Peggy Powler whimpered in a whisper as Elmer's arm raised his emerald-hued pennant to
start the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race.
"GO!" the Starter yelled and in a hurricane of hot horse flesh, the little Witch who liked to walk along quiet lanes and listen
to birds singing to the heavens, was thrust into a vociferous huddle of galloping bedlam.
...................................................
Next: The Race.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#15
The Race.

Amongst the thunder of powerful hooves, the multitude of cheering folk from many counties and the profane cursing of the riders
around her, a mumbling Peggy Powler clung to the small saddle of Diabolus and hoped-to-Herne that her behind wouldn't feel the
grass before finishing the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race. For her own small input of the surrounding desecration
of verbal good manners, if one could lean close to the little Witch's galloping horse, one would hear Peggy hissing the the word
'Bugger' over and over again as the flapping rim of her tightly-tied hat visually aped the cacophonous sounds of the running.

Daring to raise her head, she saw that the first hurdle was fast approaching. There's were maybe many as eight horses ahead
of her, but the glimpse of spruce branches reminded her to focus on the words Pommer had said after his clandestine research
of the racecourse on Lord Tatem's land. Two planks, one higher than the other and hidden under a garnish of bound evergreen.
"Get me over the first one n' Ah'll promise a lump of sugar in yer' feed tonight" Peggy spluttered as she felt the impact of another
horse pushing to get into position. "Get out of the way, you Fussock" Orville Tipps shouted as he urged his dark bay onwards.

The fence was high and in fact, higher than what the Last Witch of Underhill had understood from the little Sprite, there was no
way a horse could leap this... but her thoughts of altitudinous ramparts and a hoofed creature's ability to ascend such barriers
left her as the snorting Diabolus and Peggy Powler took to flight. Up she went with her legs sticking out in front of her and as
the raincloud-free wild blue yonder rushed towards the elevated-necromancer, all she could think about was that she couldn't
stop her poncho from billowing.
...................................................

Not too far off and in the exclusive stand above the enclosure where the winner of the race would be awarded, Baron Nicholas
Alexander Kessler gasped and smiled to himself as he peered through his expensive gold-adorned telescope. Standing with
his long-time friend Lord Grayson, the old pair witnessed Peggy suddenly levitate as Diabolus made the jump and involuntarily
display her lack of underwear. It was fleeting, but the memories of the grinning duo's drunken regalement with a certain Carnival
clairvoyant long ago, would tarry longer.
...................................................

Peggy's right arm ached as she slowly climbed the reins that tethered her to the hurtling animal and grasping the rim of the tiny
saddle, she gave thanks to whatever Fates that had placed in this crazy situation that nobody had caught sight of her au naturel
under-carriage. Seeing the next hurdle was coming up fast, the panting augurer jammed the strap of her satchel over where a
pommel would normally be. It wasn't much, but it made Peggy feel a little more secure as she bumped along the track to another
scary fence.

Feeling this faint sense of self-preservation allowed the little Witch to quickly scan the group that made it over the first hurdle.
She couldn't see the rider that had called her a Fussock and guessed his brown-hued mount had decided that common sense
was better than valour. Peggy hoped Tipps had landed on his ass and hard. Taking some small solace from the thought she'd
bettered someone more proficient in this noble sport, the warlock of the road watched suspiciously as two other horses closed
in on Diabolus and with a quick glance at one of them, Peggy recognised the angry-looking jockey from the starting-line.

As the galloping trio approached the second hurdle, the ornate 'T' on the rider's saddle-flap told the bouncing sorceress who the
patron was of the man on the sorrel-coloured gelding. But Wendell Penn's next words told far more than any branded-leather ever
could. "Get off this course, harlot, you're a disgrace to the Lord Tatem's property..." Penn barked as he leaned in and brandished
his whip close to Peggy's wide-eyed face. "...I'll only warn you once" he added menacingly and went back to commanding his
castrated racehorse.

Feeling her inner-gyroscope relating the more-important information that she was leaving the ground again, Peggy clutched the
saddle and believed for a moment she'd succeeded in retaining her seating. Then the sky came closer once more and the thin
leather placenta was the only bond keeping the Witch from finding terra firma or a flailing hoof. "Yer Bugger!" she shrieked as
she spun in mid-air and something that had never occurred before in the far-off opulent stadium of rich folk, took place.
...................................................

Never in all the years Baron Kessler had frequented the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race had he called out for a
favoured horse or rider. But the old man suddenly beamed with happiness, slapped his colleague on the shoulder and shouted
"Come on yer' Bugger!"

Later, it was noted that at least two of those who attend the well-to-do Meet merely to nuture their respective social standings,
stared down at a list of riders in their hands to see who the elderly richling was cheering for.
...................................................

Meanwhile, Diabolus landed confidently on the other side of the second fence and almost at the same time, his passenger
-sans confidence, arrived from her dizzying air-dervish with a dull "Uh" back onto the leather pillion and immediately grabbed
the edge of the saddle again. Catching her breath, Peggy hugged the seat and stifled a sudden giggle that wished to escape
her throat. Sometimes, the enemy of fear clothes itself as a clown.

Leaning slightly leftwards, Diabolus continued in his quest to bring joy to the ethereal nightly visitors of his stall and prove to
himself that he was what his mother would be proud of. Leaning over and holding on for grim-life, his bare-assed chuckling
rider continued to wish she'd kept to Calder's Way.

For Stanley Dawes, seeing the vague shapes leap the fences from his place against the neatly-painted barrier caused his
heart to race at almost the same pace as the horses. Pip assured him twice that he'd spotted Peggy and Diabolus clear
the second hurdle and all Stanley could do was fumble for his non-existent waistcoat pockets.

"She looks so alone out there" Farra had murmured as he spied the little form hunkered on the back of the black stallion, but
surprisingly, his Boss gave him a smile and tousled the small stable-hand's hair. "That's Peggy Powler, the others will have
respect for her, me-lad" Stanley softly replied as Pip, Jimmy Dougie and Farra all passed along silent communication between
each other with their eyes that suggested otherwise.
...................................................

Ahead lay the peril they call The Fall and not seeing the reddish-hued horse with the title 'Grandee's Valour' slowly moving to be
beside the giggling spellbinder, Peggy Powler ventured the notion that the next obstacle could be easier if she just held Diabolus'
mane. Lifting her body slightly from the seat, she grabbed her steed's wind-blown cockscomb and whispered "Take heed me-dear
lad, the ground on tuther' side is further away than yer' think". The wily sorceress' advice was issued just as Wendell Penn's scything
riding-crop suddenly came into view.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#16
(Continued from above)

Long ago in Peggy Powler's time of witchery apprenticeship and during her wild forays beside her mentor Myrddin the
Great Wizard to oust demons and the undead from back country villages, the young lady discovered a canvas bag that
held magical qualities only beneficial to herself. For anyone searching the single-strapped satchel, their fingers would
always find it empty. But for the Last Witch of Underhill, an item of what she needed at any precise moment would be
invariably detected laid in one of the corners of the pouch.
...................................................

Now, as Wendell Penn swung his whip towards the huddled figure on the back of the unhinged stallion called Diabolus,
that well-worn satchel performed another trick to aid its owner's survival. Maybe it was the wind caused by her mount's
momentum or maybe the thick fabric does have a life of its own, I cannot say which. But as Lord Tatem's jockey aimed
to thrash the unshod peasant-woman across the face, Peggy's faithful tote suddenly flapped upwards and Penn's whip
failed to find its mark.

However, it was the strap that brought the coup de grace and tangling the rider's rawhide knout, Wendell felt himself
being tugged from Grandee's Valour. Releasing the useless riding crop, the enraged employee of the aloof financier of
the Summertide and Barnstead race hauled himself back into his saddle and quickly aimed his attention to the obstacle
rushing towards him.

"Blast you Witch...!" Penn yelled as he hastily hunkered down and prepared for his run-up, "Dawes is a lummox to have 
you compete in this race" Taking some small consolation that if his would-be victim managed to traverse the next fence,
Penn grinned to himself in the knowledge a bone-jarring surprise was waiting for the scruffy runt at Archibald's Hindrance.
But for now, The Fall was coming.
...................................................

For Diabolus, it was easy. The leaping horse spotted his landing-point as he became airborne and reaching the apex of
his jump, stretched his fore-legs out instead of keeping them tucked beneath his body. This ensured he was prepared for
the impact of his arrival on the slightly higher ground than the immediate lower soil behind The Fall. Such an elongated
jump also primed Diabolus to continue at the same pace he'd maintained before the fence.

It's been put forth that if only steeplechase horses could communicate to humans -or even half-breeds such as Peggy,
they could possibly relate their inner-fortitude and hunger to vault such heights and in the gasping sorceress' instance,
stop her from screaming the words 'Oh Yer' Bugger' as she landed awkwardly back into Diabolus saddle.
Alas, we still wait for that day.

Six horses fell to The Fall that day and two of them had be later released from the agony of broken legs. Though Orville
Tipps had found the grass before this formidable obstruction, his rider-less horse followed in Diabolus' wake and safely
jumped to the other side.

"Three down, three te' gan" Peggy whispered as she resettled herself and peered ahead. The thought of going through
this hair-raising ordeal again was quickly shunned as her shaky gaze inspected the thing called 'Archibald's Hindrance'.

To a casual onlooker, the large awning of flowering entwined foliage that adorned Archibald's Hindrance might seem a
tad pretentious for a steeplechase. But to a galloping exhausted horse, such an approaching sight looks more like a
decorative maw waiting to consume anything that ventured between the collection of creepers and the spruce-covered
hurdle.

As the little Witch cajoled Diabolus with what her own thoughts were on the grandiloquent cover of Archibald's Hindrance,
Wendell Penn aimed his mount to get beside the black horse and drive them to the right-hand side. Although he had no
idea what Lord Tatem had set-up for the ass-showing Jezebel clinging to her horse, Penn would take great enjoyment in
seeing the trap unfold as crossed over the hurdle beside her.
...................................................

Unknown to all, as the damp mist of dawn revelled in its reign around the private land of Lord Tatem, the titled gent had
rose early to implement a project that would put-paid to Stanley Dawes' blue-collar daring of entering the esteemed race.
A thin loop of twine, so slender that it could hardly be seen -and certainly not by a tired jockey focused on advancing on
the hurdle, was hanging the colourful garland on the far-right of the canopy above the fence. It wasn't lethal, but it would
certainly dislodge a rider and even someone who was small in stature as Peggy Powler.

Lord Tatem felt confident in his scheme as he walked back to his mansion and thought about his breakfast. Maybe that
was why he failed to see the the small head of Pommer the Sprite peeking over the outlandish impediment known as
Archibald's Hindrance and examining the odd dangle in the foliage.
...................................................

The man who worked for Tatem was back and this time, Peggy knew he meant business. Buffeting the raven-coloured
stallion, Wendell Penn was attempting to push Diabolus to the right of the hurdle and if Pommer's idea of thwarting the
plot to unseat her was correct, the little Sprite should be appearing soon. "Get over!" Penn growled and yanked the reins
of Grandee's Valour and his attention on shepherding the Witch and Diabolus into the trap.

No one heard it, but Wendell's horse saw it... the word Pommer used was 'Boo!' as he suddenly hung down from beneath
main decoration of Lord Tatem's famous barrier. Grandee's Valour swerved left to avoid the weird creature beetling from
the leaves and as Diabolus leapt through the ostentatious laurel, he was sure Pommer touched his ear.

For the screaming Wendell Penn, there's a thin loop of twine, so slender that it could hardly be seen -and certainly not by
a hate-filled  jockey focused on putting someone he deemed lesser then himself out of the Summertide and Barnstead
Hunt Horse Race.

Grandee's Valour rapped his hooves on the edge of the five-foot fence, but managed to clear it. Sadly -possibly, Lord
Tatem's favoured rider failed to negotiate the hurdle for never-spoken-about reasons and we'll leave it at that. Horse
racing is precarious sport and many factors in succeeding in a race can effect the outcome.
...................................................

Leaving the machinations of noblemen's follies behind, Peggy Powler hung on for grim-life as her canny friend between
her thighs raced towards the wide stream and Ivor's Folly that lay in the home-stretch. Glancing to her left, the weary Witch
saw that the pack was down to three. Herself, a pale horse with a rider carrying a face that hinted he'd already fouled his
pants and a young lad with victory on his mind. Adjusting her hold on Diabolus' mane, Peggy whispered "Whey, now we've
got a race" and stroked the neck of her galvanized mount.
...................................................

"She's still in it Boss!" Farra shouted as the crowd errupted on seeing the approaching riders. A sweating Stanley Dawes
craned his neck to see a dark-green shape bobbling up and down on the back of his own horse and intuitively reached for
his waistcoat pocket. "She's still in it" he softly repeated his employee's words and took to pushing his fingers through his
tightly-curled hair.
...................................................

It isn't a stream that flows through Lord Tatem's expansive vegetable garden, it's an ocean that would rival the Great Sea
when you're exhausted and just want to slake one's thirst with its waters. The jockey who seemed to have released his
bowels and offered facial clues to such an accident, fell foul the width of the hurdle and would later blame the stain on
his pants on the dark soil that escapes from the aristocrat's legume-growing allotment.

The kid just made it and with Diabolus landing confidently beside him, he emulated Peggy's earlier thoughts. Now it was
a race. Both took Ivor's Folly fairly easily and Marcus Jessup -the young man who stemmed from a stable out of Wheatland
County, wondered how the bantam hat-wrapped woman hanging onto her mount's mane had managed to succeed where
many -more qualified, had failed.

If Master Jessup had known a bunch of copse-living Fae or the hand-clenching big man standing in the noisy crowd ahead
or even asked two of the wealthiest men in the land watching from the grandiose stand near the winner's enclosure, the lad
would have found his answer. That's Peggy Powler, the Last Witch of Underhill.

Now, the final contestants in the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race had to go again around the circuit.
But will they make it?
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#17
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.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#18
These stories just keep getting better!  minusculeclap

I hope there will be another one soon.


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