05-01-2022, 06:25 PM
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?"
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.