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+--- Thread: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. (/thread-8019.html)
Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 11-28-2021
To some, the ancient creaking elms around the sombre dock of Warren Mills would be indicative of the many tales that
passengers of the ferry relate. Haunted waters -they say, things watching from beneath the surface during their crossing
of the slow-moving Farra River.
Others speak of spook-lights drifting through the moss-strewn trees and coming to rest in the marshes just down from the
dilapidated shack where the Ferryman waited. The old man -who was currently standing beneath the dock's only lantern,
watched the woman in the too-large hat sitting on the edge of the jetty, had heard them all, but he was old enough to know
that the little Witch dangling her bare feet over the gloomy waters, had heard more.
"Yer'll be headin' to Magdalene fur' Yule-jolif, Ma'am?" Joesph P. Mather asked as he scratched his beard and watched for
the salesman to finish his task behind the bushes. Joseph was about to call it a finished season and pull his old boat ashore
for much-needed repairs when the female had arrived two minutes after the talkative vendor. The quiet of the deep body of
water at evening time was welcoming once more from the nasally-sounding carpetbagger's annoying drone.
Now, Peggy Powler turned her head towards the proprietor of the banged-up barge and nodded once. "Aye, that'll be reet"
she croaked and thought about her recent travels. It had been three whole weeks since she'd last spoken to anyone, the
overgrown footpath from Shadrach's Corner had been a lonely journey, but the solitude was something the Last Witch of
Underhill had secretly appreciated.
Oh, there'd been those that Peggy knew had been watching her, but they'd never ventured from their cover, never visited her
small campfire at night for a late chat and never dared to show themselves in her passing. Huldra, the hidden-ones, types of
Fae that were not used to seeing travellers of that particular track.
But as the desert fell away to a more lush landscape, the Witch's demeanour had brightened as she began to feel prairie-grass
between her toes. Here and there, Farraman County sprouted deciduous trees and even though Spring was still months away,
the sight of stark branches that were not cacti gave Peggy a feeling that new year would bring new experiences to relish.
Now sitting on the agrarian wooden wharf and peering at Mather's leaky carriage, the pilgrimage to that lambent adventure now
seemed dubious -at best. Joseph read her eyes and offered "She's done some leagues, Miss Powler, but she'll git' yer' across".
A phlegmy chuckle from beneath Mather's sparrow's-nest beard accompanied the assurance as the focus of his promise studied
him and the returning salesman.
"Excuse me for over-hearing your conference, but I -too, am journeying to Magdalene..." the well-dressed chatterbox announced
as he swiflty made his way to Mather's hoary vessel. "...My name is Bartholomew Drigg and It would be an honour to guard you on
the dark and dangerous byway, Missy" he theatrically chirped as he swung his large gripsack into the boat with him.
Old-man Mather put his hand up as Peggy rose to embark alongside the red-velvet trousered gascon and filled the short distance
between them. "Yer' ride is fur' free, you and Ah' know that..." Joseph whispered, "..but Ah' wouldna' bet the fare on that fella makin'
it across the Farra 'afore yer' turn him into a ferret" he said and chanced a gummy grin.
The little Witch adjusted the strap of her satchel and returned the smile, another thing she hadn't physically done for a while.
"Yer' a wise man, Mr Mather" she breathed back.
...................................................
Calder's Way lay just up ahead and the notion of feeling back in her old haunts brought renewed vigour in Peggy's pace.
The salesman struggled with his cumbersome luggage a few feet behind the little Witch and yet, his need to talk didn't wane.
"We'll be on safer ground soon, Ma'am and if you'd spare a moment, I would like to prevail on you some information that you may
find engaging..." Bartholomew Drigg announced during his exertions on the uneven track.
"... My wares are some of the finest pharmaceutic elixirs ever known to man and I can personally vouch for their therapeutic qualities"
he muttered as a weathered signpost came into view. Peggy's desire to change the slimy pettifogger into a toad -due to Mr Volcano
once owning a ferret and not wanting to damage any of her favourite memories, faded slightly when she noticed a smaller placard that
pointed in the opposite direction from her pertinent destination.
The scrawl that some vandal or a person prompted to discourage visiting the smaller hamlet had all-but obliterated the community's
name, but from memory the little Witch could recall it. Peering up at the wooden defaced director, Peggy saw that 'Salvation Row' had
now been renamed 'Old Scratch' and pondered whether her original idea to spend Yule-jolif in Magdalene may have to be postponed.
The brazen eloquence of the well-dressed peddler chattering about his bundle of alleged panacea became the deal-breaker and with
a look that would freeze mead towards the bumbling Mr Drigg, the little bare-footed woman set her path towards the colony where the
Devil was supposedly dwelling.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 11-28-2021
The familiar surface of Calder's Way felt the toughened soles of Peggy Powler as she made her way towards the little
farming populace of Salvation Row or 'Old Scratch' -as someone presumably leaving the village, wished it be called.
The hedgerows along the famous highway were see-through due to the season and the fields beyond were just as bare.
The odd Elm, twisted Birch and even a wild Crab Apple tree broke up the continuity of the man-made fencing and formed
shadowy chaperons along the poncho-wearing necromancer's transit. A curious barn owl watched her passing from the
remains of a lightning-struck Rowan tree that Peggy blithely took as an omen to what might lay ahead.
The Witch felt the breeze getting up as whatever natural terrain around Salvation Row had been conquered for a more
favourable place to use for agriculture, the wind now had a direct line across the bare soil and meet up with its old friend,
the Farra River.
Seeing the twinkling of a lantern in the distance, Peggy juggled with the idea of either sleeping out in the open again, maybe
under one of the stark hawthorn hedges and snugly in her satchel or did she carry on with the idea of reaching Salvation Row
at this time of night guaranteed her a place of shelter?
If her experience as a travelling-sorceress needed to be explained via optics, seeing Peggy climb carefully into the Rowan
was a good sign of the result of her contemplation. It's said that these types of Ash tree were the bane of witches, but like
many superstitions, these shibboleths rely on fear of a determined group and not the intent of an individual.
Now dangling on the charred remains of a branch, the last Witch of Underhill settling down in her comfortable shoulder-bag
genially wondered if such beliefs would bring about another strike of wood-searing fulmination. However, it seemed bad luck
had other less-dramatic ways of showing that folklore still had a bearing as the steady humming of a certain seller of potions
came on the breeze.
Bartholomew Drigg was walking the night towards Salvation Row and being noisy about it too.
...................................................
"...It's not like I'm unaccustomed to sleeping alfresco, you understand..." the man carefully adjusting his cloth bag into a more
comfortable pillow explained to the strange woman hanging from her own type of repository above him. "...It's just unseemly
as an representative for Sarcens & Sarcens Druggists to emit the impression that payment for lodgings isn't a concern for
such an esteemed company"
"Definitely a toad" Peggy moaned softly from her canvas satchel and wondered if the barn owl was still around to eat such a
rowdy amphibians.
A whole minute passed before Drigg submitted his first reasonable -but prying question and this was during another bout of
sorting out his makeshift bed. "May I ask if you have kin in Salvation Row, Missy?" he asked softly towards a star-pricked night
sky and a swaying pouch.
Only a few seconds passed before the heaven-sent reply came to the parody of what a well-mannered gentleman was really
supposed to be. "Me-name is Peggy Powler, Ah' divna' know any bugger in Salvation Row, Ah'm not a 'Missy' and if yer' divna'
whisht yer gob, yer'll be wanderin the lane lookin' fur' bugs". This from the lofty slumberer and to some, it might be a lower-class
attempt to ask Bartholomew Drigg to quieten his inquisitiveness. Other less-misanthropic listeners may deem it as a threat.
As the nocturnal bird of prey ghosted across the barren fields in search of its supper, the new arrivals of its favourite roost settled
down to scour their own dreams for subconscious nourishment. Drigg snored.
...................................................
A breakfast-hunting wren peered at the gaping maw of the sleeping salesman and wondered if the pink thing within the fleshy
cave was a worm. Deciding that wheezing grotto may be hazardous to approach, the tiny bird flitted off to wherever wrens flit
off to.
Dawn had been up for almost an hour and like most shift duties, the transition was of a fairly bright sky taking up the space left by
a lethargic cloudless night. As those early-risers in the fluttering animal kingdom began their day, Peggy Powler was using all of
her stealth-abilities to descend from the scorched tree with aspirations of leaving the ebullient confidence-artist where he slept.
She almost got away with it too.
"I have to apologise Miss Powler for my uncivil behaviour last night..." Bartholomew began as effervescent as the daylight.
"...I had no idea that I was in the company of such a distinguished envoy of the esoteric arts" he added as he preened his matching
red-velvet jacket of winter-worn leaves.
The little Witch stood on Calder's Way and stared at the fidgeting man sitting on the embankment that held the hedgerows and her
sleeping-tree, it was like he'd never slept. No hebetude from his uncomfortable setting, no disgruntlement from lack of sleep or the
solitude of his employment, nothing to indicate anything negative was in his life. But the babbling continued.
As the prim-and-proper Bartholomew Drigg droned on about his error of being complacent with the woman in the large hat, the owner
of the headwear gave the snake-oil-selling opportunist a full perusal, mainly because he was... well, he was so self-absorbed.
His hair was black and Peggy wondered if a bit of dye had been applied in the not-too-distant past in the attempt to retrieve a few
years. A perfumed grease also resided on the shyster's head to keep Drigg's locks from effecting his salesmanship and maybe
enriching his chances to retail to the fairer sex. His face told of shrouded petulance and stifled intolerance, but his lined features
-when stretched towards a winning smile, didn't promote the idea that he was handsome, just that he was a caricature of what a
salesman should look like.
The Witch wondered if the ill-suited dark-red suit for this type of travel was chosen for its durability and not its vending-impact.
The lapels held a red-silk piping that alarmingly, reappeared down the sides of his trousers and elbow-patches spoke of long
talks over shopkeeper counters. The matching derby hat that Barthomlew was currently pushing the dents out of, was also -in
Peggy's opinion, a poor choice in costume.
"...And in a way, we're in the same line of work" Mr Drigg ended his blather with and smiled at his only audience standing in the
lane. Peggy realised that she had not heard one word of what he'd said and quickly on the back of this acknowledgment, assumed
it didn't really matter. "Er, Aye" she said for no reason at all and turning towards a place with 'Salvation' its name, the little sorceress
hoped such deliverance from Bartholomew Drigg's annoying monologue lay somewhere in its domain.
...................................................
Salvation Row wasn't a community, it was six cottages and a store that had fallen into disrepair. Peggy cautiously stepped into the
square where a stone-well waited with its bucket coated in spiders webs. The usually-chattering salesman was quiet as he wandered
around the seemingly empty homes and the little Witch noticed that he didn't dare knock on the doors. "What has happened here?"
Bartholomew asked -probably to himself and returned to the village's watering hole where he placed his bag of potions.
Doffing her hat and peering into the well, Peggy murmured "Old Scratch came a-visiting" and wondered how deep it was.
Drigg copied the action and producing a white handkerchief from his trouser-pocket, wiped his brow. "You mean the Devil came to
this... this whatever it is, and stole the people?" he said with a note of doubt, his diminutive partner just smiled at him and said nothing.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - ABNARTY - 11-28-2021
Peggy P.!!!
Thank you
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 11-28-2021
It was certainly a puzzle, Peggy Powler granted Bartholomew Drigg that much. The vandalised signpost had suggested that
the Dark One had rode into the little thorp of Salvation Row and stolen its residents, but as the salesman and the Witch took
in their mid-morning surroundings, both saw entirely different settings.
Bartholomew initially observed that a possible customer-base was missing and his trip to the village had been wasted.
But as the openly-superficial hustler of coloured-water peered closer, he concluded it had been some time since anyone had
live here. "It's like a ghost town Miss Powler" he muttered as he noticed all the doors of the cottages were open. The Last Witch
of Underhill struggled with her own mirth at the statement and answered "It is a ghost town Mr Drigg".
But Peggy saw a different scene, an 'almost-something' that tickled her mind like a summer trout resting in a chalk-bed stream.
The homes looked like they should, once-cared-for grass-root dwellings of common folk with a pride in themselves. The straw
roofs were weather-worn and the window-frames looked like they needed a coat of paint, but there was no individualism... they
all looked too "sameness" the little woman whispered as she jammed her hat on her head and stepped towards the first of the
residences.
The number of communities Peggy had visited must be close to a hundred -maybe more, and there was always a feel to them.
Some would adorn their window-sills with flowerpots or there'd be a cart parked outside, but usually the walls of common-folk
were daubed differently. Here, the squat houses just seemed trite, seemed cliché to the surveying Seer and it bothered the hell
out of her.
For Bartholomew, his quest to hawk his goods demands no need to mentally-ingest the character of a village, just that it was
occupied with folk who carried frollis and hopefully, numma. To look for a social ambience was for emotional people and to be
successful in Drigg's line of work, feelings didn't bring money.
On her tip-toes and with one hand tugging the back of her poncho down, Peggy looked into the window of the cottage that she
eventually decided belonged to a lone female, probably a widow. The place gave-off a dour feminine quality that smacked of
something had and also something lost, a half-hearted attempt to go on. Endure.
Peggy's brow furrowed, but not because of what she felt, but of what she believed she was meant to feel.
But immediately on the back of that thought, the little Witch mused on why such suspicion would appear on her horizon like that.
Looking back at the idling salesman leaning against the well, the heavy compassion for an unknown person seeped away like
the relief one acquires when taking a leak. Something that Peggy needed to do.
Leaving the textured window-sill, the bare-footed necromancer walked behind the home and allowing her hand to brush the ivy
that hung from the side-wall, she nibbled her lip in expectancy to see an outhouse. But only crop-less fields and an occasional
leafless copse waited for Peggy's viewing and this brought another bout of brow-furrowing.
"Bugger it" she cursed and quickly did her business against the rear wall of the cottage, her eyes never leaving the route she'd
just taken to get there. It was a minute later when Bartholomew called her name with a slight hint of concern, but as she returned
back to the square, Peggy was sure he wasn't worried about her welfare. The shyster just didn't like being alone.
...................................................
With Drigg's steadfast refusal to enter any of the buildings to make a meal, Peggy agreed with him that a campfire just where the
track from Calder's Way began, would be a good idea. What caught Peggy's wick, was that she agreed to eagerly and chastised
herself by gathering the makings.
It wasn't until the flames were lapping around a kettle borrowed from the kitchen of the 'widow-house', that she began to ruminate
on what might be going on in Salvation Row. That was until Driggs began his own enquiry.
"Where do you think they've gone?" Bartholomew asked as he begrudgingly sat down on the rough grass that covered the verge
of the stony lane. The remains of the fence that cornered the junction didn't look strong enough to lean against, but the abiding
agent for Sarcens & Sarcens excepted his situation without comment.
Peggy glanced across at her unwanted companion and said nothing, a small voice in the back of her mind was already doing
all the talking. "This isn't what it looks like..." she muttered softly towards the man folding his jacket again, "...I don't think this
is real" and couldn't help but notice the wandering merchant's look of astonishment.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 11-29-2021
Bartholomew Drigg stared into the dwindling flames of the campfire and drank his chicory drink. It seemed Peggy Powler
owned an expansive collection of daily requirements -similar to his own tote of aesculapian wonders. Now shouldered, her
satchel gave the appearance of being empty, but as the conjurer of spells had just explained, looks can be deceiving.
"Yer'll be savvy with a Hall of mirrors...?" Peggy had whispered towards the salesman without looking at him and quickly
added "...divna' look at me as we sit here". Bartholomew nodded once and sipped his brew, this seemed a little-too cloak
-and-dagger for his liking and felt he should clarify that a serious merchant rarely capers in tomfoolery as it may hinder a
customer's focus. However, he just kept staring at the fire.
"The village we see over there is just like those corridors of reflection, it shows what is normal, but slightly deformed" Peggy
continued. "The Salvation Row we're seein' isn't the Salvation Row as we think it should be". Mr Drigg nervously reached for
his cloth carry-all and wondered if it contained a tonic for such paranoia. True -the village was empty and gave off a feeling
of abandonment, but it was there and he could see it over the lip of his faithful tin-mug.
Bartholomew decided to use his abilities as a marketer and bring the woman that -in his opinion was showing far-too much
bare leg, bring her back to a harbour of sanity. But as the uncomfortable vendor drew in a breath to assist the renown magician,
he guessed that she had guessed his plan.
Peggy casually picked up two pebbles and handed one to the puzzled man sat beside her. "Toss yours towards Calder's Way
and see how it bounces along the track". Bartholomew grooved his eyebrows and wondered if he had actually stepped into
another realm, but this one was the crazy world of Peggy Powler.
But because of his dislike of being turned into a newt or apple, he silently capitulated to her madness and lobbed the stone
along the track that led to the sea-cobbled highway. It did what all chunks of rubble do and bounced a couple of times before
coming to rest beside its quarried brethren. "I'm feeling slightly inane, Miss Powler... Would a powder help you?" he said softly
and hoped his escaped causticness hadn't been noticed.
Peggy smiled the smile of someone who understood the jibe, but just didn't wish to grasp the jocularity. "Yer' a Cad, Mr Drigg,
but indulge me will yer'?" she whispered and retrieved a nod from someone who knew what a warning looked like.
"Now toss this pebble with the same vigour along the lane towards Salvation Row" the little Witch asked, but Bartholomew
knew it wasn't a request. With a resigned sigh on his lips, he did as he was told and watched the stone become still on impact.
The exhale became a small gasp.
"Aye" was all Peggy answered and went on with drinking her cooling brew.
...................................................
The grey clouds that had accompanied the oddly-matched pair from their morning walk to the weird representation of a hamlet
still hung overhead as they reversed their journey back to blackened Rowan tree where they'd spent the night. Combating Drigg's
protestations of just calling it a day and moving on to Magdalene, Peggy tried to explain what was possibly going on.
"Yer' bein' hogswoddled, Bart... can yer' not see?" she said with a wry smile. "Whey, Ah'd have thought a rum-fella like yer'self
would've tekin' umbrage at such a caper" she added and scanned his face to see if he understood the situation. Bartholomew
looked at the famed road that would take him away from all this weirdness and listened to the Angels in his head.
He could be in Magdalene by early evening and be sitting down to a nice meal at a lodging-house. He might strike it lucky and
acquire interest over that very dining table about his cure-alls and potions to improve hair-loss. He would be running away from
something that had nothing to do with him -or his calling in life, and go back to what he did best.
Then he envisioned the stone falling flat on the dirt-road and a little woman in a silly hat waddling towards whatever misfortune
could concoct such a fraudulent vision. In that same head, Bartholomew Drigg was on trial.
Peggy saw the movements within his face and left him to fight it out in the court of humanity, Fae were cut from a different cloth
and had no right to trespass on the human way. A warning from her mother that Peggy had tried to adhere to, although a little
nudge -she believed, didn't do any harm. Without a word, she walked over to the base of the lightning-struck tree and pondered
on what had to be done about Old Scratch's counterfeit collection of cottages.
The other question that swam within this dilemma was 'why'... why would someone create a bogus village?
The answer didn't come, but a result did float to the surface when she heard the man behind her say "Okay... you can call me
Bart".
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 11-30-2021
"The way Ah' see it is this..." Peggy Powler confided in the bewildered trader, "...someone -or thing, as set that trap for
some bugger. Why...? we don't know yet, but it takes great ju-ju te' pull off such a feat". The lonely road that the couple
stood on seemed to urge Bartholomew Drigg to revisit his decision, but he said nothing. With vacant features, he merely
nodded like he understood.
The little Witch twisted her own face in contemplation and then grinned like a cat with the cream. "We need te' do some
experimentin' " she said and patted Bart's arm in fellowship. "Let's find out what's goin' on, eh?" she whispered and set
her feet back towards the dying campfire.
Where Calder's Way swerved a little and the unpaved lane led off to Salvation Row, Peggy stood just at the edge where
the track began. Drigg was a couple of yards behind her as he trudged towards whatever scheme the sorceress had in
mind, but his doldrums fled when he saw the woman fidgeting under her poncho and revealing areas of her body that he
believed inappropriate.
"Ma'am... I, er..." he began to say, but stopped when he saw Peggy produce a weird contraption from beneath her only item
of clothing. "Eh yer bugger, Ah' forgot Ah' still had this..." she announced gaily and waved Bartholomew to come and see.
At first, Driggs believed it was a rudimentary telescope. He'd seen one once -and actually had a look through it when he was
invited to Babbicombe's village fair. Well, not invited officially, but during one of his mobile sales-presentations he had dared
to accompany two young ladies who seemed genuinely interested in his wares and during his walking-spiel, found himself at
the festival.
For reasons never fully answered, the two damsels had vanished during his intake of the surroundings and so Bartholomew
thought a little perusal of the displays might conjure-up possible selling opportunities. The ever-bullish seller of fine nostrums
recalled that the mounted spyglass was amazing and when positioned it in certain way, he could view a far-off meadow where
two people... Mr Driggs had thanked the owner of the gadget and went back spotting for likely customers.
Now looking at the small item the little Witch was messing about with, Driggs remembered that particular piece of apparatus
at the fairground was a couple of feet long and made of polished metal, the one Peggy held was black and of a substance
he couldn't recognise.
Being only about six inches long and a couple of inches wide. The peddler of potions felt that maybe the poor woman had
been tricked into purchasing the tube and when she bent into an L-shape, he was sure she'd been conned. "It doesn't work
like that" Bartholomew remarked without any tone of authority and then looked puzzled when Peggy peered into the glass
aperture.
"There yer' are yer' buggers!" the little Witch exclaimed and showing a knowing-smile, held the device out for Driggs to
examine. "Take a gander" she murmured as he peeked into lens. Ignoring asking his first question of where his companion
had been storing the contorted mini-telescope on her person, he observed a sight that caught his breath.
Everything seemed warped, the cottages had disappeared and the track where the campfire stood comprised of a glowing
hue similar to a young lemon. Where the houses had been, large ornate lantern-like objects sat billowing an eldritch-green
smoke out of their chimneys.
What he saw next caused him to snatch away his scrutiny and stare at the little Witch beside him. "Great Jupiter! something's
walking about out there!" he hissed and ignored Peggy's hand gesture to keep his voice down. "It's... I don't know what it is!"
he added and began to pant with alarm.
The Last Witch of Underhill gently took the oddly-shaped apparatus from the salesman and gazed again at the figure busy
checking the large metallic-looking glowing lamps and tittered to herself. "That -my dear Bart, is a Dust Hob and it's been a
long time since Ah've seen one..." she softly imparted to the trembling retailer.
"... Now, Ah' wonder who he's workin' for?" she hissed between gritted teeth and stowing the device back under her garment,
led the befuddled costermonger away from the scene. Bartholomew Drigg allowed his smaller associate to steer him without
any discouragement on his part.
...................................................
With the familiar hedgerows of Calder's Way concealing their parley, the two visitors of Salvation Row sat on a slight rise of
ground nearly half a league from where the false village was situated. Peggy Powler knew that if she was crack this particular
conundrum, it would be best not to be distracted by Driggs wanting to have another look-see through her special Spook-Scope.
"It just doesn't make any sense..." Bartholomew said again "...that vision can't be for us, how would anyone know we'd come
this way?" he spluttered and helped himself to a swig of water from the canteen that Peggy had kindly produced from her
satchel. He was still a bit pale around the gills -as the Witch would say, but his hands weren't shaking as much as before.
Peggy stared straight at the man who -yesterday, thought the word worked in one way and had always ran that way, and now
had taken his first tentative steps on learning what the sorceress had accepted for a long time. "Tell me why you came to
Salvation Row..." she asked and added "...and tell me truthfully why".
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-01-2021
It was difficult for Bartholomew Drigg, he had created his persona to shield his own well-hidden character from possible
hurt and even though he knew that Peggy didn't really see him as this shallow rascal with a surface-level perception to gain
favour from the company he is employed with, the out-of-this-world scene he'd just witnessed demanded a truth that would
still be foreign to his tongue.
"I just thought..." he began and then one of his better-Angels metaphorically slapped the back of his head. The little Witch
scrutinised his movements and lifted her chin to silently urge the salesman to continue. Showing rare facial ingredients of
determination, Bart breathed in deeply and released the real reason he'd taken the same route as his confessor currently
sitting on the grass with her poncho tucked between her knees.
"I had set my path on going to Magdalene, but seeing you walking in the opposite direction caused me to pause. It was the
way you seemed tenacious, you were dogged on what you had to do and I felt... I felt for a moment, I felt lesser. Does that
make sense?" Mr Drigg said hurriedly and his eyes gave the hint to Peggy that what he was saying was from the heart.
She nodded and made sure no pretentious look appeared from beneath the brim of her hat.
" Aye, but this feeling of dearth, of inadequacy... was it enough te' change yer' plans?" the Last Witch of Underhill pressed
with sincerity, she knew that these moments were rare in both the Fae and Human times and never to be wasted.
"I mean, yer' could've felt that Ah' might be headin' to a place where a good trade could be made and that would make better
sense" she offered, but she saw that once Bartholomew had acknowledged a doorway existed of truths and falsehoods, he
wouldn't belittle himself by leaving it open or closing it. "I'm sorry, I just felt left-out" the seemingly-exhausted Drigg muttered
and tried to stifle anymore of this painful soul-searching by getting to his feet.
Peggy copied the action and stood close to her taller companion on this stranger-than-usual quest and looked at him as he
stared off towards Magdalene. "Yer' my kind-of fella', Mr Drigg and and now at least we know yer' weren't part of the trap..."
she said and patted his slighty-soiled shirt. "...Now we know some bugger wants a piece of Ol' Peggy" she added with less
enthusiasm.
...................................................
"...Nay, its a corn-circle that was in place when Summer ended" the prone sorceress whispered to the man laid beside her
under the hedge. They had crept back along Calder's Way and were using the last clumps of Hawthorn bushes to disguise
their surveillance of the fake village.
As Bart stared into the weird Spook-cope and occasionally gasped at what he was viewing, Peggy attempted to quietly explain
how Salvation Row came into existence... sort of. "It starts with a flattenin' of the cereal and then whoever the bugger is who's
doin' this, slowly builds the apparition up until it's like what yer' see without that Spook-lens" she posited and shuffled to avoid
a nasty thorn doing its business in a place left unsaid.
"Do yer' see anyone else?" she asked as she glanced at Drigg's alarmed face and smiled at his stunted acceptance of what
shouldn't be. The amazed agent of unlikely remedies imperceptibly shook his head and then Peggy saw that his eyes had
enlarged to the size of hard-boiled eggs. "No, there's the Hob-thing, but... oh my, there's..." and that was all Bartholomew
whimpered as he quickly handed over the appliance to the little Witch beside him.
During her time of slowly dissecting Drigg's reasoning for being in this current situation, Peggy Powler had lightly burrowed
through her memories of who the puppet-master of this assumed Witch-Trap might be. His name had been dredged from her
past, but quickly discarded due to the simple fact that she'd been told by -up to two Midnight Mail Carriers, that he'd been burnt
at the stake for a felonious act of sorcery that was deliberately orchestrated to -not only fail, but to also gain favour with a noted
gentry's daughter.
"Callendous Vole..." the little Witch said with dripping tones of animus "...the great magician who couldn't keep it in his pants"
she supplemented and brought another look of surprise from the chap in the dark-red suit.
...................................................
"I... I don't understand, Peggy..." Bart stammered as they crept their way back to where they'd earlier talked, "...We were in his
trap, we were stood right in the centre of Salvation Row" he added and hoped his bag of potions were still where he'd left them.
Peggy walked along behind Drigg and told him she'd explain when she was certain they were out of earshot. Through her scope,
she'd seen no sign that Vole was aware of their reconnoitre, but she knew from her time with Myrddin that he was known as a wily
scoundrel and could not be trusted. But what Bartholomew had mentioned made some sense, in the form that she and the currently
stooped salesman had left Salvation Row and so, the trap had failed. Why didn't Callendous Vole show his villainous-self then?
"Aye, yer' reet, but Ah' think we need to think this through" she muttered in her crouched position, more to herself than the man who's
backside joggled in front of her.
...................................................
They ate cold sandwiches from Peggy's altruistic canvas satchel and Bartholomew Drigg chewed his meagre meal, whilst masticating
on the puzzle of the majick bag. The flint for the earlier campfire came from the container, the canteen of water was inside and now this
scant fare had been plucked from it. Yet, all the salesman could see -as it hung from Peggy's shoulder, was a seemingly-empty sack.
"Divna' trouble yer'self, me-old mocker..." the little Witch said affably, "...tis' majick beyond yer' heed" and offered a smile of reassurance.
The mild winter's day was fading fast and they were without shelter and a plan. After another silent minute passed between them, Peggy
ventured a proposal that she expected Drigg to balk at.
"This bag that hold's yer' fascination, yer' can sleep in it, if'n yer' want?" and watched Bart's dawning features as he grasped the wrong
idea. The once-was-shyster looked with wide-eyes at his newly-found friend and whispered "you mean... you mean me and you in that?!"
Peggy Powler smiled amiably and replied "Nay Bart, yer' not me-type... but there are folks Ah' need te' see that only come out at night"
Without commenting, the Last Witch of Underhill wasn't sure how to take Mr Drigg's sigh of relief and so prepared his encounter with the
unusual canvas cradle and didn't dwell on it.
...................................................
Minutes later, Peggy whispered assuringly "Sleep well Bart, Ah'll be back soon" as she laid the flap over his frightened gaze and heard
him faintly answer back "Make it sooner!".
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-02-2021
There was no moon and with the Witch's satchel now a bed for Bartholomew Drigg, no option of producing a lantern
from her magical canvas container to illuminate Peggy Powler's journey was available to visit those who may have vital
information regarding the odd the village that didn't really exist.
But in a way, Peggy felt the darkness was comforting and as she crossed into a ploughed field and continued to follow
the leafless hedgerow along the Calder's Way, the crouching sorceress thought about her long-ago interaction with the
unprincipled rapscallion called Callendous Vole.
The lane the junction that led to Salvation Row was on her right and keeping low, she glimpsed the shadowy lumps of
the faux-buildings from behind the disrobed bush. But Peggy saw one faint light, one glimmer that in her hurried passing
of the fabricated parcel, she'd think about later. Now was the time to ruminate about Vole.
...................................................
Her first encounter with this duplicitous supposed-Seer would've been around the time when a young Peggy Powler had
her first taste of Grandma Farnsworth's famous all-berry pie at the Sedgwick & Derwent County Fair. It had been in early
summer and the five days of celebration were drawing to a close when the buoyant medium decided she would reward
herself for the cleansing of a farming family's haunted scarecrow with a hefty slice of the renowned pastry.
Greeting the odd passer-by that recognised her scant gossiped-about uniform, Peggy mentally agreed that if the sweet
tart was good enough, she'd partake in another wedge to celebrate her two-week-old twentieth birthday. Some raucous
commotion to her left distracted for a moment, but sticking to her decision that her tummy-rumblings outweighed her
curiosity, Peggy walked briskly to the wide kiosk with the well-painted declaration of certain sugary fare.
Of course, reality rarely aligns with dramaturgy and so reading the banner over stall, the Last Witch of Underhill came to
the understanding that Grandma Farnsworth had passed away a couple of years ago, but any prospective customer could
be assured that at all times, the dead woman's recipe was strongly adhered to.
The two helpings of pie was very nice and even though the single dollop of home-made ice-cream helped it's consumption,
the young woman in the revealing poncho relished her whole interaction with the Grandmother's kitchen-technique and then
thanked the gawping teenager for his work.
It was only when Peggy decided to feed her mind that she accidentally ran across the stage-show that had been rowdy earlier.
In an act of pure showmanship, a young man of Peggy's age was dressed in a robe adorned with stars, crescent moons and
what looked flying owls, performed sheer unadulterated chicanery on an elevated wooden platform and the noisy audience
just ate it up with a spoon.
On either side of the stage-setting, two man-sized braziers belched green smoke out into the blue summer sky and to the little
Witch, these ornaments were somehow unnerving and seemed at-odds with the light jocularity and anemic hermetics.
However, the crowd loved him and even though his tricks were certainly not of the majick discipline, Peggy could see how his
presentation was the key factor in the entertainment. With in-house bawdy jokes that occasionally insulted noted figures of
the town of Sedgwick and its neighbour -Derwent Drews -to give its full name, the crowd frolicked in the suggestive calumny
pouring from the man with the winning smile and ribald tongue.
In large scrolled letters on a wooden board mounted on an easel, the little Witch read his name as 'Callendous Vole, The Magi
To The August' and watched as he pocketed something that was part of his trick. It was fairly dexterous, but certainly not of the
true art. Still, this kind of regalement brought merriment and in a time when evil was stalking the land, Peggy knew a good chortle
was not just healthy for the body, the soul enjoyed the occasional titter too.
Later, as the Fair was packing-up for the evening, Ms Powler took a stroll along the rear-area of the stalls and stages where folk
were storing away costumes and other paraphernalia. She enjoyed the memories the sights brought about her time growing-up
in the Carnival, the multitude of sequins and beads sparkled among coloured cloth and the aromatic aroma of horse-dung held
sway in the warm summer air.
"How did you like my show?" an eloquent voice asked from a tent Peggy had just passed and stirring from her reminiscing, she
turned and viewed the naughty hambone who wore a gown of superficial symbols and brought laughter to those who needed it.
...................................................
Callendous Vole's hair was straw-coloured and shoulder-length, Peggy knew this gave any onlooker a feeling of adventure and
of being carefree passion. He was handsome in a thin-faced sort-of-way, but not the type of eye-catcher to the bare-footed Witch
offering a polite curtsy. "Fair travels" she said and smiled at remembering Myrddin's advice that civility goes a long way when
discovering strengths and weaknesses.
The robe was dramatically swished back as Vole placed his hands on his belted-hips, "I propose you seek a reading with me?"
he asked as if such fortune-telling was regular request from this noble diviner and looked away as if his attention in the barely
-dressed woman had lost his interest. Callendous' narrow nose became a weather vane of vanity as he waited for the female
to melt in his arrogant presence.
At this point, Peggy would usually remove her hat for decorum's sake, but she didn't wish it to seem like a hint of courting-display.
Instead -and with a thespian-bent that her old Mentor would've been proud of, she nervously asked how the Great and Spectacular
Callendous Vole worked his amazing magic.
Staring off towards sights only those who dabble in the serious supernatural prestidigitation can appreciate, the haughty illusionist
related to the pint-sized peasant that he was one with the Dark Arts. Bowing out and leaving the egotistical ass at his marquee, the
young Witch felt like her head was turning into a blood-orange as she hurried away to disgorge her laughter at his pomposity.
...................................................
Now staring at the strange non-hamlet of Salvation Row, Peggy wondered if maybe her earlier mirth regarding the Dark magic and
Mr Vole had been a little presumptive.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-03-2021
As the hour crept towards midnight and Peggy Powler crept towards her goal, the warm -but worried, salesman for
Sarson & Sarson Druggists wondered about the weird world he had inadvertently stumbled upon. Only a couple of
days ago, he'd been leaving the quaint municipality of Merrin-Upon-The-Farra with a solid promise from the rather
-attractive unmarried proprietor of Klein's apothecary that she would purchase his products next time he was in town.
Now he was here, laid in a bag at the side of a road and only a ghost-town -in the truest sense of the word, as his
nearest neighbour. "Bartholomew Drigg..." he mumbled to himself as he lifted the canvas flap of his makeshift bed,
"...where did you go wrong?"
...................................................
It wasn't much and probably a week old, but the traditional marker was where it was supposed to be. The large Oak tree
stood alone beside Calder's Way and if it hadn't been for the little Witch's unshoed foot stepping on an acorn, the dark
would have ensured she'd have missed it. Peggy absently thought that such a proud tree wouldn't have lasted more than
five years if it had growing nearer a population as she peered around its base for the special marker.
Near the beginnings of a rabbit barrow beneath the roots, she found it. Five sticks laid in a particular way and only understood
by those who have learned the ways of the Fae. This wasn't to say such signs were significant in the lives of Elves, Gnomes
and other Faerie-folk. The creature who deposited the cypher was known throughout the Fae-world has a dangerous breed
due to their disreputable manner of communication, something Peggy had encountered before with an Albion Elf.
But this creature lived in the Oak itself and the bond between the tree and the genus who inhabited these sacred plants was
so strong, they rarely left the branches in order to touch the ground. They're known as Hamadryad, a type the little Witch wasn't
a fan of. The way to connect with such wood-sprites was difficult too and the lack of light would certainly hinder a person who
wasn't proficient in the art of talking to the Dryad.
Over the years, Peggy had discovered a 'trick' -not set down in the old Wizard books, to drawing the Dryad from their haven.
But it involved sugar and the lonely Witch staring up at the huge limbs of the revered tree was without her magical satchel.
The customary way would have to be performed.
Gathering some stones from the harrowed field behind her, she began to prepare the Greeting.
...................................................
It was just blind-luck -Drigg would think later, that he killed the silent white bird that watched him from the scorched tree.
Standing under the cloud-covered sky and in the middle of Calder's Way, Bart wasn't doubting his decision to stay with Peggy
during this crazy status quo, but he surely felt that he was currently in the position of a witness more than a player.
Normally when dealing with such hocus-pocus, the salesman would've been quite content to be on the side-lines, but with his
revelation to Peggy and the betterment he felt from the de facto statement, Bartholomew Drigg now believed he had more
to give than just simple observance.
There were facts to be evaluated -he thought, as he shrugged his jacket on, the chill of the night had drained whatever comfort
the canvas bag had offered and for a moment he wondered if his stunted speculation on his situation would be better served
back in his cosy bed. That was when he noticed the barn owl watching him.
The marketer of medicine to halt baldness and colic isn't a cruel man and had never had any interest in ornithology.
Birds were just birds and the only time to admire them was when they were in a cage, on the counter of a female store-owner
with fluctuating decision-making and a convincing seller of potions for company. But the damned owl sitting in the charred
Rowan tree was staring at him and its gaze never wavered.
No rustlings of a midnight mouse or a noisy insect clambering through the hedgerow's undergrowth could sway the flat-faced
bird's riveted glare and the shivering Mr Driggs was non-too pleased about the inspection. But there was something else...
something that smacked of unnatural about the feathered hunter balanced on the burnt branch and to this day, Bart could truly
never understand why he did what he did next.
His well-worn bag of tinctures and panacea lay beside Peggy's satchel and taking the nearest bottles to hand from his faithful
cloth carry-all, he gathered up an armful and stepped back into the middle of the road. "This is not my usual comportment of
introduction, Mr Owl..." Bart said towards the still-gaping predator of the meadows, "...but if you'll allow my paranoia to oversee
for a minute or so, then I assure you I will castigate myself when my concerns become groundless."
The first bottle of blue liquid missed by a good distance and yet, the barn owl never flinched. The second hurled-flagon of dark
-green unknown extract smashed loudly against the ruined trunk about a foot from where the bird was perched. Still nothing.
Red is Bartholomew's favourite colour and with an peculiar grin of his face, he launched the corked-vessel containing a cardinal
-hued elixir for itchy toes towards the barn owl and hit it smack-bang in the body. The alabaster-toned mouse-killer dropped like
a stone to the ploughed soil behind the hawthorn bushes and it would take a minute of the salesman's dance of victory before he
went to inspect the result of his sharp-shooting.
The night didn't help, but it didn't matter. The stunned salesman could see that the smashed owl was made of porcelain.
...................................................
Peggy Powler folded her arms and shook her head, the Greeting Game was well underway and even though her gestures were of
someone with a confident slant, the reality was that the little Witch wasn't sure whether the naked female half-in and half-out of
the Oak's trunk was deliberately low-balling her. She was called Beckett, that much Peggy had tricked out of her, but that feeling
of a false-deficiency in Beckett's ritual palaver wouldn't go away.
The dark-haired Dryad had stuck to the rules so far and managed to keep up with the oral interchange, but considering the Nymph's
remoteness from regular Fae, the almost-naked Sprite seemed very upbeat in her own responses.
"Aye, well yer' know his cousin then...?" the Witch answered, faking an absent act of adjusting her hat. "...Mary-Kate Ahearn, the
lass from Arcadia who married Simon O'Brien-Donaghue-Brannon-Flanagan-Devlin?" Beckett snorted theatrically and replied the
fool called Simon O'Brien-Donaghue-Brannon-Flanagan-Devlin was as dense as his neighbour 'Daniel Whelen-Hayden-Kearney-Dolan
-Coghlan-Mac Giolla Eoin-O'Boyle'.
The climate under the tree wasn't improving Peggy's mood and this tradition wasn't really contributive to her investigation. So maybe
it was time to deliver the death-blow, she thought. Slowly sucking in her breath, the Last Witch of Underhill played her trump card.
"Aye-aye, I heard that before. They say he couldn't write his name in the marriage book as Best-Man because he was so dumb"
Peggy exclaimed and shook her head in faux-exasperation. "...Now Mary Kate and Simon wrote their signatures above the scrawl
of Daniel Whelen -Hayden-Kearney-Dolan-Coghlan-Mac Giolla Eoin-O'Boyle, that would mean that the surnames listed there in
the chapel of Hernwood would be?" the little sorceress tilted her chin to gesture it was Beckett's turn to reply and saw the dawning
features of someone who'd just lost the Greeting game.
Apart from a light breeze that moved a cloud and the poncho's hem belonging to the little woman standing in the tilled-soil, there was
no movement and no sound. The world was waiting for Beckett's reply. "Mary-Kate Ahearn... she was from, from Arcadia!" the Dryad
stammered and looked beyond her adversary, the words were just not coming.
Peggy nodded and whispered "Ah' know where she's from... what was her husband called?" the female embedded in the tree gave
the Witch a look of rage, but only for a moment. Beckett knew it was bad manners and certainly not part of the game. "Simon Flanagan
... Simon Flanagan O'...O'..." with a whimper, the bare-chested spirit of the forests slumped like she was in a dead-faint, but Peggy
knew it was the Fae signal of Greeting Defeat. Now all the necromancer had to do was finish the centuries-old tournament.
"Well nay matter, Ah read the titles..." Ms Powler drawled easily and approaching the resigned Sprite, she continued with gusto.
"...and iff'n me-memory is reet, it'd be Mary-Kate O'Brien-Donaghue-Brannon-Flanagan-Devlin, nee-Ahearn. She married Simon
O'Brien-Donaghue-Brannon-Flanagan-Devlin and the best-man was Daniel Whelen -Hayden-Kearney-Dolan-Coghlan-Mac Giolla
Eoin-O'Boyle". Taking off her hat, the Witch curtsied and affably added "But Ah' can never remember their dog's name!"
It was over and the weird women in the night enjoyed their laughter. However, the information about the strange village further
down Calder's Way would need discussing and possibly, any titbits about Callendous Vole.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-04-2021
Beckett the Hamadryad and Peggy Powler spoke of many things during their night-chat and considering the Witch's
guarded ambiguity about some of the things the wood-nymph said, she felt that she'd acquired the correct information
that would serve her current needs.
It was always difficult when interacting with this type of Fae, literal up-front truth is easily sacrificed for a more buried,
high-moralistic axiom that some Elfin and Dryad-like races deem more paramount. It's like the old adage of if the sun
is out during a fall of snow, then the Devil beating his wife.
The saying isn't accurate, but lends an impression of an odd weather phenomena. The sun is shining -which is the Devil
spitting on the flames of Hell and the snow are the freezing tears of his wife. A heated arguement in an everyday loving
relationship, something unusual.
But Peggy was canny enough to draw the necessary knowledge from Beckett's phrasing and so after the ritualistic act
for farewell -something the Last Witch of Underhill believed she rushed a little, she wearily tramped her way back along
the shadowed hedgerow until she found Bartholomew Drigg sitting near their respective bags and looking dejected and
bemused.
"I think your otherworldly friend -not only knows we're here, but has known for some time" Bart said when he caught sight
of the diminutive shape hustling along the bush-line towards him. The shards of the barn owl lay between his legs on the
damp-grass before him and seeing the remains of the bogus bird, drew the word 'Bugger' from his companion's lips.
She'd made a mistake, just like she had when she assumed Callendous Vole was an aloof oaf when she'd first met him
and taken him as an incompetent magician when she'd witnessed a later incident involving the shifty spellbinder. Now
looking at the despondent man in the dark-red coat, Peggy felt quiet rage for wasteful act of dragooning Bartholomew
into this situation.
"There's nay excuse, Bart..." she said as she kneeled down beside him "... me-brashness got the better of me and Ah'
thought Vole was so 'up-his-own-arse' that we..." Peggy corrected herself "...Ah'd be still unseen". With a genuine exhale
of resignation, she added "Ah' failed yer' lad, there's no need fur' yer' te' stay here wiv' me" and went to retreive his hat
and carry-all.
Bart Drigg watched the little woman fetch his things and then wait for his acceptance of the situation, this would normally
be the ideal time his salesman-side would appear and condone her resolution with words of shallow rationality. He had
begrudgingly tried to help and due to unseen external reasons, his reluctant assistance had not succeeded in helping a
person who dealt in serious matters unconnected to his own life and career.
At least, that analysis would be standard from an onlooker to this strange situation.
Bart morosely excepted his hat and said "three bottles, Peggy... three bottles it took me to hit the bloody thing!" and drew
a gaze of surprise from the little woman in the grubby poncho. She didn't stagger backwards, but there was a slight act of
stupefaction as Mr Drigg continued. "I would suggest we iron out our dilemma with a sprinkle of grit in order to have a fair
account to relate to Sarson & Sarson Remedies regarding the loss of these products".
Now with renewed vigour, Peggy Powler turned to face towards the direction where the guileful Callendous Vole had
created his 'Witch-Trap' and took the salesman's hand in fellowship. "Aye, he's a greasy-bastard -this one, but he hadn't
counted on you bein' wiv' me" she said through clenched-teeth.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-05-2021
Where the track-way from the Warren Mills ferry station met the ancient road of Calder's Way, there's a small tributary
that would eventually join its bigger brother, the Farra River. To be fair, it isn't much, a swollen stream in the winter that
gains its strength from the surrounding poor land management and bloated bogs further inland.
In the milder months, the pool that Peggy Powler was now bathing in became almost a muddy puddle with the odd splash
from the cramped sticklebacks and minnows protesting about their conditions. But today, the naked woman soaking in the
shallow water and deep thought, wasn't concerned with the ebbs and flows of seasons. Today Peggy was simmering in a
broth of her own making, of being outflanked by Callendous Vole.
When dawn had vaguely waved its arrival through the scudding clouds at the little Witch and the agent for Sarson & Sarson
posologists, the two glum travellers had agreed to retreat further away from Vole's fraudulent snare and garrison at the junction
where they'd originally separated.
With a campfire briskly created and the chores of preparing food and ablutions, Peggy and Bart had fended off their respective
blues and sought comfort in the idea of constructing a new plan of attack. As the little Witch scrubbed away her failure-through
-lack of judgement, Drigg stoked the flames under the bubbling kettle and plotted his own contributions to bringing the reprobate
who'd built the false village of Salvation Row.
...................................................
Drying off, Peggy revisited the painful part of how she'd simply walked into Salvation Row and never picked-up on its perfidy.
Why would she...? A village is just a village, but why that village? The signpost was the first element of this supernatural saga
and plonking her hat on her head, grabbing her poncho and satchel, the diminutive nude carefully made her way along through
some overgrown Dogwood and Ragwort to look again at the old guidepost.
Quickly dressing herself, she stared at the single sign pointing to Magdalene and cursed as she realised her need to rid herself
of Bartholomew Drigg had overridden the factual aspect that she'd never heard of such a place as Salvation Row. The cold waters
of her bath had failed to cool her anger, but now she turned that bristling inwards.
The Last Witch of Underhill, the sorceress who can smell a concealed twisted sixpence at fifty feet, who knew which villager owned
a Witch-bottle or knotted horse-hair, could dowse a long-lost Doodwegen and heal wounds from Elf-arrows... fooled by a dilettante
charmer with a simple trick and the exploitation of her recent solitude.
Admittedly, Peggy had gleaned some important information regarding the slippery-bastard, from Beckett and would relate these
tidings over breakfast. but this recent scoop seemed to scream for a release to the medicine-selling man and the reason for her
change in her journey.
Adjusting the strap on her shoulder and resisting the need to just wander down Calder's Way and bring down lightning on the noxious
hamlet, she was thinking about Joseph P. Mather -who owned the ferry at Warren Mills and unknowingly, arriving at the same question
her partner in this baffling location was at too.
...................................................
Bartholomew Drigg took out two cups from his own faithful canvas-bag and poured a welcoming blend of hot chicory and the last
of his sugar. Travelling the highways in the quest to bring cure-alls to the masses, one could sometimes find them self out in the
boondocks and only the stars for company. Basic ingredients for an average existence were a must and so -along with a small
torn piece of tied-sailcloth full of tea, a little sack of sugar can brighten any man's mood when he's out in the wilds alone.
In fact, before this theatre of weirdness, Bart had been caught off-guard when he'd left Merrin-Upon-The-Farra and for no particular
reason, plotted his route along the the wide watercourse instead of using the town's inspiring bridge. He was a free-agent, his own
master and in a fine mood after his recent communion with the attractive spinster in the same line of work as himself.
Maybe another visit would compound the deal, but Mr Drigg was decent enough that such haste could taint a transaction.
No, best to journey to Warren Mills and cross that decrepit bridge to Magde... that was when it hit him. There was no ferry at
Warren Mills! Verily, there was not even a mill at that place beside the Farra!
The four waterwheels that took advantage of that particular part of the river had been washed away in a flood that destroyed
Alfred Warren's corn-grinding business and swept two of his employees to their deaths. The rickety bridge had been erected
a whole year after the tragedy due to Merrin-Upon-The-Farra's overpass requiring serious repair and served as a temporary
way of getting to Magdalene.
As Bart stared into his morning brew and muttered a profanity he'd never used before, "Bugger!".
How could he have been so dumb? "Oh Herne" he mumbled as he came to terms with the same reality as the usual bailiff of
his recent expletive.
...................................................
Two rashers of bacon each, two cups of chicory and ten minutes of conversation brought them to a place similar to the junction
they were now camped on. This whole dastardly ploy of Callendous Vole had been expertly planned and exquisitely prepared.
However, its goal was still left wanting.
Peggy explained that it was no-small part of Bart's interaction in Salvation Row that had saved the day and the little Witch's ass.
"Well, what yer' don't know is that when Ah' nipped around the back of that cottage, Ah relieved me-self because Vole had never
thought of puttin' out-houses in the village..." she related to the awe-struck agent.
"...It seems our foxy-foe isn't as smart as he thinks he is" she added with great relish and received brisk head-noddings from her
friend that gave them both a sense that they were -at least, back in the game. "But when yer' shouted me-name, Ah' was about te'
enter the back door te' see what was going on. Yer' yellin' stopped me" Peggy said with a note of pride for her listener.
Considering the amount of losses they'd been taking recently, Bartholomew Drigg took that award and added a smile of his own.
The little Witch leaned closer to Bart and told herself to remind Bart that a dip in the nearby pool might be a good idea, but that
was for later. "He cannot catch us until we enter the homes, the cottages are a disguise for what are called Djinn-Kilns and no
good will come te' a person fallin' foul to one of those things" she whispered knowingly.
With a glance towards the empty Calder's Way and the bushes that ran along it, Peggy disclosed to Bart what the Dryad had
said about the empty space called Salvation Row.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-06-2021
Bartholomew Drigg sauntered along the famous sea-cobbled road and looked like a salesman who had decided to pitch
his business in a smaller version of Magdalene than the more populated district behind him. Maybe he was a chancer or
maybe he believed that a wide-cast net catches all, but whatever his reasons, he carried a sense of fortitude as well as
his wares. Drigg's demeanour seemed upbeat and as he hitched the large clothed bag on his shoulder, one might expect
him to whistle a tune he'd recall from his time as a towns-person.
With a derby hat jauntily sat on his head, the well-tailored merchant arrived in Salvation Row, parked his burden beside
the communal well and inspected the thatched abodes of his hopefully forthcoming customers. With a short pause and
a scratch of his unshaven chin, Mr Drigg strode towards the failing building that looked like it had once been a Store.
The structure seemed sound, but the banner above the dirt-smeared window wasn't readable and Bart dowsed his surprise
that the lettering wasn't from an intelligible language. Peggy had warned him not to show any emotion and just behave as if
Salvation Row was just another selling opportunity. Still, seeing scrolled gobbledegook where a fellow-trader's name should
be, unnerved him a little -to say the least.
...................................................
Peggy Powler slowly moved her position in the large bag and began her spell. Crossing over to another realm was a big job
in itself, but crossing into the correct one needed concentration and little more light than she was currently dealing with.
Thankfully and with a small flame from her outstretched thumb, the foot-long block of wood could be seen laying among the
few bottles remaining from Bart's great selling prowess and his lesser skill as an owl-killer.
Peggy whispered the special words and folded the block open. it was now wider. Then with further incantation, she unfolded
the well-planed ingot again into a larger expanse of wood. Then after repeating the charm she'd accepted from her mother,
the final unfurling displayed a tiny door with a brass ring attached. The last Witch of Underhill held her breath as she softly
tapped three times on the smooth surface and pulled at the metal handle.
Seeing the green glow appear as the Salem Door was opened, Peggy grinned to herself and whispered "We're in".
...................................................
Bart felt foolish for a moment, but his once-solid character of an elaborate-gesturing salesman returned quite quickly like
a welcoming old coat. He placed his fingers beneath his hat and put a hand on his hip in the act of mild perplexity, the shop's
door was open and in the shadows he could see canned and dried goods on shelves, but from his position on the threshold,
Bart gave off the feeling of discombobulation via his stance and features.
"Yer'll need te' tarry at the doorway..." Peggy had told him over their breakfast. "Callendous Vole's trap will only work once yer'
step into the immediate area that his Djinn-Kiln provides" she added and poured him refill. "The bugger's a wrong'un makin'
those damned lanterns and considerin' where he got 'em from, the price will be dear" she had declared as she and Bart had
decamped.
Now standing at the entrance to a spooky-looking chamber disguised as a retail-outlet, Drigg recalled the name that the little
Witch had told him of who the original owner of these so-called Djinn-Kilns was. 'Old Scratch' -the Devil himself.
"Hello?" he called weakly into the gloom of the store and hoped he was buying some more time for his partner in their belated
retaliation against the viperous Callendous Vole.
...................................................
The strange cavern that housed the seven huge ovens was suffused with the eldritch malachite of perfidious Elfin bewitchment.
What shadows there were, struggled in the crevices to be themselves against the rivalling seep of Halloween-green aura that
leaked from every crack of the place.
Peggy knew she was in a nasty-part of the Otherside and she wondered if Vole himself had generated the weird grotto from his
gathering of dark magic or was given from his truck with Old Scratch. Securing her satchel to her shoulder, she wasn't sure if
she wished to find out which.
Each voluminous Djinn-Kiln stood higher than two average-sized men. The lustrous metal-casing looked like brass, but the
slowly-approaching sorceress guessed that it was a casting not of her world. Repulsive runes of yore decorated the surfaces
of each giant lantern and along with the blasting heat and bellowing smoke from the chimneys, the same green glow exuded
from the hinges of the oven doors.
Peggy held back her tears as she recalled Madam Ruth Powler telling her what powered these hellish furnaces and during
their palaver back the signpost, the Fortune-Teller's daughter had warned Bart to never ask what that fuel was.
Now standing before the effulgence of evil, Peggy knew what she had to do and quickly. The Kiln before her was the one that
generated the false building her friend was standing outside of and the little Witch knew as she searched in her satchel for
the esoteric object to dowse the oven's power, that temptation was an intimate to humans.
Plucking the hand-sized vial from her bag, Peggy composed herself and using her hat as a glove, reached for the smouldering
handle. In her concentration of killing her first Djinn-Kiln, the anxious enchantress failed to notice the Dust Hob creeping from
his hiding place in the back-wall and climbing through the strange little doorway floating behind the bare-footed invader.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-07-2021
Even though Bartholomew Drigg had been fully informed of what Peggy Powler was certain would happen, seeing a
whole building splutter and then disappear was still not a usual event in his time as a purveyor of bottled medicine.
However, it was during his walk towards the cottage near to the store that he witnessed the strange occurrence.
Remember the Witch's words, he looked over his shoulder as he approached the open door and saw the solid-looking
structure flash and then was no more. Bart gasped, but spun his focus back to the direction he was walking in, the belief
that he would be a distraction for the monitoring Callendous Vole was -he agreed, a good notion.
As he arrived at the dull-brown doorway with a moulded-metal owl for a doorknocker on its frame, this spoofed-home
blinked out of existence too. Mr Drigg restrained his theatrical antics now because it may alert a watcher or Vole himself.
Then moments later a third mock-dwelling faded away.
"I hope you know what you're doing" hissed Drigg and gazing around Salvation Row's centre, thought he saw his large
bag of remaining medicaments move. Could Peggy have returned from wherever she'd been, so quickly? Once more,
the Last Witch of Underhill's words reverberated in his mind. "Nay matter what yer' see or hear, stick te' the plan".
...................................................
The thing about a Dust Hob, something that is directly the cause of their solitary life, is how they view loyalty.
For Harrow Bent, his fealty like most of his ilk, was based on what he could obtain from the individual he was supposedly
supporting. Keeping the Djinn-Kilns working for the pompous Callendous Vole was all fine-and-dandy and the daily fee of
Bent's favourite tipple was more-than adequate, but the promise that when the trap was sprung and the little Fae-woman
with the shapely figure was stripped of her powers, having her as his own serf made it a certain deal.
But now surrounded in this sack of strangely-coloured liquids, Harrow Bent pondered on the contract with the haughty
wannabe-wizard and ventured that grabbing the barely-dressed female now would be a better solution to his seedy goal.
Taking a swig from one his finds and dispensing the strange dust that identifies Dwerger-Sprites such as Bent, he now felt
confident that his newly-hatched scheme outweighed the bargain he'd had with the phony magician in the fancy robe.
Glugging down the contents of a second bottle, the grimy Dust Hob peered back through the still-open Salem Door and he
could see the Witch deftly moving from oven to oven and extinguishing the enormous incandescence inside. Discarding her
large hat to the floor, Harrow Bent marvelled at the way her hair swept across her forehead like a warrior in the midst of a
battle. Firm thighs and... he gulped some more of the funny-tasting alcohol, a shrtong woman who would do hish bidding.
Sho maybe... just maybe -the Dust Hob calculated as he uncorked another bottle of blue something-or-other, with some swift
movements of his own and the use of one of these hefty glass containers, the petite coquette in the big hat would succumb
to his particular requirements. He didn't need Vole and his aloof lectures about how the world had wronged him.
Grabbing another assumed-intoxicant, he whispered his regular profanity whenever Vole visited the Djinn-Kilns.
"Blasht hish eyesh".
With granules of the eternal dirt crumbling from his arms and dropping through the doorway, Harrow Bent continued his
quest in emptying the possible weapons he could subdue the yearned-for woman in the hole beneath him.
The woman they call Peggy Powler.
...................................................
"Still your hand or you'll be a pine cone before your next breath, Peggy" Callendous warned as he swished his ornate robe
and stepped into the slowly darkening cavern. Peggy narrowed her eyes in annoyance as she was about to toss more
droplets of the Yeti-Ice from the blessed flask into the bowels of the fifth furnace from Hell and now she was going to have
to deal with this malodorous buffoon.
It was turning out to be quite a day.
The tall man swept into the centre of the grotto and made sure the Witch's escape was blocked, it was time for the famous
Peggy Powler to relinquish her notoriety to the more cabalistic Callendous Vole, the Seer of Seers. "You mocked me back at
the County Fair and I know you enjoyed the ridicule I endured at the Hall of The Hidden" he drawled slowly with round, pear
-shaped tones.
"Yet, through all of the lampooning I endured, I strove to create this marvelous ambuscade for you, my Dear..." he continued
and waved his arms in his usual melodramatic manner. ".... This is my gift to you, a scruffy commoner who stole my limelight"
The little Witch noticed his hair had taken on a wisp of grey and wondered if maybe he'd dabbled with similar chemicals that
Bartholomew Drigg carried in his bag. It wouldn't surprise me, she thought and offered the arrogant unsuccessful augurer a smirk
of contempt. "Iffn' yer' divna' mind, Mr Vole...?" Peggy said and pointed to her hat on the floor, Callendous' well-polished buckled
shoe was positioned on its dust-covered rim.
Watching her with suspicious eyes, the overdramatic sorcerer stooped and plucked his enemy's headwear from the dirt and shook
it. "Ah yes..." he gloated "...the famous bonnet of the shabby She-obeah, the blighted badge of the travelling fool". With a similar
smile of disdain, Callendous slipped the wide-brimmed hat onto his head. "Suit me?" he asked and prepared his act of revenge.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-08-2021
"Oh my giddy-Aunt!" Bartholomew Drigg cried as he saw the fourth house of Salvation Row become a misty version
of itself and then just a plain flattened piece of ground surrounded by its original state. A harrowed field with the odd
set of bare footprints and dried patch of urine.
The salesman's exclamation was quickly followed with a strange sound from his carry-all and an imaginative person
might have thought it a burp. This possible booze-causing intonation that caught Bart's attention and warily glancing
at the two remaining cottages, he stepped warily towards his potion-scarce cloth purse.
...................................................
Harrow Bent felt better than he had for a long time, whatever these coloured liquids were, they had a way of... yes,
that's the word, a way of fortifying. The drunken Dust Hob had once dreamt he'd be his own Dwerger-Sprite, no longer
a mercenary or a lackey for someone who didn't care of his hopes and dreams. Now, Harrow believed that aspiration
could be grasped and the woman who'd join in in that objective was only a swing of a bottle away.
Reaching for a hefty chunk of glass, the inebriated Dust Hob gazed down through the magical doorway at the little Witch
in the big hat and for a moment, he thought she seemed taller. However, his needs demanded urgent action and so he
lifted one of Bartholomew Drigg's items and...
...................................................
Peggy Powler stared at the boasting Callendous Vole and wondered what spell he would summon. The little Witch believed
he must have picked up some ensorcell since she'd last seen him, but Vole was a snobbish charlatan and he dabbled for a
fame that alluded him and not for service of the craft.
Considering the unknown threat that the prattling Callendous Vole was busy elucidating, Peggy's only concern was that three
remaining Djinn-Kilns were still active. If she could only shut them down with her potion, the man in the moon and stars robe
would be brought to his knees due to his debt.
"...It would be a grand dividend to myself and proof to the rest of your so-called 'brethren', when I surrender Myrddin's favourite
boo-hag before them like a Jester at a children's party. I can sure you Ms Powler tha..." the bottle hit him square n the side of
his head.
Even before the perpetrator of the act ungainly tumbled out of the Salem Door, Peggy had already flicked a few drops of Yeti-Ice
into the fiery belly of the fifth furnace and now she turned to see the staggering Dust Hob regain a faint grip on his lucidity.
Harrow Bent glared towards the Djinn-Kiln as it hissed once and succumb to rare tears of the fabled snow beast. His red-rimmed
eyes seemed to take on the glow that once inhabited the oven.
"You vixen... do you have any idea what you've done...?" Bent growled and stepped around the slumped body of his unconscious
ex-employer. "...Do you know who actually owns these engines?". Peggy wondered if the act of avoidance might assist on getting
her closer to the next kiln and decided it was worth a shot. Stepping lightly with arms out and a look of fear on her face, the Last
Witch of Underhill began a performance that out-classed any meretricious mime Callendous Vole could ever manage.
...................................................
The bag was empty as the few bottles left in it and the strange aperture that sat at the base of the heavy-duty container seemed
to be a hole into another world, a world where his friend had gone to solve the puzzle of Salvation Row. Bartholomew looked back
at the two buildings and wondered if Peggy had ran into some trouble. The road to Magdalene looked quite enticing to him as he
contemplated the situation and then with no self-beneficial reason surfacing, Bart began to clamber into the bag.
...................................................
The Dust Hob swiped at the woman of his dreams and now the focus of his drunken hatred, but the mocking Witch slipped from
his grasping claws with ease. "Be a good boy..." Peggy said with a lilt of scorn, "...yer' a disgrace to yer fancy Boss over there"
she added and skipped aside from another lunge.
Harrow began to plot another way fo foiling the sorceress' escape and steered her towards the smoke-bellowing unholy stove
near the wall of the cavern. With a lick of his lips, the tricky goblin moved in for his kill and watched the flicking eyes of his prey.
"Oh, you're mine now, Missy" he croaked.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-10-2021
It is a type of karma, the spiritual principle of cause and effect.
If one strives to enhance another's well-being with a positive quality, there is a form of unasked-for payment for such deeds in
the shape of similar productive experiences and of course, visa-versa. Cause and effect.
In this case, the cause was Harrow Bent's act of damaging Bartholomew Drigg's income and due to his drunken and enraged
state, was currently threatening harm towards Drigg's friend, Peggy Powler. The resulting effect was the the salesman's vexation
manifesting itself in the form similar to the Dust Hob's earlier act on his former patron, Callendous Vole.
As Bent wallowed in his intoxicated conceptions of what he was going to do to Peggy Powler, the man who'd once believed he
was an island, a self-reliant atoll with ligatures to nobody except Sarson & Sarson's pharmacologists, was delivering his own
style of karma. It was simple really, Bart Drigg had evolved into a regular guy who knew he had a place in the world helping others.
In this case, assisting with the use of one of his empty bottles.
The little Witch witnessed such a dispatching of this kismet when she saw Bart sneakily cosh the Dust Hob on the back of the head
with a vessel of his now-drained merchandise. The thocking-sound of the impact notified Mr Drigg that he held an artistic bent for
this kind behaviour, if one pardons the pun.
As Harrow dropped like a sack of potatoes to the packed-earth of the cavern, Peggy had already turned and ignoring the searing
heat from the Djinn-Kiln's handle, tossed the last of the Yeti-Ice into the recalescent flames. Back in the Witch and Bart's reality,
only one single cottage remained. The building Peggy had seen faintly-illuminated during her trek to converse with Beckett, the
Hamadryad.
"We've got te' get out of here..." the Last Witch of Underhill informed the wide-eyed salesman in the dust-covered jacket. He was
stood in the sooty cloud of Bent's collapse and the surroundings were hypnotising to him. Mumbling a question about what he was
observing, Peggy interrupted his unintelligible query to add "...there's a piper te' pay and Ah' think it better the we shouldn't be here
fur' the dance".
Pushing Bart back through the tiny doorway, she kept looking over her shoulder as a low moan emanated from Callendous Vole.
But there was something else, something Peggy could feel and the coating of dread that surrounded that sensation was not a
regular motility to the woman following the salesman into the otherworldly passageway.
...................................................
The one-time favourite of the masses and poor courier of ethereal allurement came out of his bottle-induced bewilderment and
immediately felt the pain in the side of his head. The dull throb took second-stage when Callendous opened his eyes and saw
the figure standing beside the last working Djinn-Kiln.
He was seven feet-tall, gowned in what looked like a long coat of time-aged chain-mesh hiding a black suit that seemed to broil
and twist in agony on the person. His boots were of a similar hue to his inner-garment and when looked upon their sheen, faces
of woe stared back with eyes that pleaded for salvation. But to Vole, this rangy individual was no stranger. He was Old Scatch.
"I see you have been having besetment with my habiliments, Mr Vole?" the dashing Angel of Darkness asked benevolently and
stepped over the unconscious body of the Hob. "Not quite what we agreed within the specifics of our contract, is it?"
The contents of Callendous Vole's gastrointestinal tract decided they didn't need to be here for what was to happen next and
quickly mutinied into the failed-magician's underwear.
...................................................
"Your hat, Peggy... you've left your hat" Bartholomew called out as he pulled himself from the cloth carry-all, how he managed to climb
in there would always be a mystery to him. Inside the darkened bag, the little Witch glimpsed the brim of her headwear as she quickly
murmured the required incantation to close the Salem Doorway. But the pang of loss quickly evaporated when she saw a long shadow
appear upon its dirt-smeared surface.
"Bugger me-hat, Bart!" Peggy exclaimed and without any concerns regarding dignity, pushed the salesman out of the bag's opening.
Making sure her own respectability wouldn't be found wanting, the bantam sorceress tucked the hem of her poncho between her thighs
and followed her friend out of the temporary potion-free conduit.
...................................................
Now for some history.
Along the west coast where the warmer waters of the Great Sea lap gently on the mainly-sandy shores, the fishing communities have
an enchanting tale about Kendly-Punn the Wad. This allegorical character was supposed to be a creature that causes embers in the
fire hearth to glow by his actions of occasionally blowing on the coals when a nor'easter comes trouble-making around the eaves of
their seaboard-hugging homes.
'Wad' is a colloquial term for torch or bundle of straw, an item one certainly wouldn't store beside a fire, but that's the little Boggart's
name and vaguely connected to what occurred next in the shadowy cavern that Callendous Vole and the proper proprietor of the
dowsed Djinn-Kilns. Excluding one, of course.
...................................................
To many, the so-called 'cure-alls' that travelling salesmen attempt to convince and sell to their fascinated audiences, are mainly based
on a quantity of alcohol due to its euphoric nature. It makes a consumer of these alleged medicines feel elated and calls to the emotive
side of one's outlook -more than the practical side.
But liquor is also combustible and when a certain Dark Lord tosses a benumbed and useless drunken Dust Hob into a remaining oven
of flames, the chemical state -not just due to incendiary nature of booze, but also the additive of the alcohol coming from another reality,
well, even the non-esoteric Mr Drigg could correctly guess at the outcome.
Peggy and Bart felt the shudder, but it seemed like an explosion that only the body could diagnosticate. The soil didn't move, no fence
post trembled with the vibration and there was no sound to indicate a detonation. But something somewhere, basically blew-up and only
one's bones and organs can feel it. Reverberations from another place.
"Did you feel that?" Bart hissed as he leaned on his knees to gather himself and peering over at the narrow-eyed Witch, received a nod
of harmony. Peggy watched as the last cottage blinked out of existence and was sure she heard a pop from the air rushing into where the
building had been. "Aye, Ah' think the lil' Sprite had a use after all" she said and surveyed the result of her latest undertaking of putting the
world to rights.
It was just a field again, a field beside a road called Calder's Way. Hedgerows partially bordered its edges and in the Spring, lapwings will
scrape out a shallow depression in the tilled soil and rear their young. A frost-breathed farmer will walk the rows and with a handful of seed,
hope his family will make it through the next winter. Mice will chance their luck and skitter from their hiding-places for a meal of corn and the
hawk will know its chicks will have full bellies.
Peggy Powler saw all these things and yet, would never give utterance to what she knew to be the cycle of life. It was not a travelling Seer's
way and a bugger to endure, sometimes. With an almost imperceptible sigh, she neared her weary friend Bartholomew, patted him on his
shoulder and began to walk towards the sea-cobbled highway that had brought her here.
"Your hat, Miss Powler?" came a voice as she passed the remains of their first campfire. Bart hadn't seen him appear, but the sight of the
tall figure that seemed to exude a force of dread and warning, overtook the vendor's surprise of the stranger's arrival. Peggy turned to see
Bart falling back on his rump in shock and a lean giant in apparel that was more fitting with peasantry and the love of the land.
Old Scratch wore a flat-cap that matched his neck-wrapped muffler. An all-weather jacket that would be found hanging off a farmhouse
kitchen chair or a peg at a Sunday chapel, fitting loosely on shoulders that hinted of long days of hauling hay-bales and fence-mending.
The Diablo's pants were of moleskin and the heavy fabric held smears of hastily-eaten dinners and hoof-scuffs from sheep not wishing
to bow to the shearer's blades.
The Devil standing with a pleasant smile around a set of even teeth wore Hobnail boots that left a tread of confidence that wherever they
walked, the owner strode with a gritty aplomb from his years of testing the seasons. All these things Peggy saw, but in the well-lined and
calloused red-right hand of the false farmer, she saw her hat.
"It seems you dropped it in your briskness, Ma'am" Scratch said with an articulation that didn't match his clothes and gazed at the little
female curtsying in a formal greeting. "Why, that is very kind of you Sir and fair travels in your wanderings" Peggy cordially replied and
approached the most terrifying being that engaged in such roving.
Slowly placing her favourite headwear back on her head, she nodded and responded "Thank yer', Mister Scratch". The title failed to
draw any unfavourable look from the man in the land-worker's outfit. He knew it was a moniker of the rustic, the vernacular of the
prosaic and a name that reflected damage and abort.
The tall Commander of the Damned bowed slightly and whispered auricular enough that only the woman before him could hear.
"My condolences on your mother's passing, Miss Powler... she was..." Old Scratch stared intently at his single audience and gathered
the correct wording. "...She was noted" he murmured. The Deacon of Delinquency watched the woman's eyes for her level of cogitation
and saw from Peggy's pupil movement that she calculating towards a viable level of reasoning.
Then with a glance towards the terror-stricken trader, Mr Scratch produced another nod of his head and walked out into the middle of the
field. The Witch watched him leave and then remembered where she was. "Bart... look at me now" she said firmly and drew a confused eye
from her companion. It was at that moment, the Devil faded from this story.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-11-2021
Epilogue.
Bart Drigg shook the dust from his jacket and squinted out into the barren field where Old Scratch had disappeared.
"Is it over?" he asked as he shrugged on his dark-red garment and straightened his tie above his dirt-smudged shirt.
To the weary salesman, it seemed like the day must be nearing its end, but the sky told him it was still mid-afternoon.
Peggy Powler smiled at the man who was once all gob-and-nostrils and now had -not only defeated a bad magician
who wished to harm the well-dressed medicine-merchant in the form of mere collateral damage, he had become the
person buried inside himself, a better version of Bartholomew Drigg.
The irony wasn't lost on the little Witch as she picked up Mr Drigg's empty bag. "Aye, we've done our job..." she said
-more to herself than Bart has he accepted his once-potion-filled carry-all and felt its lack of content. "...but Ah' fear
yer' main profession may have taken a hit" Peggy added with a countenance of sympathy.
Without another comment, the couple set off along the stony path to Calder's Way and from there, they headed towards
Magdalene. The day was spent as far as Peggy and Bart were concerned and now all they had to do was fashion their
tomorrows.
For the Last Witch of Underhill, she would speculate on who might require her special services in the village named after
the woman who first realised the beneficial laundry properties of a nearby spring. There was also the puzzle of her mistake
of assuming the village she knew as Salvation Row being created closer than the remote false thorp that she and her
cohort had visited. Peggy sniffed and buried the reason of not appreciating the mileage and the late hour.
But for Mr Drigg, his mulling was more stunted. With no Sarson & Sarson wares to offer the Magdalene residents, he was
merely a well-dressed -albeit slightly begrimed, stranger with only the festivities of Yule-jolif as a reason to be there.
He was nobody with no employment, his worth would have to rebuilt and since it had been a long time that he first sought
the salesman career, the future seemed daunting.
However, a distraction from the pairs introspections arrived when they approached the battered signpost. Where Peggy and
Bart had once seen a board directing them to the bogus hamlet of Salvation Row, now a worn-down banner proclaimed that
the ever-faithful Calder's Way would lead to somewhere called ''Lord Chats'.
The little Witch chuckled and offered Bart a smile laced with an inner-wisdom and a knowing that the world was merely an
artist's canvas where the inconceivable came to life. "He's a bugger!" she said and shook her head at the entertainment.
Peggy's giggle was like a small beck trickling over pebbles just in sight of an ocean.
Bartholomew frowned back at his companion due to his despondency of his circumstances and dropped his useless case
onto the sea-stones that comprised the illustrious highway. "Aye, er.. I mean, Yes, I am happy you find this knee-slapping,
Miss Powler..." he said sternly "...my position of employment has gone, my function is no more and who I was still held
some value" he furthered. The ex-salesman gave emphasis by flapping his arms in exasperation.
With a slight sigh, Peggy shook her head once more, the cloth carry-all lay between them. "Yer' service was important te'
yer' and Ah' understand that..." she said softly and stared into the eyes under derby hat of her sombre acquaintance.
"...But yer talked like me there and Ah' think it deserves some sort of boon" she performed genially.
The sound wasn't dissimilar to Peggy's chortle at the almost-anagram of Old Scratch, but Bart recognised it as glass
making contact with glass. A faint clink and coming from the slumped bag betwixt the two travellers.
"Whay... what -by Herne, could that possibly be, Mr Drigg?" the little Witch theatrically enquired and placed a finger to
her lips in faux-puzzlement.
The carry-all was full, all of Sarson & Sarson's pharmacon lay in the cloth-container like a packed mice-nest. The corked
chalices to ward off baldness from those with high hairlines jostled for space with pilseners to ease haemorrhoids. A jar
of bolus for those who find that their joints sting on frosty mornings lay like lovers with bottles to oust the whisky-demons
after a night of merriment. Medicine enough to make the squatting Bartholomew Drigg grin like an idiot.
"I will never forget what you've done here today..." Bart murmured as he examined the magical bundle of brews before him.
"...How can I ever repay you?" he breathed and got to his feet and reached for Peggy's dirt-smudged hands to thank her.
The Witch in the poncho waved him away and looked slightly embarrassed "Nay lad, yer' were there when Ah' needed
yer' and that's all that counts".
With a grunt of exertion and an arm around the shoulders of his favourite sorceress, the peddler of pap potions walked
towards Magdalene with a slight spring in his step. Then suddenly -just before the credits began to roll, Peggy Powler
stopped in her tracks and peered up at her jovial companion of Calder's Way.
"There is one thing yer' can do fur' me..." she said with an earnest look on her face and Bart replied immediately with
"Anything, just name it" Lifting the brim of her hat to enjoy the stage-show of the salesman's features, she stated:
"Don't be the gobby-bugger Ah' first met at the ferry!".
But it was Mr Drigg who got in the last word as they continued their journey like two old friends and it was from the heart.
"Aye, Miss Powler, Ah'll try".
The End.
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - VioletDove - 12-11-2021
Yay! I was hoping there would be an epilogue!!!
I think this might be my favorite one yet but it’s hard to say because they’ve all been my favorite. Great job @"BIAD"!
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - guohua - 12-11-2021
Quote:But it was Mr Drigg who got in the last word as they continued their journey like two old friends and it was from the heart.
"Aye, Miss Powler, Ah'll try".
The End.
The End!!!!! NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-11-2021
(12-11-2021, 06:24 PM)VioletDove Wrote: Yay! I was hoping there would be an epilogue!!!
I think this might be my favorite one yet but it’s hard to say because they’ve all been my favorite. Great job @"BIAD"!
Thank yer' Miss, yer' words mean a lot!
RE: Peggy Powler & Old Scratch. - BIAD - 12-11-2021
(12-11-2021, 06:30 PM)guohua Wrote: The End!!!!! NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Don't Mrs. G... it's A end, not THE end!!