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.
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.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.