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.
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.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.