"So Oliver, what troubles will yer' be bringin' te' yer' door next?" Peggy Powler said as she rose from her seat on the artificial hill
and allowed the inventor a fleeting glimpse of some bare thigh. The little Witch's tone was flat, but for someone recently bathing
in the harmonious ambience of Mornington's welcome, Oliver Horton guessed it was just plain-speaking nuance of the sorceress'
societal-level supporting her jocular question.
The bare-footed heroine of the village was now peering out across the Autumn-kissed canopy of the surrounding woodland and
seemingly carried the same burden that most of those that the pioneer in science had come into contact with recently. Sheer
working-class crassness. Oliver lay on the hill looking up at the dying Sky Mirror and wondered about the small woman in the
big hat behind him. Did she know the real truth...? Could the wandering Witch's uncouth intellect really have the ability to see
through the complicated veil that he'd woven?
"I cede my recent imbroglio requires me to reset my goals in my lofty work, maybe creating mechanics to aid the drudgery of the
common man needs a new way of approach..." Oliver replied without sitting up from his prone position beneath the Sky Mirror.
"...But it will be such an undertaking after discovering the creature you thwarted, Miss Powler. Science and magic will always be
oil and water to most of the academics I've met" he added.
Peggy noticed the smoke stirring far off beyond the trees and glanced back at the man who believed in another type of religion,
a type that looked down on others with disdain. "Aye, them big words -if Ah' read yer' reet, make sense... yer've got te' be canny
enough te' watch out fur' the things that go bump in the night" she agreed and returned her surveillance as the cloudy day raced
to become early-evening.
Sighing softly to himself, the inventor continued to mentally revel in the benevolence he'd been given and his audacity of fooling
so many people. Oliver Horton felt good and surprisingly relaxed considering all that he'd recently been through. His work in the
upgrading of his clockwork-mechanisms had entered a vital phase where the simple tasks of running a workshop would hinder
such practices. After what he'd later found out about the Lubber Fiend, kidnapping the dullards for those menial tasks had been
a must.
But at the end of the day, the metal man had turned-out to be the ideal foil for the ignorant to blame and as long as he kept the
deception up, Oliver believed his work could advance under the guile of victimhood and an admired assiduity from the yokels now
gazing up at the fading weather phenomena below from where he sat. Worst-case scenario -he concluded, Mornington would have
to order-in his materials and it would be certainly less of a trek than to Ravenstang.
Oh, how it had all began -he thought and inwardly chuckled to himself, a chance episode at a time when his spirits had been low.
.................................................................
In a stoical experiment he partook at the beginning of Summer, a deflated and despondent Oliver Horton had fortuitously identified
a weird chemical extracted of a type of strange seaweed he'd purchased in Ravenstang. It was the acidulous aroma that had first
piqued his interest, a vinegar-type smell that caused him to suddenly feel lethargic and it was only after gathering himself in the
fresh-air outside, that he'd realised it was a sleeping-agent.
Further analysis had offered little in the way of being a fuel for his mechanical man and at a low ebb, he'd abandoned the drug
and left the sample sitting on a shelf near his fire hearth. It would be a week later that he made another discovery, something
that had crept down his chimney and attempted to obtain the syrupy liquid that caused humans to become unconscious. Oliver
now believed simpletons like the so-called sorceress behind him titled the little angry creature struggling with the bottle-stopper,
a Lubber Fiend.
Oliver's later quote regarding oil and water turned out to be not entirely true in his case, the inventor's deduction that the magical
Lob of folklore-fame would come in quite handy to animate his useless invention, didn't seem flawed. All had it taken was a simple
smearing of the vinegar-smelling chemical inside the helmet of the metal marionette and the Hobgoblin was trapped. Attaching the
head to the metal man's body, Oliver firmly believed that with some training of the bestial brute, he would have the perfect servant
to do the dreary tasks around the workshop that he -himself, detested.
However, his scheme didn't go quite as planned. It wasn't that the Lubber Fiend resisted any manner of taming, the ever-hungry
creature was unable to grasp the concept of subjugation for reward. The thing had just ranted incoherently inside the helmet and
discharged foul-smelling gas when ever Oliver attempted any kind of domestication. Just when he was at his wit's end, he found
a slight ray of hope. The Lob could make the metal man move, but only with the promise of the chemical and only movements
that were solely beneficial to locating the drug. It wasn't much, but it was something and meanwhile, Oliver decided on another
way to have somebody clear-up the mess the Lubber Fiend was causing and his own non-touched housekeeping.
Grabbing the Gypsy lad was much easier -Oliver had to agree later. He assumed Boy-Boy Munce's travels had demanded such
awareness that even now laying on the grass of the hill, Oliver could recall the coldness of the late hour as he waited for the
wandering youngster to fall asleep beside the campfire. Applying the seaweed compound had been a quick task and with less
struggle than he'd thought. But it would be during the conceited inventor's return to the workshop with the doped nomad over
his shoulder that he'd wondered of one would be enough.
The kid in the bib-and-braces was a doddle, a simple snatch from a simple father and son. But the showmanship required to
align the whole theatre would be Oliver's most worthy performance, the art of purveying a reality that wasn't true. The iron cage
had been prepared before the Munce kidnapping and with a few acts of disarray about the workshop, a pair of disoriented boys
had awakened to a raging metal monster that had overcome its inventor and was now collecting others for unknown reasons.
Glancing over at the female gazing down the boulder-strewn rear of the man-made tor, Oliver now priggishly wondered if his
future should've been on the entertainment stage.
.................................................................
"Whey, another season over and another bother broomed out the door" Peggy said seemingly absently as she spied the little
figure making his way back from his mission. The Last Witch of Underhill smiled to herself as Gumby Gingerpot nodded once
before slipping away into the foliage near his underground home and tugging the brim of her large hat to show she'd received
the Gnome's signal, she glanced at the rolling smoke in the distance.
Turning to watch the man getting up with a swagger off the elevated ground, Peggy wondered what heavyweight vernacular
Oliver Horton would express when he saw his burning home lighting the evening sky and all that bad ju-ju going-up with it.
Leaving the inventor to figure it out, the little necromancer buggered-off down the hill to see how Jasper was getting on with
his girlfriend.
Aye... Lob-Lie-By-The-Fire, indeed.
The End.
and allowed the inventor a fleeting glimpse of some bare thigh. The little Witch's tone was flat, but for someone recently bathing
in the harmonious ambience of Mornington's welcome, Oliver Horton guessed it was just plain-speaking nuance of the sorceress'
societal-level supporting her jocular question.
The bare-footed heroine of the village was now peering out across the Autumn-kissed canopy of the surrounding woodland and
seemingly carried the same burden that most of those that the pioneer in science had come into contact with recently. Sheer
working-class crassness. Oliver lay on the hill looking up at the dying Sky Mirror and wondered about the small woman in the
big hat behind him. Did she know the real truth...? Could the wandering Witch's uncouth intellect really have the ability to see
through the complicated veil that he'd woven?
"I cede my recent imbroglio requires me to reset my goals in my lofty work, maybe creating mechanics to aid the drudgery of the
common man needs a new way of approach..." Oliver replied without sitting up from his prone position beneath the Sky Mirror.
"...But it will be such an undertaking after discovering the creature you thwarted, Miss Powler. Science and magic will always be
oil and water to most of the academics I've met" he added.
Peggy noticed the smoke stirring far off beyond the trees and glanced back at the man who believed in another type of religion,
a type that looked down on others with disdain. "Aye, them big words -if Ah' read yer' reet, make sense... yer've got te' be canny
enough te' watch out fur' the things that go bump in the night" she agreed and returned her surveillance as the cloudy day raced
to become early-evening.
Sighing softly to himself, the inventor continued to mentally revel in the benevolence he'd been given and his audacity of fooling
so many people. Oliver Horton felt good and surprisingly relaxed considering all that he'd recently been through. His work in the
upgrading of his clockwork-mechanisms had entered a vital phase where the simple tasks of running a workshop would hinder
such practices. After what he'd later found out about the Lubber Fiend, kidnapping the dullards for those menial tasks had been
a must.
But at the end of the day, the metal man had turned-out to be the ideal foil for the ignorant to blame and as long as he kept the
deception up, Oliver believed his work could advance under the guile of victimhood and an admired assiduity from the yokels now
gazing up at the fading weather phenomena below from where he sat. Worst-case scenario -he concluded, Mornington would have
to order-in his materials and it would be certainly less of a trek than to Ravenstang.
Oh, how it had all began -he thought and inwardly chuckled to himself, a chance episode at a time when his spirits had been low.
.................................................................
In a stoical experiment he partook at the beginning of Summer, a deflated and despondent Oliver Horton had fortuitously identified
a weird chemical extracted of a type of strange seaweed he'd purchased in Ravenstang. It was the acidulous aroma that had first
piqued his interest, a vinegar-type smell that caused him to suddenly feel lethargic and it was only after gathering himself in the
fresh-air outside, that he'd realised it was a sleeping-agent.
Further analysis had offered little in the way of being a fuel for his mechanical man and at a low ebb, he'd abandoned the drug
and left the sample sitting on a shelf near his fire hearth. It would be a week later that he made another discovery, something
that had crept down his chimney and attempted to obtain the syrupy liquid that caused humans to become unconscious. Oliver
now believed simpletons like the so-called sorceress behind him titled the little angry creature struggling with the bottle-stopper,
a Lubber Fiend.
Oliver's later quote regarding oil and water turned out to be not entirely true in his case, the inventor's deduction that the magical
Lob of folklore-fame would come in quite handy to animate his useless invention, didn't seem flawed. All had it taken was a simple
smearing of the vinegar-smelling chemical inside the helmet of the metal marionette and the Hobgoblin was trapped. Attaching the
head to the metal man's body, Oliver firmly believed that with some training of the bestial brute, he would have the perfect servant
to do the dreary tasks around the workshop that he -himself, detested.
However, his scheme didn't go quite as planned. It wasn't that the Lubber Fiend resisted any manner of taming, the ever-hungry
creature was unable to grasp the concept of subjugation for reward. The thing had just ranted incoherently inside the helmet and
discharged foul-smelling gas when ever Oliver attempted any kind of domestication. Just when he was at his wit's end, he found
a slight ray of hope. The Lob could make the metal man move, but only with the promise of the chemical and only movements
that were solely beneficial to locating the drug. It wasn't much, but it was something and meanwhile, Oliver decided on another
way to have somebody clear-up the mess the Lubber Fiend was causing and his own non-touched housekeeping.
Grabbing the Gypsy lad was much easier -Oliver had to agree later. He assumed Boy-Boy Munce's travels had demanded such
awareness that even now laying on the grass of the hill, Oliver could recall the coldness of the late hour as he waited for the
wandering youngster to fall asleep beside the campfire. Applying the seaweed compound had been a quick task and with less
struggle than he'd thought. But it would be during the conceited inventor's return to the workshop with the doped nomad over
his shoulder that he'd wondered of one would be enough.
The kid in the bib-and-braces was a doddle, a simple snatch from a simple father and son. But the showmanship required to
align the whole theatre would be Oliver's most worthy performance, the art of purveying a reality that wasn't true. The iron cage
had been prepared before the Munce kidnapping and with a few acts of disarray about the workshop, a pair of disoriented boys
had awakened to a raging metal monster that had overcome its inventor and was now collecting others for unknown reasons.
Glancing over at the female gazing down the boulder-strewn rear of the man-made tor, Oliver now priggishly wondered if his
future should've been on the entertainment stage.
.................................................................
"Whey, another season over and another bother broomed out the door" Peggy said seemingly absently as she spied the little
figure making his way back from his mission. The Last Witch of Underhill smiled to herself as Gumby Gingerpot nodded once
before slipping away into the foliage near his underground home and tugging the brim of her large hat to show she'd received
the Gnome's signal, she glanced at the rolling smoke in the distance.
Turning to watch the man getting up with a swagger off the elevated ground, Peggy wondered what heavyweight vernacular
Oliver Horton would express when he saw his burning home lighting the evening sky and all that bad ju-ju going-up with it.
Leaving the inventor to figure it out, the little necromancer buggered-off down the hill to see how Jasper was getting on with
his girlfriend.
Aye... Lob-Lie-By-The-Fire, indeed.
The End.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.