If such yarns as this one were ever fully discussed in scholarly circles like a Folklore seminar or story-hour
at a children's nursery, one could be sure that -due to today's penchant to dwell on emotional interaction in
all aspects of life, someone would surely ask about Peggy Powler's feelings when she first realised the evil
presence of the child-stealer known as Gwydionel.
To be precise, it was around the time when the last Witch of Underhill decided to remove her socks and her
sensations, her ardour, in fact her very passion at that moment was to get those annoying socks of her grateful
feet.
...................................................
Treacle Thistle's triple task was to monitor Peggy as she loitered around the back of her tent, keep an eye on the
quickly-thinning crowd of the Midsummer's Eve fete and a half-hearted scan for any brave owl that might venture
into the surrounding cedars.
It was early-evening now and even though it meant Treacle had to make a wide detour from his home to arrive at
the haven of shadowy trees, he felt in good shape to tackle the functions he'd been charged with.
However, during the Bogle's travels of scampering across Calder's Way, sneaking along beside the dry-stone wall
close to where the hermit-Gnome Turnip Mudd resided and then a quick dash back across the fabled highway to
the walled-off cedars and lawn, Treacle became aware that his thoughts didn't quite match his physical well-being.
It's okay for Peggy -he had thought as he had glanced towards the thick gorse bushes that hid Mudd's home, she
had battled all sorts of demons and horrors from the Otherside, Treacle's world -on the other hand, consisted of
avoiding foxes and secretly finding warm places amongst the humans to spend the winter.
With another scan of the dark branches above, the little Yetun went back to watching for the Bitch of St. Martin's.
...................................................
Kittie Bretton watched from her bedroom window as the remains of the festival crowd meandered down the lane
towards what she assumed were horses and carriages awaited in what could be loosely labeled the village square.
Most of the men were a little-too ebullient in their chatting and back-slapping, the women tended to walk together
and murmur things too quiet for the tired girl at the cottage window to hear.
To Kittie's right, the short-grassed arena where the Mid-Summer festival had earlier been alive with adult banter
and children's laughter, now looked like a deflating bladder of well-used bliss. With a look of mock-melancholy,
Kittie perceived the Green has a well-dressed Punchinello that had exhausted the sowing of his joy.
As the voices faded, Kittie quietly closed her window and climbed into bed. But before she allowed the wonderland
of dreams to welcome her inside, she mouthed a silent prayer for the woman alone on that lawn in her sister's clothes.
...................................................
"Friggin' things..." Peggy muttered as she tossed the balled-up socks next to the tapestry, "...Ah' divna know how
anyone can wear such leggings" she added and wiggled her unleashed toes in the dew-kissed grass. The last of the
visiting folk had gone and the quietness of the lawn was a bit unnerving, especially with the tents obscuring her view.
Even though Peggy ached to turn around and survey the tall columns of ancient monoliths that stood at this end of the
Green, she felt it prudent to behave like a child marvelling at her hand-sutured creation. The shadows of the stones
and the surrounding trees were hardly discernible with the growing gloom and apart from the faint laughter that came
from down the cobbled lane, she felt alone.
Then she began to feel something else.
...................................................
Back when Peggy was still with the Carnival, she'd been witness to an incident that altered her view on what her mother
meant to a community. Madame Powler had on occasions, been asked to attend a problem in a nearby village or some
quandary that had supernatural tones that a dismissive land Baron begrudgingly admitted he was powerless to solve.
Usually -and with the assistance of Mr Volcano's powerful coffee-mixture, the semi-sober soothsayer would leave around
mid-morning alone and return some time close to the Carnival's evening opening.
However, this particular day, Madame Powler called her only daughter into her marquee and asked Peggy if she'd like
to go with her.
"Tis' part of your schooling..." the refection of the prophet of peasants pronounced from the circular mirror that hung in her
quarters, "...today yer'll see things that'll turn yer' hair white" she exclaimed with a smile that had broken many a man's
heart and went back to combing her own jet-black tresses.
Peggy stifled her grin of excitement as she pondered the day ahead and what wonders she might see.
Hobbsbury is a market town in Callow county. The sixty-or-so inhabitants spend their days either caring for the surrounding
wheatfields or working in the Bluestone mine belonging to Sir William Blunt. Many of Blunt's employees are passing workers
who earn enough to fund whatever their near-futures demand, but the turnover of labour and Bluestone never wavered.
Well, that was until Shandy Gutteridge accidentally stuck his pickaxe into an unseen crevice and pulled a stone away to reveal
the reason of why Madame Powler was called for. Unknown to Gutteridge and Sir William, the tunnel that the men had been
excavating was also the resting place of something called a 'Gast Box' or Spook Chest.
For many towns and hamlets, if such a find surfaces, the first thing to do is request a Wizard or Witch to relinquish the natives
of the area of their concerns about such objects. This always involves removing the cursed thing. However, pragmatic people
like Sir William Blunt didn't believe in such hocus-pocus. That was why he lived on a large estate and those he paid lived on a
plot just big enough for a hen to peck at.
But it's this type of mumbo-jumbo that Shandy and his fellow-workers swear by and so after threatening to fire them, shouting
until he was hoarse about their stupid superstitions and even raising a horse-crop to them (until the Supervisor calmly brought
his boss back to reality), Blunt tasked a young lad called Bobbie to fetch Grannie Sickle.
Matilda Sickle was the old woman who by tradition, knows what's best to hush the fears of Hobbsbury's occupants and from
her ninety-or-so years in Callow county, even the furious Blunt would admit she knew a thing or two. Old Ma Sickle even knew
about a Gast Box and that was why after tramping all the way from the village, looking at the two-foot high container with the
recognisable ornate warning plates on its bolted door, she gave the already-sweating Bobbie Stevens instructions to find a
certain person over at the Carnival that was pitching up on the other side of Hobbsbury.
So that was how Peggy Powler, her mother sporting a large canvas satchel arrived at noon in a dusty work-yard half-filled with
broken quarry equipment, three snoozing mules, a nervous group of smoking men, a red-faced and sweating aristocrat and a
strange container sitting on a wooden flat-bed mine cart.
With an expression that many may use after realising they'd stood in dung, William Blunt approached the females surveying
their surroundings and reluctantly asked if perform whatever rites were needed to get his men back to work.
Madame Powler squinted in the sunshine and peered at the man who believed her was better than those around him.
"Why didn't yer' just toss it on yon scrapheap?" she asked and with a movement of her head gestured towards the pile of
rocks that no longer held the mineral favoured by jewel merchants in the south.
Blunt snorted like one of the drowsy nags tied to the nearby hitching-post and replied that he was someone who didn't believe
in such ju-ju nonsense, but valued his employees beliefs. The raven-haired Seer responded with a dubious "Aye" and stepped
away to prepare her work.
A Spook Chest -the usual term used by those who lived and died under the knowledge that there was sorcery beyond their
understanding, is a two-foot long wooden casket made of white oak that is bound together by iron bands and locked via a
mechanism that involves several particular rotations and ideally, with the correct theurgical descant.
But like most crates, it can be damaged and if its contents are exposed, folk like Madame Powler become far-more important
than the impatient chap in the expensive outdoor attire watching from his position near the explosive shed.
As Peggy's mother softly sang to herself, she plucked items of cabalistic power from her shouldered bag. The Fortune Teller's
demeanour implied a relaxed attitude and a lack of seriousness, but to a Witch, it was a way of putting spirits at ease and
showing a respect through the offering of a canticle.
As Madame Powler went through her ritual, her attentive daughter suddenly felt a strange awareness come over her. It was like
a vague realisation without the comfort of knowing a result. Although unseen by anyone in the mine's yard, Peggy's sensitivity
was due to the lock of the Gast Box slowly turning...
...................................................
That feeling arrived just as the hideous face of Gwydionel appeared between the stone pillars and a moment later, two claw-like
hands reached out and grasped the bare ankles of the next presumed victim of the Bitch O' the Hill.
Even as Peggy's chin smashed into the grass as she was dragged away, our little Witch took solace that it would be much more
than a bruised jawbone that she'd be administering to her captor.
at a children's nursery, one could be sure that -due to today's penchant to dwell on emotional interaction in
all aspects of life, someone would surely ask about Peggy Powler's feelings when she first realised the evil
presence of the child-stealer known as Gwydionel.
To be precise, it was around the time when the last Witch of Underhill decided to remove her socks and her
sensations, her ardour, in fact her very passion at that moment was to get those annoying socks of her grateful
feet.
...................................................
Treacle Thistle's triple task was to monitor Peggy as she loitered around the back of her tent, keep an eye on the
quickly-thinning crowd of the Midsummer's Eve fete and a half-hearted scan for any brave owl that might venture
into the surrounding cedars.
It was early-evening now and even though it meant Treacle had to make a wide detour from his home to arrive at
the haven of shadowy trees, he felt in good shape to tackle the functions he'd been charged with.
However, during the Bogle's travels of scampering across Calder's Way, sneaking along beside the dry-stone wall
close to where the hermit-Gnome Turnip Mudd resided and then a quick dash back across the fabled highway to
the walled-off cedars and lawn, Treacle became aware that his thoughts didn't quite match his physical well-being.
It's okay for Peggy -he had thought as he had glanced towards the thick gorse bushes that hid Mudd's home, she
had battled all sorts of demons and horrors from the Otherside, Treacle's world -on the other hand, consisted of
avoiding foxes and secretly finding warm places amongst the humans to spend the winter.
With another scan of the dark branches above, the little Yetun went back to watching for the Bitch of St. Martin's.
...................................................
Kittie Bretton watched from her bedroom window as the remains of the festival crowd meandered down the lane
towards what she assumed were horses and carriages awaited in what could be loosely labeled the village square.
Most of the men were a little-too ebullient in their chatting and back-slapping, the women tended to walk together
and murmur things too quiet for the tired girl at the cottage window to hear.
To Kittie's right, the short-grassed arena where the Mid-Summer festival had earlier been alive with adult banter
and children's laughter, now looked like a deflating bladder of well-used bliss. With a look of mock-melancholy,
Kittie perceived the Green has a well-dressed Punchinello that had exhausted the sowing of his joy.
As the voices faded, Kittie quietly closed her window and climbed into bed. But before she allowed the wonderland
of dreams to welcome her inside, she mouthed a silent prayer for the woman alone on that lawn in her sister's clothes.
...................................................
"Friggin' things..." Peggy muttered as she tossed the balled-up socks next to the tapestry, "...Ah' divna know how
anyone can wear such leggings" she added and wiggled her unleashed toes in the dew-kissed grass. The last of the
visiting folk had gone and the quietness of the lawn was a bit unnerving, especially with the tents obscuring her view.
Even though Peggy ached to turn around and survey the tall columns of ancient monoliths that stood at this end of the
Green, she felt it prudent to behave like a child marvelling at her hand-sutured creation. The shadows of the stones
and the surrounding trees were hardly discernible with the growing gloom and apart from the faint laughter that came
from down the cobbled lane, she felt alone.
Then she began to feel something else.
...................................................
Back when Peggy was still with the Carnival, she'd been witness to an incident that altered her view on what her mother
meant to a community. Madame Powler had on occasions, been asked to attend a problem in a nearby village or some
quandary that had supernatural tones that a dismissive land Baron begrudgingly admitted he was powerless to solve.
Usually -and with the assistance of Mr Volcano's powerful coffee-mixture, the semi-sober soothsayer would leave around
mid-morning alone and return some time close to the Carnival's evening opening.
However, this particular day, Madame Powler called her only daughter into her marquee and asked Peggy if she'd like
to go with her.
"Tis' part of your schooling..." the refection of the prophet of peasants pronounced from the circular mirror that hung in her
quarters, "...today yer'll see things that'll turn yer' hair white" she exclaimed with a smile that had broken many a man's
heart and went back to combing her own jet-black tresses.
Peggy stifled her grin of excitement as she pondered the day ahead and what wonders she might see.
Hobbsbury is a market town in Callow county. The sixty-or-so inhabitants spend their days either caring for the surrounding
wheatfields or working in the Bluestone mine belonging to Sir William Blunt. Many of Blunt's employees are passing workers
who earn enough to fund whatever their near-futures demand, but the turnover of labour and Bluestone never wavered.
Well, that was until Shandy Gutteridge accidentally stuck his pickaxe into an unseen crevice and pulled a stone away to reveal
the reason of why Madame Powler was called for. Unknown to Gutteridge and Sir William, the tunnel that the men had been
excavating was also the resting place of something called a 'Gast Box' or Spook Chest.
For many towns and hamlets, if such a find surfaces, the first thing to do is request a Wizard or Witch to relinquish the natives
of the area of their concerns about such objects. This always involves removing the cursed thing. However, pragmatic people
like Sir William Blunt didn't believe in such hocus-pocus. That was why he lived on a large estate and those he paid lived on a
plot just big enough for a hen to peck at.
But it's this type of mumbo-jumbo that Shandy and his fellow-workers swear by and so after threatening to fire them, shouting
until he was hoarse about their stupid superstitions and even raising a horse-crop to them (until the Supervisor calmly brought
his boss back to reality), Blunt tasked a young lad called Bobbie to fetch Grannie Sickle.
Matilda Sickle was the old woman who by tradition, knows what's best to hush the fears of Hobbsbury's occupants and from
her ninety-or-so years in Callow county, even the furious Blunt would admit she knew a thing or two. Old Ma Sickle even knew
about a Gast Box and that was why after tramping all the way from the village, looking at the two-foot high container with the
recognisable ornate warning plates on its bolted door, she gave the already-sweating Bobbie Stevens instructions to find a
certain person over at the Carnival that was pitching up on the other side of Hobbsbury.
So that was how Peggy Powler, her mother sporting a large canvas satchel arrived at noon in a dusty work-yard half-filled with
broken quarry equipment, three snoozing mules, a nervous group of smoking men, a red-faced and sweating aristocrat and a
strange container sitting on a wooden flat-bed mine cart.
With an expression that many may use after realising they'd stood in dung, William Blunt approached the females surveying
their surroundings and reluctantly asked if perform whatever rites were needed to get his men back to work.
Madame Powler squinted in the sunshine and peered at the man who believed her was better than those around him.
"Why didn't yer' just toss it on yon scrapheap?" she asked and with a movement of her head gestured towards the pile of
rocks that no longer held the mineral favoured by jewel merchants in the south.
Blunt snorted like one of the drowsy nags tied to the nearby hitching-post and replied that he was someone who didn't believe
in such ju-ju nonsense, but valued his employees beliefs. The raven-haired Seer responded with a dubious "Aye" and stepped
away to prepare her work.
A Spook Chest -the usual term used by those who lived and died under the knowledge that there was sorcery beyond their
understanding, is a two-foot long wooden casket made of white oak that is bound together by iron bands and locked via a
mechanism that involves several particular rotations and ideally, with the correct theurgical descant.
But like most crates, it can be damaged and if its contents are exposed, folk like Madame Powler become far-more important
than the impatient chap in the expensive outdoor attire watching from his position near the explosive shed.
As Peggy's mother softly sang to herself, she plucked items of cabalistic power from her shouldered bag. The Fortune Teller's
demeanour implied a relaxed attitude and a lack of seriousness, but to a Witch, it was a way of putting spirits at ease and
showing a respect through the offering of a canticle.
As Madame Powler went through her ritual, her attentive daughter suddenly felt a strange awareness come over her. It was like
a vague realisation without the comfort of knowing a result. Although unseen by anyone in the mine's yard, Peggy's sensitivity
was due to the lock of the Gast Box slowly turning...
...................................................
That feeling arrived just as the hideous face of Gwydionel appeared between the stone pillars and a moment later, two claw-like
hands reached out and grasped the bare ankles of the next presumed victim of the Bitch O' the Hill.
Even as Peggy's chin smashed into the grass as she was dragged away, our little Witch took solace that it would be much more
than a bruised jawbone that she'd be administering to her captor.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.