The cold rain was coming down sideways when Father Mathew Jacobs closed the shutters of the vestry and just had he'd done
for the last ten nights, the uneasy priest murmured a prayer that Doramus would pass by Little Compton and stay on the moors.
The candles that had struggled in the draught settled and continued their slowly wavering radiance around the small chapel.
After a few minutes, the quiet man in the grey robes felt the temperature in the little sacristy rise slightly and with the warmth,
Father Jacobs' sanguine improved.
With his vestments hanging on their usual hook and the religious utensils put away, he stepped over to the wooden creden and
pondered on his meagre supper. Five parishoners today Father Jacobs thought, a Sunday and only five worshippers. Picking
up the cold pastie that the widow Cameron had left him, he wondered how long he had left as the soul-saver of Little Compton.
...................................................
Jake Butterfield pulled on his pants and felt the need to apologise again. The eighteen year-old gazed up at the grinning woman
watching him from the garret of his father's barn and politely offered his best innocent features. Peggy Powler -naked and feeling
grand on the warm straw, purred to herself at the handsome lad tucking in his shirt and waited for his unneeded redress.
"I don't know what came over me, Miss Powler, honest -I don't..." Jake mewled and ran his fingers through his long brown hair.
"...My Pa's gonna whoop me if he finds out I didn't fix those fences" he hurried and and jamming his socks into his pockets,
he scuttled towards his wooden nail-caddy where Peggy's hat dangled from its handle.
"I have to go, sorry" Butterfield-junior said quickly and almost fell through the dog-chewed door in his haste. The smug last Witch
of Underhill snorted her mirth from the loft and rolling over onto her back, whispered "Yer' welcome, kid".
Somewhere out there on the heather-clustered moorland of Kettlefog County, docile sheep looked up from their eternal grazing
and listlessly witnessed rain-dampened timber suddenly jumping back to their original positions as fencing. Rust-touched nails
straightened and slid silently into posts as if a young shepherd's son had accomplished his Father's orders and he hadn't been
charmed into a warm attic by a certain sorceress that felt a particular itch.
Not being appreciative of remuneration-majick, the wall-eyed ewes went back to doing what sheep do best.
...................................................
Calder's Way lost its dry-stone wall partners some miles back when the famous road left the agricultural province of Abbott's county
and with a quick survey of the tree-less expanse ahead of her, Peggy Powler unenthusiastically gazed towards the sea-cobbled track
that would lead her across the moorland to Burnham's Hope.
An odd name perhaps, but the hundred-foot deep fracture was supposedly christened with this eponym because of a long-ago pious
wanderer -who lost his way on the foggy heath and missed the footbridge, fell down into the sheer-walled chasm and landed on the
only rock-shelf where he managed to later be recovered. This death-defying traveller who's good fortune finagled the ancient fissure
was Bartholomew Burnham.
The weather was poor, a grey sky with low rain-leaden clouds running quickly towards the Great Sea. Peggy's poncho was damp
due to the moisture-laden air and pulling her hat low, she reviewed her decision to leave the shelter of Mr Butterfield's barn.
With one word, the miserable Witch concluded her judgment was as lousy as the elements.
"Bugger" Peggy muttered and put her best bare foot forward.
...................................................
"How goes it, Father?" Benedict Coombs asked as he waited for the preacher approaching the lychgate. The old grave-digger
curbed the need to pull his cap from his head and instead sniffed at the morning air as if measuring the temperature. Mathew
Jacobs followed the excavator's nose and answered that he will be happier when the Summer returns.
Coombs agreed with an excessive amount of nodding that told the dispirited priest that his only regular weekday visitor had been
quietly quaffing his home-made firewater again, a habit the Curate had stopped scolding Coombs for a year ago. "Well, At least
the storm as passed" Father Jacobs offered with a sigh and refused the onrush of thoughts that had visited him last night.
The five hour deluge had left Little Compton with ankle-deep puddles along the rutted tracks that connected the few cottages to the
paved thoroughfare branded Calder's Way and had distributed tree branches of all sizes about the graveyard. With a doleful eye, Father
Jacobs scanned the strewn foliage laid around the leaning lichen-covered headstones and wondered if the remains of his stipend would
be enough to urge the semi-inebriated Mr Coombs to solve the current situation.
Oddly enough at the same time, the boozy labourer thought that clearing the mess would keep him in the preacher's good books
and at the very least, the few coins Coombs earned from the chapel would keep coming. "Don't you worry about all this clutter,
Father..." the grinning Fossor said easily "...You go about yer' business and be sure old Benedict will have it sorted" he appended
with a wink.
A chilly wind blew along the lane and caused the two men to look meaningful at each other, but it was the seasoned labourer who
broke the wintry silence between them. "I hear that Martha Dinsdale took to her bed with the doldrums this morning..." Coombs
muttered and watched for clues from the man in the black attire. "...It's a terrible curse we've gotten ourselves and no mistake".
With a pained expression on his cold-pinched face, the Sexton of Little Compton nodded his leave-taking and quickly left the
moonshine-damaged grave-digger and the storm-damaged cemetery. It seemed last night's prayer of Doramus' visit had gone
unheard.
...................................................
The thickly-roped bridge at Burnham's Hope reminded its next customer of a Summer when a certain hawser was used to pull
a specific spell-worker out of the clarts. Arriving at the swaying platform, the tough texture of the knotted cables brought a vision
of Treacle Thistle's blistered hands under a warm sun and for a moment, Peggy felt a tad of wistfulness for the latter.
With the daylight -what there was of it, fading quickly, the grumbling Witch realised she'd better get a move on if she was going
to get off the moor by nightfall. It wouldn't be smart to get stuck out here in the dark when the rain came and looking at the heavy
clouds above Burnham's Hope, Peggy guessed such a downpour was only an hour away.
So she cussed again and set-off across the rickety pontoon.
for the last ten nights, the uneasy priest murmured a prayer that Doramus would pass by Little Compton and stay on the moors.
The candles that had struggled in the draught settled and continued their slowly wavering radiance around the small chapel.
After a few minutes, the quiet man in the grey robes felt the temperature in the little sacristy rise slightly and with the warmth,
Father Jacobs' sanguine improved.
With his vestments hanging on their usual hook and the religious utensils put away, he stepped over to the wooden creden and
pondered on his meagre supper. Five parishoners today Father Jacobs thought, a Sunday and only five worshippers. Picking
up the cold pastie that the widow Cameron had left him, he wondered how long he had left as the soul-saver of Little Compton.
...................................................
Jake Butterfield pulled on his pants and felt the need to apologise again. The eighteen year-old gazed up at the grinning woman
watching him from the garret of his father's barn and politely offered his best innocent features. Peggy Powler -naked and feeling
grand on the warm straw, purred to herself at the handsome lad tucking in his shirt and waited for his unneeded redress.
"I don't know what came over me, Miss Powler, honest -I don't..." Jake mewled and ran his fingers through his long brown hair.
"...My Pa's gonna whoop me if he finds out I didn't fix those fences" he hurried and and jamming his socks into his pockets,
he scuttled towards his wooden nail-caddy where Peggy's hat dangled from its handle.
"I have to go, sorry" Butterfield-junior said quickly and almost fell through the dog-chewed door in his haste. The smug last Witch
of Underhill snorted her mirth from the loft and rolling over onto her back, whispered "Yer' welcome, kid".
Somewhere out there on the heather-clustered moorland of Kettlefog County, docile sheep looked up from their eternal grazing
and listlessly witnessed rain-dampened timber suddenly jumping back to their original positions as fencing. Rust-touched nails
straightened and slid silently into posts as if a young shepherd's son had accomplished his Father's orders and he hadn't been
charmed into a warm attic by a certain sorceress that felt a particular itch.
Not being appreciative of remuneration-majick, the wall-eyed ewes went back to doing what sheep do best.
...................................................
Calder's Way lost its dry-stone wall partners some miles back when the famous road left the agricultural province of Abbott's county
and with a quick survey of the tree-less expanse ahead of her, Peggy Powler unenthusiastically gazed towards the sea-cobbled track
that would lead her across the moorland to Burnham's Hope.
An odd name perhaps, but the hundred-foot deep fracture was supposedly christened with this eponym because of a long-ago pious
wanderer -who lost his way on the foggy heath and missed the footbridge, fell down into the sheer-walled chasm and landed on the
only rock-shelf where he managed to later be recovered. This death-defying traveller who's good fortune finagled the ancient fissure
was Bartholomew Burnham.
The weather was poor, a grey sky with low rain-leaden clouds running quickly towards the Great Sea. Peggy's poncho was damp
due to the moisture-laden air and pulling her hat low, she reviewed her decision to leave the shelter of Mr Butterfield's barn.
With one word, the miserable Witch concluded her judgment was as lousy as the elements.
"Bugger" Peggy muttered and put her best bare foot forward.
...................................................
"How goes it, Father?" Benedict Coombs asked as he waited for the preacher approaching the lychgate. The old grave-digger
curbed the need to pull his cap from his head and instead sniffed at the morning air as if measuring the temperature. Mathew
Jacobs followed the excavator's nose and answered that he will be happier when the Summer returns.
Coombs agreed with an excessive amount of nodding that told the dispirited priest that his only regular weekday visitor had been
quietly quaffing his home-made firewater again, a habit the Curate had stopped scolding Coombs for a year ago. "Well, At least
the storm as passed" Father Jacobs offered with a sigh and refused the onrush of thoughts that had visited him last night.
The five hour deluge had left Little Compton with ankle-deep puddles along the rutted tracks that connected the few cottages to the
paved thoroughfare branded Calder's Way and had distributed tree branches of all sizes about the graveyard. With a doleful eye, Father
Jacobs scanned the strewn foliage laid around the leaning lichen-covered headstones and wondered if the remains of his stipend would
be enough to urge the semi-inebriated Mr Coombs to solve the current situation.
Oddly enough at the same time, the boozy labourer thought that clearing the mess would keep him in the preacher's good books
and at the very least, the few coins Coombs earned from the chapel would keep coming. "Don't you worry about all this clutter,
Father..." the grinning Fossor said easily "...You go about yer' business and be sure old Benedict will have it sorted" he appended
with a wink.
A chilly wind blew along the lane and caused the two men to look meaningful at each other, but it was the seasoned labourer who
broke the wintry silence between them. "I hear that Martha Dinsdale took to her bed with the doldrums this morning..." Coombs
muttered and watched for clues from the man in the black attire. "...It's a terrible curse we've gotten ourselves and no mistake".
With a pained expression on his cold-pinched face, the Sexton of Little Compton nodded his leave-taking and quickly left the
moonshine-damaged grave-digger and the storm-damaged cemetery. It seemed last night's prayer of Doramus' visit had gone
unheard.
...................................................
The thickly-roped bridge at Burnham's Hope reminded its next customer of a Summer when a certain hawser was used to pull
a specific spell-worker out of the clarts. Arriving at the swaying platform, the tough texture of the knotted cables brought a vision
of Treacle Thistle's blistered hands under a warm sun and for a moment, Peggy felt a tad of wistfulness for the latter.
With the daylight -what there was of it, fading quickly, the grumbling Witch realised she'd better get a move on if she was going
to get off the moor by nightfall. It wouldn't be smart to get stuck out here in the dark when the rain came and looking at the heavy
clouds above Burnham's Hope, Peggy guessed such a downpour was only an hour away.
So she cussed again and set-off across the rickety pontoon.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.