As Carstairs prepared the horse and cart for his visit to the clump of cottages called Little Compton, the reason for the sedate
Butler's journey was silently asking for divine clemency for straying off his moral path and just like the gelding accepting his
burden on the gravelled courtyard of Barque Manor, Father Mathew Jacobs looked balefully around at his dismal surroundings.
...................................................
Just to be factual, the reason the farmer -John Armstrong, never used this particular piece of land where the Priest was currently
waiting for Peggy Powler, had nothing to do with the prehistoric long barrows or the poor drainage. It was because of what he'd
witnessed there six years ago.
Armstrong -like many farmers, was a practical man. The seasons held many varieties of weather and he was confident that his
endeavours to cultivate his ten acres of property would at times be at the mercy of the changes a year would would throw at him.
His field of vegetables thrived because he had learned which correct produce would be conducive with what season it was and
above all, how his cereals or legumes reacted to the soil and its mineral content.
There were no lengths of woven horse hair hidden beside a well or John's concern of which shoe to put on first in the morning,
no silly dancing around apple trees or worries of what the markings on the belly of a deaf adder meant. Nothing except a glance
at the sky in the morning and when retiring to bed. Farmer Armstrong was down-to-earth, just as a worker of the earth should be.
But that late-summer evening when he'd fancied surprising his wife with a plump pheasant from the overgrown dell where the old
graves of a long-ago people hid a drop in the terrain, well... what he saw was just plain evil. Even with his shotgun cocked, John
had fled and never told a soul of what he'd seen.
It seems that there are monsters on the land that feed off others and whoever the boy was that had ventured into that hidden glade,
farmer Armstrong was sure at the following Sunday's church service, to give the thanks to the Gods that it wasn't one of his kin that
had been attacked by the blood-drinker.
...................................................
Gazing at the broken fencing, the overgrown turf and the stunted, twisted and leafless trees where he waited for his pagan cohort,
the Priest that had been surprised to see the owner of this piece of forgotten land all those years ago, now pondered on his own
damnation due to being involved in evoking one of Peggy's heathen imps.
Coombs had once informed him that this was an ancient burial ground of a lost godless people that the chilly vicar strongly believed
that the missing Witch would have felt at home with. Now all that Father Jacobs just wished for was he was back in front of his warm
fire and maybe a hot cup of cocoa.
The cold breeze that slipped between the barrows fluttered his cassock and for a moment, the Sexton of Little Compton felt a strong
urge to just leave, flee from the heretic and her profane acts of ungodliness and get on with his little ordinary secure life. But just then
the sight of Peggy's bobbing hat peeping over the grassy hillock caused him to automatically grin, an unexpected expression that he
put away quickly.
"Eh, it's a bit nitherin' today, isn't it...?" Peggy said as she busied herself by rummaging in the canvas satchel that she always carried
with her. "That breeze gets reet under me-shawl" she quipped and gave the staring Priest a bawdy wink. A few moments of foraging
took place before a nugget of dirty-white rock was held out for him to accept and engrossed in her actions, the busy Witch continued
to search in her pouch.
"Yer'll be needin' that..." she said without looking at the astonished Jacobs, "...but these lil' buggers were really hard to find" she
muttered and produced a clump of what her companion would have labelled as weeds. False-Hellebore, Aconite, Devil's Club and
Fireweed... all twisted into vague figures of two people in the little Witch's fist and accompanied by strange words inaudible to the
Priest's ears.
Father Jacobs gathered himself and in his best commanding voice, said "I'm still not happy about..." he began, but Peggy suddenly
placed a finger to his lips. "Whisht me-good man, divna' speak until Ah' get yer' moonstone workin'" she said with almost seductive
tones and for a moment, there were only the two of them in the whole world.
The moonstone -for that was what it was in Father Jacobs' cold hand, began to feel warm and as Peggy continued with her mumbled
incantation, the rough aggregate began to pulse with an eldritch light. If he'd ever dared later, he would have admitted to old Benedict
Coombs that he believed he could see the air around himself and the whispering woman with dirty feet, was shimmering.
Yes, that would be the word he'd tell the grave-digger... but he never did, nor did he ever tell anyone else.
As the holy-man in the black soutane prayed for this ordeal to be over and the sounds from the concentrating woman in the grubby
poncho increased, Father Mathew Jacobs stared at the Witch and it dawned on him they were going somewhere far-beyond his
imagination.
...................................................
A wicked human would lick his mental wounds and be enraged by the humiliation brought from the encounter from the evening
before. A wicked human would devise a plan of revenge or even vent his vehemence on another unsuspecting victim, but not
Doramus.
For the curled-up contorted creature laying beneath a remote sheep-manger on the moor, his sleep was of dreams of hunting and
feeding. Just like a dog slumbering beside its master's hearth, such neurophysiological processes remained in the basics of the
animal kingdom and behind the damaged eyelids of the Barguest, his dark thoughts held no connections to the boy that he once
was or the thing he had become.
...................................................
Carstairs stared ahead and focused on the deteriorating track strewn with dirty rainwater puddles. His superior passenger was
unexpected and dare he'd say, unwanted, but she was also his employer. Clucking the mud-hooved horse onwards, Carstairs
concentrated on his task as the oddly-sized couple dipped and twisted their way towards the tree-hidden set of cottages and
the little chapel.
Lady Ophelia had decided to speak to the Priest on his own ground and though the tall woman who'd vaulted onto the cart with
ease hadn't told her servant, she needed to be away from her husband for a while. Something that Carstairs could appreciate if
he was of the same status as his refined boss.
Decked out in a starling-egg blue blouse, riding-breeches and knee-high leather boots, Lady Ophelia looked like she was set for
business and the adroit butler knew it would be best if he just kept quiet. "I say Carstairs, this road is ridiculous..." the well-born
woman prompted and adjusted the knot in her matching head-sash. "...One can certainly tell we have left Calder's Way" Ophelia
added with a voice that smacked of high-calibre annoyance.
The drudge of Barque Hall agreed with a nod of his head that could also have been interpreted as merely being a reaction to the
bumpy road, a road he shamefully thought he'd be happy to reach the end of.
...................................................
Father Jacobs was on his knees and deep in his prayers of forgiveness. This was all wrong, all of it. Peggy looked at Robin Goodfellow
and smiled sheepishly, the beseeching moans of the pastor weren't something she'd expected. Bowing low and removing her hat, she
began her conference with he that many call 'Puck'.
Butler's journey was silently asking for divine clemency for straying off his moral path and just like the gelding accepting his
burden on the gravelled courtyard of Barque Manor, Father Mathew Jacobs looked balefully around at his dismal surroundings.
...................................................
Just to be factual, the reason the farmer -John Armstrong, never used this particular piece of land where the Priest was currently
waiting for Peggy Powler, had nothing to do with the prehistoric long barrows or the poor drainage. It was because of what he'd
witnessed there six years ago.
Armstrong -like many farmers, was a practical man. The seasons held many varieties of weather and he was confident that his
endeavours to cultivate his ten acres of property would at times be at the mercy of the changes a year would would throw at him.
His field of vegetables thrived because he had learned which correct produce would be conducive with what season it was and
above all, how his cereals or legumes reacted to the soil and its mineral content.
There were no lengths of woven horse hair hidden beside a well or John's concern of which shoe to put on first in the morning,
no silly dancing around apple trees or worries of what the markings on the belly of a deaf adder meant. Nothing except a glance
at the sky in the morning and when retiring to bed. Farmer Armstrong was down-to-earth, just as a worker of the earth should be.
But that late-summer evening when he'd fancied surprising his wife with a plump pheasant from the overgrown dell where the old
graves of a long-ago people hid a drop in the terrain, well... what he saw was just plain evil. Even with his shotgun cocked, John
had fled and never told a soul of what he'd seen.
It seems that there are monsters on the land that feed off others and whoever the boy was that had ventured into that hidden glade,
farmer Armstrong was sure at the following Sunday's church service, to give the thanks to the Gods that it wasn't one of his kin that
had been attacked by the blood-drinker.
...................................................
Gazing at the broken fencing, the overgrown turf and the stunted, twisted and leafless trees where he waited for his pagan cohort,
the Priest that had been surprised to see the owner of this piece of forgotten land all those years ago, now pondered on his own
damnation due to being involved in evoking one of Peggy's heathen imps.
Coombs had once informed him that this was an ancient burial ground of a lost godless people that the chilly vicar strongly believed
that the missing Witch would have felt at home with. Now all that Father Jacobs just wished for was he was back in front of his warm
fire and maybe a hot cup of cocoa.
The cold breeze that slipped between the barrows fluttered his cassock and for a moment, the Sexton of Little Compton felt a strong
urge to just leave, flee from the heretic and her profane acts of ungodliness and get on with his little ordinary secure life. But just then
the sight of Peggy's bobbing hat peeping over the grassy hillock caused him to automatically grin, an unexpected expression that he
put away quickly.
"Eh, it's a bit nitherin' today, isn't it...?" Peggy said as she busied herself by rummaging in the canvas satchel that she always carried
with her. "That breeze gets reet under me-shawl" she quipped and gave the staring Priest a bawdy wink. A few moments of foraging
took place before a nugget of dirty-white rock was held out for him to accept and engrossed in her actions, the busy Witch continued
to search in her pouch.
"Yer'll be needin' that..." she said without looking at the astonished Jacobs, "...but these lil' buggers were really hard to find" she
muttered and produced a clump of what her companion would have labelled as weeds. False-Hellebore, Aconite, Devil's Club and
Fireweed... all twisted into vague figures of two people in the little Witch's fist and accompanied by strange words inaudible to the
Priest's ears.
Father Jacobs gathered himself and in his best commanding voice, said "I'm still not happy about..." he began, but Peggy suddenly
placed a finger to his lips. "Whisht me-good man, divna' speak until Ah' get yer' moonstone workin'" she said with almost seductive
tones and for a moment, there were only the two of them in the whole world.
The moonstone -for that was what it was in Father Jacobs' cold hand, began to feel warm and as Peggy continued with her mumbled
incantation, the rough aggregate began to pulse with an eldritch light. If he'd ever dared later, he would have admitted to old Benedict
Coombs that he believed he could see the air around himself and the whispering woman with dirty feet, was shimmering.
Yes, that would be the word he'd tell the grave-digger... but he never did, nor did he ever tell anyone else.
As the holy-man in the black soutane prayed for this ordeal to be over and the sounds from the concentrating woman in the grubby
poncho increased, Father Mathew Jacobs stared at the Witch and it dawned on him they were going somewhere far-beyond his
imagination.
...................................................
A wicked human would lick his mental wounds and be enraged by the humiliation brought from the encounter from the evening
before. A wicked human would devise a plan of revenge or even vent his vehemence on another unsuspecting victim, but not
Doramus.
For the curled-up contorted creature laying beneath a remote sheep-manger on the moor, his sleep was of dreams of hunting and
feeding. Just like a dog slumbering beside its master's hearth, such neurophysiological processes remained in the basics of the
animal kingdom and behind the damaged eyelids of the Barguest, his dark thoughts held no connections to the boy that he once
was or the thing he had become.
...................................................
Carstairs stared ahead and focused on the deteriorating track strewn with dirty rainwater puddles. His superior passenger was
unexpected and dare he'd say, unwanted, but she was also his employer. Clucking the mud-hooved horse onwards, Carstairs
concentrated on his task as the oddly-sized couple dipped and twisted their way towards the tree-hidden set of cottages and
the little chapel.
Lady Ophelia had decided to speak to the Priest on his own ground and though the tall woman who'd vaulted onto the cart with
ease hadn't told her servant, she needed to be away from her husband for a while. Something that Carstairs could appreciate if
he was of the same status as his refined boss.
Decked out in a starling-egg blue blouse, riding-breeches and knee-high leather boots, Lady Ophelia looked like she was set for
business and the adroit butler knew it would be best if he just kept quiet. "I say Carstairs, this road is ridiculous..." the well-born
woman prompted and adjusted the knot in her matching head-sash. "...One can certainly tell we have left Calder's Way" Ophelia
added with a voice that smacked of high-calibre annoyance.
The drudge of Barque Hall agreed with a nod of his head that could also have been interpreted as merely being a reaction to the
bumpy road, a road he shamefully thought he'd be happy to reach the end of.
...................................................
Father Jacobs was on his knees and deep in his prayers of forgiveness. This was all wrong, all of it. Peggy looked at Robin Goodfellow
and smiled sheepishly, the beseeching moans of the pastor weren't something she'd expected. Bowing low and removing her hat, she
began her conference with he that many call 'Puck'.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.