"She's lithe, Ah'll give her that..." Peggy Powler moaned as the trio trudged through the naked trees and the stark undergrowth
in the direction the golden needle had indicated. Ten minutes before, the Witch had produced Robin Goodfellow's gift again
-along with her flask of Grim-Figg-donated cold tea, from her bag and checked to see if they were still on the correct path.
The gleaming pin floating in Peggy's half-filled cup provided the information that Doramus hadn't moved and so Lady Ophelia
had strode ahead with a conviction that left the weary vicar and his smaller companion several yards behind. "...Aye, she likes
to lead, that one" Peggy agreed to herself and picked up her pace.
As the darkness crept across the sparse woodland, the last Witch of Underhill called for a break and slumping down on a fallen
rotten log, she pretended to not notice the tall woman's impatience. "The beast will be rousing from its sleep and you're giving
up now?" Lady Ophelia asked in a vexatious tone and placed her hand on her hips to indicate her chafed opinion.
Carstairs had brooded during his return to Barque Manor on how the little woman in the wide-rimmed hat seemed to be able
to dodge his ladyship's acid tongue and remain in control of a situation. Father Jacobs had also felt that Peggy was somehow
being given a pass on Lady Barque's iron-handed demeanour and now sitting beside the Witch, it occurred to him again on
how unperturbed she seemed by the woman in the riding-trousers.
Unseen by the haughty blueblood and the panting Priest, a finger wiggled beneath Peggy's poncho once more and a familiar
spell was cast. "M'Lady, if Doramus moves, we'll be goin' in the wrong direction..." the diminutive shaman said without the
need to look at the petulant peer.
"...A clever bugger would take another readin' around now, don't yer' think?" the tired-sounding sorceress added with a sigh
and lazily reached into her satchel. Father Mathew Jacobs didn't wish to stare, but he cannily watched as the fractious filly warily
walked back to the log and after wiping the crumbling bark with her hair-sash -and letting her locks fall free onto her shoulders,
she quietly sat down beside the industrious augurer with the dirty feet.
"That would be prudent" Lady Ophelia softly concurred.
The three would-be hunters leaned close to the flask's lid as the needle sought the Barquest's location, but the gloom made
any observation difficult. With a hum of deliberation, Peggy whispered if the lavender-smelling woman beside her could hold
her thumb over the cold drink and retrieved a look of confusion. "Just do it for me, Ma'am?" the Witch asked with a velvet tone
that would match any silk Lady Ophelia had ever worn.
A gasp accompanied the bright glow that radiated from the woman's thumb and illuminated the small area where they were
holding their pow-pow. The aristocrat's normally stern poise melted away and the little girl surfaced slightly that once believed
in a magical world where one's social-standing meant nothing when compared to running through a warm meadow or dangling
one's bare-feet in a tinkling stream.
"Oh my!" Lady Ophelia exclaimed delicately at the ethereal light and with child-like eyes, she peered at Peggy and Mathew
to acquire their opinion of the lambent thumb. Her two accomplices nodded with kindly expressions and then went back to
inspecting their rustic compass.
The golden needle wasn't pointing westwards now, it flicked left and right a couple of times and then slowly turned to face the
rotting log and its huddled passengers. "We'd better get ready" was all Ms Powler could muster.
...................................................
After deciding a nearby clearing would be an appropriate place to stand their ground, Peggy took off her satchel and hat and
began to examine the leaf-covered terrain for what she needed. With a broken stick, she marked out a circle on the ground
where she was standing and for a moment, the Priest wondered if the scrawled shape had a magical meaning.
Turning his attention back to their immediate surroundings, Father Jacobs believed their position was good enough due to the
column of arrant hawthorn bushes on his left being a reluctant barrier for the size of an animal that Ophelia had described and
he recalled from the hunters had said.
There were some well-embedded boulders that a long-ago glacier had deposited towards the other side of the clearing and
though they'd make an excellent place to be leapt upon, Father Jacobs believed that -with a few thorny bushes spread across
the top, they'd also double as a wall. The tall woman standing beside one of the mossy rocks felt a little excluded and being
unaware of the weird-charm she was under, asked meekly if she could assist in some way.
Another bizarre practice that caught the Preacher out.
"You can help me gather some sticks?" he posed to Ophelia in the form of instruction and a question, this was going to take
some getting used to -he thought to himself as he carefully tugged at some overhanging holly branches and half-buried bramble
vines. Without comment, the usually snobbish woman began to emulate the skin-torn saver of souls.
Almost a minute passed before Peggy voiced a statement that made the two foragers first look to each other in puzzlement
and then stare at what the little Witch was doing. "Ah'll ask yer's te' not speak of what yer'll witness next, just know it's done
for a canny reason" she said seriously.
The leaf litter began to slowly squirm and then the soil seemed to convulse in places like angry plants believing that Spring had
arrived. Then as the ground churned itself into a ploughed furrow between two old elm trees, arm-thick wavering roots appeared
and danced in the early-evening air.
"Bethos radix et rete te' bestia sanguis" the Witch demanded and the muddy undulating feeders began to weave themselves
into something that caused Peggy's audience to reach for each other and resemble the lost children in a folk tale involving a
witch and an oven.
"Gratias Mater Arbor... Gratias" our real Witch whispered as the network of roots slowly lay flat and quivered itself beneath
the rotting leaves. The trap was set and the cassock-wearing Hansel and the aloof Gretel felt foolish for hugging each other.
Peggy turned to face the embarrassed couple and without speaking, pointed to a circular spot she marked earlier.
Creeping over to where the leaf-litter had been scraped away, Mathew Jacobs felt the need to keep his voice low as he asked
his question. "Is this a sacred circle for our safety?" he whispered as Lady Ophelia stood beside the curious verger and stared
around into the darkness.
Peggy placed her hat back on her head and reached for her satchel before answering and the act gave her time to hide her smile.
"Nay... it's where yer' put bait" she said and melted into the gloom.
"I think we're the cheese" Ophelia breathed into the cold forest air and clutched Mathew's trembling hand.
in the direction the golden needle had indicated. Ten minutes before, the Witch had produced Robin Goodfellow's gift again
-along with her flask of Grim-Figg-donated cold tea, from her bag and checked to see if they were still on the correct path.
The gleaming pin floating in Peggy's half-filled cup provided the information that Doramus hadn't moved and so Lady Ophelia
had strode ahead with a conviction that left the weary vicar and his smaller companion several yards behind. "...Aye, she likes
to lead, that one" Peggy agreed to herself and picked up her pace.
As the darkness crept across the sparse woodland, the last Witch of Underhill called for a break and slumping down on a fallen
rotten log, she pretended to not notice the tall woman's impatience. "The beast will be rousing from its sleep and you're giving
up now?" Lady Ophelia asked in a vexatious tone and placed her hand on her hips to indicate her chafed opinion.
Carstairs had brooded during his return to Barque Manor on how the little woman in the wide-rimmed hat seemed to be able
to dodge his ladyship's acid tongue and remain in control of a situation. Father Jacobs had also felt that Peggy was somehow
being given a pass on Lady Barque's iron-handed demeanour and now sitting beside the Witch, it occurred to him again on
how unperturbed she seemed by the woman in the riding-trousers.
Unseen by the haughty blueblood and the panting Priest, a finger wiggled beneath Peggy's poncho once more and a familiar
spell was cast. "M'Lady, if Doramus moves, we'll be goin' in the wrong direction..." the diminutive shaman said without the
need to look at the petulant peer.
"...A clever bugger would take another readin' around now, don't yer' think?" the tired-sounding sorceress added with a sigh
and lazily reached into her satchel. Father Mathew Jacobs didn't wish to stare, but he cannily watched as the fractious filly warily
walked back to the log and after wiping the crumbling bark with her hair-sash -and letting her locks fall free onto her shoulders,
she quietly sat down beside the industrious augurer with the dirty feet.
"That would be prudent" Lady Ophelia softly concurred.
The three would-be hunters leaned close to the flask's lid as the needle sought the Barquest's location, but the gloom made
any observation difficult. With a hum of deliberation, Peggy whispered if the lavender-smelling woman beside her could hold
her thumb over the cold drink and retrieved a look of confusion. "Just do it for me, Ma'am?" the Witch asked with a velvet tone
that would match any silk Lady Ophelia had ever worn.
A gasp accompanied the bright glow that radiated from the woman's thumb and illuminated the small area where they were
holding their pow-pow. The aristocrat's normally stern poise melted away and the little girl surfaced slightly that once believed
in a magical world where one's social-standing meant nothing when compared to running through a warm meadow or dangling
one's bare-feet in a tinkling stream.
"Oh my!" Lady Ophelia exclaimed delicately at the ethereal light and with child-like eyes, she peered at Peggy and Mathew
to acquire their opinion of the lambent thumb. Her two accomplices nodded with kindly expressions and then went back to
inspecting their rustic compass.
The golden needle wasn't pointing westwards now, it flicked left and right a couple of times and then slowly turned to face the
rotting log and its huddled passengers. "We'd better get ready" was all Ms Powler could muster.
...................................................
After deciding a nearby clearing would be an appropriate place to stand their ground, Peggy took off her satchel and hat and
began to examine the leaf-covered terrain for what she needed. With a broken stick, she marked out a circle on the ground
where she was standing and for a moment, the Priest wondered if the scrawled shape had a magical meaning.
Turning his attention back to their immediate surroundings, Father Jacobs believed their position was good enough due to the
column of arrant hawthorn bushes on his left being a reluctant barrier for the size of an animal that Ophelia had described and
he recalled from the hunters had said.
There were some well-embedded boulders that a long-ago glacier had deposited towards the other side of the clearing and
though they'd make an excellent place to be leapt upon, Father Jacobs believed that -with a few thorny bushes spread across
the top, they'd also double as a wall. The tall woman standing beside one of the mossy rocks felt a little excluded and being
unaware of the weird-charm she was under, asked meekly if she could assist in some way.
Another bizarre practice that caught the Preacher out.
"You can help me gather some sticks?" he posed to Ophelia in the form of instruction and a question, this was going to take
some getting used to -he thought to himself as he carefully tugged at some overhanging holly branches and half-buried bramble
vines. Without comment, the usually snobbish woman began to emulate the skin-torn saver of souls.
Almost a minute passed before Peggy voiced a statement that made the two foragers first look to each other in puzzlement
and then stare at what the little Witch was doing. "Ah'll ask yer's te' not speak of what yer'll witness next, just know it's done
for a canny reason" she said seriously.
The leaf litter began to slowly squirm and then the soil seemed to convulse in places like angry plants believing that Spring had
arrived. Then as the ground churned itself into a ploughed furrow between two old elm trees, arm-thick wavering roots appeared
and danced in the early-evening air.
"Bethos radix et rete te' bestia sanguis" the Witch demanded and the muddy undulating feeders began to weave themselves
into something that caused Peggy's audience to reach for each other and resemble the lost children in a folk tale involving a
witch and an oven.
"Gratias Mater Arbor... Gratias" our real Witch whispered as the network of roots slowly lay flat and quivered itself beneath
the rotting leaves. The trap was set and the cassock-wearing Hansel and the aloof Gretel felt foolish for hugging each other.
Peggy turned to face the embarrassed couple and without speaking, pointed to a circular spot she marked earlier.
Creeping over to where the leaf-litter had been scraped away, Mathew Jacobs felt the need to keep his voice low as he asked
his question. "Is this a sacred circle for our safety?" he whispered as Lady Ophelia stood beside the curious verger and stared
around into the darkness.
Peggy placed her hat back on her head and reached for her satchel before answering and the act gave her time to hide her smile.
"Nay... it's where yer' put bait" she said and melted into the gloom.
"I think we're the cheese" Ophelia breathed into the cold forest air and clutched Mathew's trembling hand.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.