The moth fluttered once more on the sticky lattice and then resigned itself to the silken trap of the eight-legged monster that
approached from its den in the corner of the window-pane. The observer of this natural predator-prey pact moved her eyes
from the drama within the gossamer snare and peered out at the Great Sea, the evening was coming in fast.
Peggy Powler sighed in her cosiness and bringing one of Myrddin's many candlesticks closer, she went back to reading
the old tome that the snoring Magician had given her that very afternoon. The Book of The Wretched contained ancient -but
badly-written spells and to say it was tough going was an understatement.
It had been two weeks since Sow-In had been celebrated in the little fishing village of Salterhead and now was the lull before
Wintertide. Peggy had arrived just before the celebratory bonfires had been set alight along the beach and even though her
heart yearned to get to the old wizard's home in the cove just off from where the honouring of the Otherside was taking place,
the little Witch did allow herself some time to enjoy the festivities involving the community she often spent the winter beside.
With a glance over at the table piled with old leather-bound books and paraphernalia of glass pipes and tubes that occasionally
offered beautifully-coloured bubbles and strange farting noises, Peggy noticed her gift of a taffy-apple to Myrddin had still gone
unbitten.
So she read the dubious charm about how to deal with a toothache instead.
...................................................
The brew was sweet and Peggy allowed the feeling of relish to thrum through her body as she sipped their ritual evening supper.
"...Then I'll take it that thy encounter with the Pond-Devil ended fruitfully?" the bearded practitioner of old charms asked as he
wiped his bristles of of the delicious foam and his guest responded with a nod due to her being focused on acquiring the dregs
of her own beverage.
"Aye..." Peggy eventually replied as she savoured the flavour "...the folk of Lubberhouses awarded me a brass button that
-Ah' was told on good authority, kept Hobs from stealin' me-underclothes". This brought a rare raising of Myrddin's brushy
eyebrows and a smile that was enjoyed by both conjurers of majick.
The sea continued its lulling background anthem as the couple soaked in the serenity of the magician's little home and the old
clock in the corner of the room ticked the beat of such a cost. Time shares a tariff with that elusive endeavour called experience
and for Myrddin, that payment had been paid in full.
"The Witching-hour approaches and old bastards like myself need to be under the blanket before mischief arrives..." the old man
quipped and with a grunt, lifted his century-old bones from his favourite chair. "...but If sleep alludes thee sister, there's a peculiar
article that found its way to my door..." Myrddin absently mentioned with poor theatrical investment. "...Maybe it will while away an
odd hour or two before the Sandman taps thee on thy shoulder" he tendered and pointed a razor-shell fingernail towards a badly
-torn scroll resting on another stack of books.
"Fair dreams" Peggy whispered softly from her perch near the window and watching the ancient man shamble into his bedroom,
she wondered if Myrddin had just declared his annual trial for the woman titled the last Witch of Underhill. Peering over at the dark
rolled-up document balanced on bound manuscripts about the convoluted politics of Mountain Spriggans, Peggy wondered why
she hadn't noticed it before.
"Because it wasn't there before..." she giggled softly to herself and hearing the sneck of the Magus' door click shut, the little Seer
maintained her grin and carried the candlestick with her for further investigation. Looking down on the damaged scroll, she mused
"Moth or Spider, that's the question?" and began her examination.
It was made of a rare paper and Peggy guessed at Touchwood because of the faint whorls that moved when human eyes weren't
looking upon it. As Peggy lightly felt the brown texture, it told of a regular interaction with regular folk, possibly a family.
A small stain of what might be cooking-fat tipped the outer-edge and if one pushed their imagination, faint imprints of what might
be from a dog's teeth grabbing at the scroll, could be vaguely felt.
But just with a cursory glance at the item, what it offered conflicted with the standard pattern of using paper to convey a message.
Touchwood as a recording tool was a laborious undertaking and an expense that ensured that whatever this epistle contained,
the words have to be valuable enough to endure the clock of this reality and all that it brings.
In some northern counties, the colloquial title for Touchwood was 'Dragonskin', a name borne out of its durability. Some say a fallen
God was impaled on a Touchwood tree and his blood charred the bark into an almost stone-like condition. In the canton of Henge,
they'll swear that it was the tree that Gellan was crucified on for his error of opening the gates of sin.
The bare-footed Witch had heard them all and she held none of them in regard, except when adding flavour to a late-night fairy-tale.
Maybe the great Wizard had misstepped this time...? she wondered, maybe Myrddin had found a dud?
And so Peggy continued her appraisal whilst carrying a frown of confusion, there was no ornate brass ark to protect the blemished
scroll -a usual barrier for any missive of value. This ragged token had lived a life in the open and thus, its condition hinted of the level
of its importance.
But there was a clue to where this scroll had possibly originated and reaching for Myrddin's highly-polished crystal, the inquisitive
Witch peered into the magnified world that may help in Peggy's guessed-at quest. It wasn't much, but it was there and how it survived
could be down to the wax's simple blind luck.
In all of the counties that Ms Powler had roamed, there were many constants and one of them was the art of message delivery.
Written communication was generally carried by couriers known as The Midnight Mail who galloped on horseback through the night
and brought the letters and parcels to the recipients. To ensure a message was not only kept private, but also had an identifying mark
from the vicinity of the sender, a wax seal was used to keep a scroll closed and a stamp determined which community it came from.
In the shire that Salterhead sat, a metal seal stamp of a mermaid holding a thresh of barley was used. In Malton County, a rendering
of a stylised ladle beside a wooden barrel was pressed into the hot wax to indicate the local industry. The contrasting depictions of
social divergence in seal-stamps was a hobby in itself.
The colour of the wax had a bearing too. Red meant officialdom, possibly council, administrative and governance. Green was usually
used when commercial enterprises needed to communicate and blue was strictly aristocracy and royalty. Although in the realms of
the high-born, such tidings were usually delivered by a special messenger. Plain white Lanolin wax was commonly used if an average
villager wishing to get a message to another part of the land.
Some districts did occasionally use distinct ghees to alter their wax compositions and this one was grey, which meant Develdite.
Develdite is an outdated cacti oil primarily used in the mining industry before the black stuff from underground was discovered.
Now it's mainly used for colouring in paints and grease-proofing. Peggy smiled to herself as she strongly believed this wax came
from the Wildhorn territory in the south. Focusing further on the fragment of grey tallow she was staring at through the polished
lens, there was something imprinted that came to a curved point.
A spear...? no. The tip of a pickaxe...?, maybe.
Carefully unfurling the badly-handled scroll, Peggy breathed in softly and prepared to read its contents.
It was a poem.
...................................................
It was noon when Peggy squinted out of her satchel in the corner of the room and spotted the skinny legs of her host swaying beneath
the only table in the tiny cottage that wasn't piled with venerable literature. Myrddin was humming to himself and preparing to eat his
midday meal whilst reading a large book held together with gold-metal hinges.
Scratching her backside and yawning quietly, she idly guessed it was Molark's guide to Mizmazes.
"Is it a sham?" the old Wizard asked without looking towards the naked woman reaching for her discarded poncho. If another question
was to follow, it would have to wait for a mouthful of quince pudding to be swallowed and this gave Peggy an opportunity to dress herself.
The winter sun was doing its best to light up the dust-motes in the room and the long shadows reminded her that Spring was still a wraith
holidaying somewhere else. Peggy remained silent to the query until she'd visited the out-house and dowsed herself in the cold water of
the trough beside the back door. "Reet" she said to herself and went back to the puzzle that resided in the old letter.
"Where did yer' get it?" Peggy asked as she dried her hair with a small towel that had gratefully appeared on the lap of her satchel.
The day had escaped her and she felt that a lot of catching-up was to be done before the old man smiling at her could call a result on
her latest test.
Myrddin stroked his beard and a large crumb of pastry fell onto the sun-warmed floorboards and rolled to the leg of the chair Peggy was
relaxing on. During their discussion -and something that Peggy had been surprised at on her first day staying with her favourite mentor,
a Dormouse would appear from a hole in the skirting-board and take care of the discarded morsel.
"It was a passing tinker with an eye on yonder ornament and the sale of a brummagem bracelet..." he answered and showed a wry smile
to what the damp-haired sorceress might be thinking.
The large silver platter that this traveller was alleged to have had an interest in, hung on the wall above Myrddin's evening chair and had
been given to him seventy years-ago when he'd saved a Baron's daughter from a band of ruffians with a certain type of waywardness on
their minds. The middle-aged warlock had chosen the prize because of the engraving, a dragon flying over intricately detailed village that
reminded Myrddin of the coastal community he now lived alongside.
In previous visits to Myrddin's home, he would sometimes mention the indebted nobleman's consoling the magician that dragons didn't
really exist and Peggy would laugh along with her host at the ignorance of those who hold themselves so highly. Didn't exist...? pah!
And the boorish degenerates who had threatened to steal the poor young lady's chastity ...?
Well, if one travels a hundred leagues westwards and keep an eye out for a large house with blue-grey tiles on its many rooves, there's a
meadow where poppies always seem to grow no matter what crop is sown. Beside that field, there's a copse of very old ash trees and in
those trees, a rookery. The wizard turned them into crows... or so the story goes.
"...Indeed, this ear-ringed roamer failed to convince me that the badly-carved manacle once belonged to some so-called magician called
Myrddin and grasping that no sale was viable, attempted to urge me to donate the plate" Myrddin explained with honey-soaked tones.
Peggy Powler grinned at the telling of the tale and wasn't impatient for the punch line, it was times like these that she could just curdle in
the spellbinder's genuine warmth. Raising his eyebrows to ask if the little Witch required a refill of her cup, he poured them both another
measure of sweet dandelion tea and returned to his yarn of how the scroll came into his possession.
"Oh he was a charmer, this one and when he barged past me... well, it took all of my strength just stay on my feet!" the affable old gent
explained and took a sip of his brew. "He persisted in his invasion and later, I found his bag of useless sundry held the unsettling letter
that intrigues thee" he added and laid his gnarled hand on the page he'd been reading.
The old Warlock's features altered slightly as he turned his gaze to the Torchwood papyrus and sighed. "I think it was a cry for help
and fell into the wrong hands" he murmured and clicked his tongue in a sign of regret, a sound that made the mouse scurry back to
its den.
Peggy glanced over at the parchment of interest and wondered how to prepare her questions of what it contained. Then she recalled
Myrddin hadn't finished his story and so asked him what happened to the brusque seller of worthless trinkets. The bushy centenarian
smile returned from behind his briar of hair and whispered "you're sitting on him".
approached from its den in the corner of the window-pane. The observer of this natural predator-prey pact moved her eyes
from the drama within the gossamer snare and peered out at the Great Sea, the evening was coming in fast.
Peggy Powler sighed in her cosiness and bringing one of Myrddin's many candlesticks closer, she went back to reading
the old tome that the snoring Magician had given her that very afternoon. The Book of The Wretched contained ancient -but
badly-written spells and to say it was tough going was an understatement.
It had been two weeks since Sow-In had been celebrated in the little fishing village of Salterhead and now was the lull before
Wintertide. Peggy had arrived just before the celebratory bonfires had been set alight along the beach and even though her
heart yearned to get to the old wizard's home in the cove just off from where the honouring of the Otherside was taking place,
the little Witch did allow herself some time to enjoy the festivities involving the community she often spent the winter beside.
With a glance over at the table piled with old leather-bound books and paraphernalia of glass pipes and tubes that occasionally
offered beautifully-coloured bubbles and strange farting noises, Peggy noticed her gift of a taffy-apple to Myrddin had still gone
unbitten.
So she read the dubious charm about how to deal with a toothache instead.
...................................................
The brew was sweet and Peggy allowed the feeling of relish to thrum through her body as she sipped their ritual evening supper.
"...Then I'll take it that thy encounter with the Pond-Devil ended fruitfully?" the bearded practitioner of old charms asked as he
wiped his bristles of of the delicious foam and his guest responded with a nod due to her being focused on acquiring the dregs
of her own beverage.
"Aye..." Peggy eventually replied as she savoured the flavour "...the folk of Lubberhouses awarded me a brass button that
-Ah' was told on good authority, kept Hobs from stealin' me-underclothes". This brought a rare raising of Myrddin's brushy
eyebrows and a smile that was enjoyed by both conjurers of majick.
The sea continued its lulling background anthem as the couple soaked in the serenity of the magician's little home and the old
clock in the corner of the room ticked the beat of such a cost. Time shares a tariff with that elusive endeavour called experience
and for Myrddin, that payment had been paid in full.
"The Witching-hour approaches and old bastards like myself need to be under the blanket before mischief arrives..." the old man
quipped and with a grunt, lifted his century-old bones from his favourite chair. "...but If sleep alludes thee sister, there's a peculiar
article that found its way to my door..." Myrddin absently mentioned with poor theatrical investment. "...Maybe it will while away an
odd hour or two before the Sandman taps thee on thy shoulder" he tendered and pointed a razor-shell fingernail towards a badly
-torn scroll resting on another stack of books.
"Fair dreams" Peggy whispered softly from her perch near the window and watching the ancient man shamble into his bedroom,
she wondered if Myrddin had just declared his annual trial for the woman titled the last Witch of Underhill. Peering over at the dark
rolled-up document balanced on bound manuscripts about the convoluted politics of Mountain Spriggans, Peggy wondered why
she hadn't noticed it before.
"Because it wasn't there before..." she giggled softly to herself and hearing the sneck of the Magus' door click shut, the little Seer
maintained her grin and carried the candlestick with her for further investigation. Looking down on the damaged scroll, she mused
"Moth or Spider, that's the question?" and began her examination.
It was made of a rare paper and Peggy guessed at Touchwood because of the faint whorls that moved when human eyes weren't
looking upon it. As Peggy lightly felt the brown texture, it told of a regular interaction with regular folk, possibly a family.
A small stain of what might be cooking-fat tipped the outer-edge and if one pushed their imagination, faint imprints of what might
be from a dog's teeth grabbing at the scroll, could be vaguely felt.
But just with a cursory glance at the item, what it offered conflicted with the standard pattern of using paper to convey a message.
Touchwood as a recording tool was a laborious undertaking and an expense that ensured that whatever this epistle contained,
the words have to be valuable enough to endure the clock of this reality and all that it brings.
In some northern counties, the colloquial title for Touchwood was 'Dragonskin', a name borne out of its durability. Some say a fallen
God was impaled on a Touchwood tree and his blood charred the bark into an almost stone-like condition. In the canton of Henge,
they'll swear that it was the tree that Gellan was crucified on for his error of opening the gates of sin.
The bare-footed Witch had heard them all and she held none of them in regard, except when adding flavour to a late-night fairy-tale.
Maybe the great Wizard had misstepped this time...? she wondered, maybe Myrddin had found a dud?
And so Peggy continued her appraisal whilst carrying a frown of confusion, there was no ornate brass ark to protect the blemished
scroll -a usual barrier for any missive of value. This ragged token had lived a life in the open and thus, its condition hinted of the level
of its importance.
But there was a clue to where this scroll had possibly originated and reaching for Myrddin's highly-polished crystal, the inquisitive
Witch peered into the magnified world that may help in Peggy's guessed-at quest. It wasn't much, but it was there and how it survived
could be down to the wax's simple blind luck.
In all of the counties that Ms Powler had roamed, there were many constants and one of them was the art of message delivery.
Written communication was generally carried by couriers known as The Midnight Mail who galloped on horseback through the night
and brought the letters and parcels to the recipients. To ensure a message was not only kept private, but also had an identifying mark
from the vicinity of the sender, a wax seal was used to keep a scroll closed and a stamp determined which community it came from.
In the shire that Salterhead sat, a metal seal stamp of a mermaid holding a thresh of barley was used. In Malton County, a rendering
of a stylised ladle beside a wooden barrel was pressed into the hot wax to indicate the local industry. The contrasting depictions of
social divergence in seal-stamps was a hobby in itself.
The colour of the wax had a bearing too. Red meant officialdom, possibly council, administrative and governance. Green was usually
used when commercial enterprises needed to communicate and blue was strictly aristocracy and royalty. Although in the realms of
the high-born, such tidings were usually delivered by a special messenger. Plain white Lanolin wax was commonly used if an average
villager wishing to get a message to another part of the land.
Some districts did occasionally use distinct ghees to alter their wax compositions and this one was grey, which meant Develdite.
Develdite is an outdated cacti oil primarily used in the mining industry before the black stuff from underground was discovered.
Now it's mainly used for colouring in paints and grease-proofing. Peggy smiled to herself as she strongly believed this wax came
from the Wildhorn territory in the south. Focusing further on the fragment of grey tallow she was staring at through the polished
lens, there was something imprinted that came to a curved point.
A spear...? no. The tip of a pickaxe...?, maybe.
Carefully unfurling the badly-handled scroll, Peggy breathed in softly and prepared to read its contents.
It was a poem.
...................................................
It was noon when Peggy squinted out of her satchel in the corner of the room and spotted the skinny legs of her host swaying beneath
the only table in the tiny cottage that wasn't piled with venerable literature. Myrddin was humming to himself and preparing to eat his
midday meal whilst reading a large book held together with gold-metal hinges.
Scratching her backside and yawning quietly, she idly guessed it was Molark's guide to Mizmazes.
"Is it a sham?" the old Wizard asked without looking towards the naked woman reaching for her discarded poncho. If another question
was to follow, it would have to wait for a mouthful of quince pudding to be swallowed and this gave Peggy an opportunity to dress herself.
The winter sun was doing its best to light up the dust-motes in the room and the long shadows reminded her that Spring was still a wraith
holidaying somewhere else. Peggy remained silent to the query until she'd visited the out-house and dowsed herself in the cold water of
the trough beside the back door. "Reet" she said to herself and went back to the puzzle that resided in the old letter.
"Where did yer' get it?" Peggy asked as she dried her hair with a small towel that had gratefully appeared on the lap of her satchel.
The day had escaped her and she felt that a lot of catching-up was to be done before the old man smiling at her could call a result on
her latest test.
Myrddin stroked his beard and a large crumb of pastry fell onto the sun-warmed floorboards and rolled to the leg of the chair Peggy was
relaxing on. During their discussion -and something that Peggy had been surprised at on her first day staying with her favourite mentor,
a Dormouse would appear from a hole in the skirting-board and take care of the discarded morsel.
"It was a passing tinker with an eye on yonder ornament and the sale of a brummagem bracelet..." he answered and showed a wry smile
to what the damp-haired sorceress might be thinking.
The large silver platter that this traveller was alleged to have had an interest in, hung on the wall above Myrddin's evening chair and had
been given to him seventy years-ago when he'd saved a Baron's daughter from a band of ruffians with a certain type of waywardness on
their minds. The middle-aged warlock had chosen the prize because of the engraving, a dragon flying over intricately detailed village that
reminded Myrddin of the coastal community he now lived alongside.
In previous visits to Myrddin's home, he would sometimes mention the indebted nobleman's consoling the magician that dragons didn't
really exist and Peggy would laugh along with her host at the ignorance of those who hold themselves so highly. Didn't exist...? pah!
And the boorish degenerates who had threatened to steal the poor young lady's chastity ...?
Well, if one travels a hundred leagues westwards and keep an eye out for a large house with blue-grey tiles on its many rooves, there's a
meadow where poppies always seem to grow no matter what crop is sown. Beside that field, there's a copse of very old ash trees and in
those trees, a rookery. The wizard turned them into crows... or so the story goes.
"...Indeed, this ear-ringed roamer failed to convince me that the badly-carved manacle once belonged to some so-called magician called
Myrddin and grasping that no sale was viable, attempted to urge me to donate the plate" Myrddin explained with honey-soaked tones.
Peggy Powler grinned at the telling of the tale and wasn't impatient for the punch line, it was times like these that she could just curdle in
the spellbinder's genuine warmth. Raising his eyebrows to ask if the little Witch required a refill of her cup, he poured them both another
measure of sweet dandelion tea and returned to his yarn of how the scroll came into his possession.
"Oh he was a charmer, this one and when he barged past me... well, it took all of my strength just stay on my feet!" the affable old gent
explained and took a sip of his brew. "He persisted in his invasion and later, I found his bag of useless sundry held the unsettling letter
that intrigues thee" he added and laid his gnarled hand on the page he'd been reading.
The old Warlock's features altered slightly as he turned his gaze to the Torchwood papyrus and sighed. "I think it was a cry for help
and fell into the wrong hands" he murmured and clicked his tongue in a sign of regret, a sound that made the mouse scurry back to
its den.
Peggy glanced over at the parchment of interest and wondered how to prepare her questions of what it contained. Then she recalled
Myrddin hadn't finished his story and so asked him what happened to the brusque seller of worthless trinkets. The bushy centenarian
smile returned from behind his briar of hair and whispered "you're sitting on him".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.