"So me-task... yer' request, is to seek out the author of that letter and...?" Peggy Powler asked and let question trail off as she
stared out at the calm ocean. The old Magician was sweeping the veranda of his little home and humming again, apparently
Dormice draw a line at cleaning outside of the cottage.
Myrddin shooed the last of the wind-blown sand from the dried boards and placing his broom against the rune-shaped balusters he
deliberated on his next words. "Thee will have seen the words 'Chorus Mortuus' mentioned in the poem?" he enquired as he carefully
traversed the seaweed-strewn beach. The bald heads of water-worn boulders protruded from the tide-damp sand and monitored the
fabled sorcerer's progress.
The last Witch of Underhill took the hand of her host as he arrived on the terminator where the lapping waters had finally reached their
zenith, now came the receding when the Great Sea would race back to his only love over the horizon, the seductive orb we call the moon.
"Yes, 'Ah' saw 'em and Ah' know what they meant..." Peggy answered with a tone of light chagrin. There were times when she could
slap the old bugger beside her for his doubts on her nous as a journeyman of majick. "...It means 'the Dancing Dead'" she added and
went back to watching a fishing dory making its way out from Salterhead's little quayside.
The pair of landlubbers felt the enjoyment of a person setting forth on an adventure where an outcome has many variables to deal with.
The older of the observers reminisced on past expeditions, the younger pondered on what lay ahead. Bow and stern.
After a few moments of stillness, Myrddin said "It might be dangerous out there in the desert, not many travel to such an inhospitable
bailiwick". The warning drew a nod from the little woman in the poncho and also the soft antipole "Aye, but when isn't it?".
The notion that the man she saw as her grandfather hinting that he knew her future destination didn't go amiss either.
"Let it go Peggy..." the magician said finally as he released the Witch's hand and turned to go, "...let it go and stay here with me"
But the woman peering at the fisherman preparing to test himself against an unknown quarry knew you just can't let it go, can't let
it swim away. Turning to follow the acclaimed wizard who'd fought evil all of his life, she knew Myrddin was thinking the same thing.
...................................................
Regardless of the kindly-features her host was presenting, Peggy retained the belief that sitting on a broomstick wasn't just a silly
idea of conveyance, her bare backside would be bruised only a few minutes into the journey.
Myrddin's eyes tracked the reluctant pilot as she stepped back and forth along the path under the veranda and occasionally peeked
at him though the balusters. With the decision to go to the barren lands of the scroll finalised, getting there required the century-old
thaumaturge to conjure with a different type of hermetics, that of verbal persuasion.
"Of course, Silas Mumbles takes his cargo of ale along to the Vienna Arch in a couple of weeks, maybe thee could hitch a ride wiith
him?..." the wily warlock suggested and fingered the besom's birch sticks in faux contemplation. "...In a few months time, thee'll be
close to the Wildhorn border" he supplemented doubtfully and looked positively at the coy Witch as she stepped onto the recently
-swept terrace.
Peggy snatched the hazel staff of the brush and showed narrowed eyes towards her genial tutor, "Yer' a bugger and yer' know it..."
she hissed but failed to maintain the spoof anger. "...And Me-ass'll be black n' blue" she added and pondered her decency on riding
such an oddly-shaped household item.
Then the serious part arrived.
There is a rare broth -some call it an ointment, that when poured onto an object or a person, can render matter lighter than air.
Its ingredients are only known to a few and guarded well. Some speak of smallage and other plants that make the salve a way of flight,
but there are other elements needed that do not come from the simple plucking of greenery off the side of a road and we'll leave it there.
...................................................
The night is the best time for flying and with a long embrace and the obligatory curtsy, Peggy fed her inborn need to wander the land.
Calling goodbye to the bearded man waving as she set out for the wilderness where the Dancing Dead await, the little Witch held onto
her hat and waited for the clouds to reveal the stars.
And for those who are interested, Peggy sat on birch-section of the broom.
stared out at the calm ocean. The old Magician was sweeping the veranda of his little home and humming again, apparently
Dormice draw a line at cleaning outside of the cottage.
Myrddin shooed the last of the wind-blown sand from the dried boards and placing his broom against the rune-shaped balusters he
deliberated on his next words. "Thee will have seen the words 'Chorus Mortuus' mentioned in the poem?" he enquired as he carefully
traversed the seaweed-strewn beach. The bald heads of water-worn boulders protruded from the tide-damp sand and monitored the
fabled sorcerer's progress.
The last Witch of Underhill took the hand of her host as he arrived on the terminator where the lapping waters had finally reached their
zenith, now came the receding when the Great Sea would race back to his only love over the horizon, the seductive orb we call the moon.
"Yes, 'Ah' saw 'em and Ah' know what they meant..." Peggy answered with a tone of light chagrin. There were times when she could
slap the old bugger beside her for his doubts on her nous as a journeyman of majick. "...It means 'the Dancing Dead'" she added and
went back to watching a fishing dory making its way out from Salterhead's little quayside.
The pair of landlubbers felt the enjoyment of a person setting forth on an adventure where an outcome has many variables to deal with.
The older of the observers reminisced on past expeditions, the younger pondered on what lay ahead. Bow and stern.
After a few moments of stillness, Myrddin said "It might be dangerous out there in the desert, not many travel to such an inhospitable
bailiwick". The warning drew a nod from the little woman in the poncho and also the soft antipole "Aye, but when isn't it?".
The notion that the man she saw as her grandfather hinting that he knew her future destination didn't go amiss either.
"Let it go Peggy..." the magician said finally as he released the Witch's hand and turned to go, "...let it go and stay here with me"
But the woman peering at the fisherman preparing to test himself against an unknown quarry knew you just can't let it go, can't let
it swim away. Turning to follow the acclaimed wizard who'd fought evil all of his life, she knew Myrddin was thinking the same thing.
...................................................
Regardless of the kindly-features her host was presenting, Peggy retained the belief that sitting on a broomstick wasn't just a silly
idea of conveyance, her bare backside would be bruised only a few minutes into the journey.
Myrddin's eyes tracked the reluctant pilot as she stepped back and forth along the path under the veranda and occasionally peeked
at him though the balusters. With the decision to go to the barren lands of the scroll finalised, getting there required the century-old
thaumaturge to conjure with a different type of hermetics, that of verbal persuasion.
"Of course, Silas Mumbles takes his cargo of ale along to the Vienna Arch in a couple of weeks, maybe thee could hitch a ride wiith
him?..." the wily warlock suggested and fingered the besom's birch sticks in faux contemplation. "...In a few months time, thee'll be
close to the Wildhorn border" he supplemented doubtfully and looked positively at the coy Witch as she stepped onto the recently
-swept terrace.
Peggy snatched the hazel staff of the brush and showed narrowed eyes towards her genial tutor, "Yer' a bugger and yer' know it..."
she hissed but failed to maintain the spoof anger. "...And Me-ass'll be black n' blue" she added and pondered her decency on riding
such an oddly-shaped household item.
Then the serious part arrived.
There is a rare broth -some call it an ointment, that when poured onto an object or a person, can render matter lighter than air.
Its ingredients are only known to a few and guarded well. Some speak of smallage and other plants that make the salve a way of flight,
but there are other elements needed that do not come from the simple plucking of greenery off the side of a road and we'll leave it there.
...................................................
The night is the best time for flying and with a long embrace and the obligatory curtsy, Peggy fed her inborn need to wander the land.
Calling goodbye to the bearded man waving as she set out for the wilderness where the Dancing Dead await, the little Witch held onto
her hat and waited for the clouds to reveal the stars.
And for those who are interested, Peggy sat on birch-section of the broom.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.