Mr Clark Haver wasn't Clark Haver -well, not previously when he first met the prospective customer who now stood
on the threshold of his establishment. Back then he was known as Obadiah Havenshaw and he was a professional
asshole. As Peggy Powler beamed at the rat-faced, almost-bald man in the cloth-apron, she was sure that fact was
written down somewhere.
Around four years ago in a wealthy area of the county of Cooridge, it was decided to harness the power of a river
that tumbled down off the basalt cliffs a few miles from an affluent town called Trasker. Trasker had also been a
mining town like Barren Wayz, but their favoured aggregate was Gilitte, the stone used for softening leather.
This rock -composed of fossilised seashells and pumice, holds a duel benefit in the leather industry as it applies the
ideal amount of abrasiveness to animal hides and erodes after an appropriate duration to ensure regular sales.
Using fairly shallow shafts around the land of the town to obtain the valuable mineral, the population grew along with
its prosperity. And so with the money rolling in over the years, the Elders of Trasker put forth a plan to exploit the falling
waters of their nearby river named -unsurprisingly, Trasker River.
The only hiccup was that the current design of a watermill-wheel couldn't survive the constant impact of such a cascade
and due to the depth of the pool at the bottom of the waterfall, the currents were unusually slow-moving. This is when a
certain thin-faced chap called Obadiah Havenshaw appeared and offered his idea of a dam.
Needless to say, the newcomer -who had the gift of the gab, convinced a Trasker committee to invest in his own design
of a barrier because he was an expert in the field of water-management. In reality, Havenshaw was a con-man and with
pumice being a porous stone -and hence the decrease in river flow, the construction not only eventually collapsed due
to the foundations being set on absorbent bedrock, the sudden release of water drowned two goats and took out the
Mayor's garden where his prized marrow resided.
I won't belabour the importance of the Cooridge County's famous vegetable competition, but Obadiah Havenshaw must
have had one of those strange aversions to community-based tournaments involving groomed-legumes, as he quickly
left town the same day his dam fell down.
Peggy Powler had witnessed the whole thing from its Panglossian start to its saturated finish because she happened
to be in Trasker wrestling with a rather-nasty demon that enjoyed ruining the delights of Madam Epstein's house of
ill repute.
The little Witch of Underhill had even attended the town-meeting where Havenshaw had rendered his bunkum and told
him so. But like most people too-willing to see the coin as their way to happiness, they went along with the seemingly
practical man with the silver tongue. A year later -when Peggy returned to Trasker, she could only smile as she saw the
washed-out streets and the rage of being fooled by a charlatan.
And now...
...................................................
"Aw, come on Ma'am..." Haver bleated as he rushed around from his product-enticing counter to meet the little woman
in the grubby poncho and too-large hat, "...You can't just walk in and ruin a man's business like this!" the skinny rascal
added and keeping clear of the memory of his dubious past, he closed the double-doors behind her.
Peggy sidled up to the well-polished work-top and waited like a hopeful customer would. "Ah' have a question or two
and then Ah'll be out of yer' hair" she said, recalling his sweating receding hairline when he'd proposed his doltish
scheme. Clark Haver returned to his place as a merchant and his disposition hadn't improved.
"I'm doing well here, I keep myself to myself and I haven't rocked the boat..." Clark lamented softly and with flickering
eyelids, did his best to convince the Witch -who can turn folk into trees he'd heard, in a similar manner he had swayed
the salad-growing Mayor to build that stupid dam. "...Can't you find it in your heart to give a guy a break?" he mewled
quietly with the idea of some-sort of trade.
"Torchwood, I need..." Peggy began and since it seemed to be a habit of the inhabitants of Barren Wayz to interrupt
their transients, Clark Haver quickly scampered sideways exclaiming that he had some of the costly paper and would
be happy to donate it to the Witch's obvious-paramount cause.
Removing her hat in exasperation, Peggy watched the frightened man collect the ream of tough material from a shelf
next to a wooden container of flashy-looking peacock quills and return to the counter. "As much as you need and you
can have them at net-cost" Clark said with a smile that rivalled the woman's earlier greeting.
"If yer' value yer' trade and what's beneath yer' apron, yer'll keep quiet and listen to what Ah' ask, okay?" Peggy stated
with a tone that could freeze water. Haver -a man who knew when the game was up, gulped and nodded only once.
...................................................
With the knowledge of who had bought the Torchwood paper and the usual whereabouts of the purchaser, Peggy
reckoned it was time to visit one of her favourite businesses and often held a bit of flesh to add to the bones of an
investigation. The Witch's shadow pooled beneath her as she wandered over towards the Blacksmith's workplace
and the thought on what Clark Haver had told her about the young woman with the name of Sarah Bowe.
The fly-by-night storekeeper had said she lived in a cabin out towards the foothills in the west and rarely came into
town. Surprisingly, she lived alone except for a huge coy-wolf that Haver had once asked the plain-faced woman to
keep tied-up outside of his premises. Peggy had pressed the wilting cad on how she made a living and with sweat
dripping off his chin, he said he didn't know.
When Haver had stutteringly suggested that her income may be connected to the fact that during her scarce visits,
she would go to the Post Office further down the street, Peggy's false-mood changed and she thanked Clark was
his time. To show that there were no hard-feelings between them, the amiable Witch accepted the candy-stick he
offered her.
Bram Janssen was scoffing a large piece of potato pie whilst sitting on his anvil. It was noon and obviously the time
for bolting potato pie down one's throat with gusto. Peggy discreetly entered the shaded foundry and curtsied as her
eyes adjusted from the outside glare.
"Fair travels, Mr Janssen..." she said and wafted her hat near her face to imply the external and internal heat. This bit
of theatre also doubled as an ice-breaker. "...Not a great day to be labourin' over an oven" the petite walk-in taunted
pleasantly as she absently popped the donated sweet-stick in her mouth.
The massive Blacksmith chewed on his fare and eventually nodded towards the tiny female who'd ventured into his
shadowy abode, entered and alone -he thought with a wander into dark thoughts. However, when the unshod visitor
announced her name, any carnal thoughts that the wide-shouldered Janssen had been entertaining fled quickly when
he realised who she was and worse, what she might do if he tried anything.
"Fair travels to you too, Ms Powler" he eventually replied around his final chunk of masticated lunch.
As Peggy cautiously asked Bram the giant metal-pounder about Sarah Bowe and her private life, she was slowly
forming a picture of the person who may have written the poem. Let's say she lives a simple life and let's say her
written balladry brought in some monies, but why mention the Dancing Dead...? Could the old legend of the terrible
malady be alive and well in the forsaken lands around Barren Wayz?
"Uh?" chirped Peggy as she pulled out of her evocation and squinted towards the colossal silhouette near the open
doors. Bram Janssen didn't look over his shoulder to repeat his utterance, he merely stayed in his position of eyeing
the quiet town outside of his forge and said "That's the Bowe-girl there... just going into the Mail Office".
on the threshold of his establishment. Back then he was known as Obadiah Havenshaw and he was a professional
asshole. As Peggy Powler beamed at the rat-faced, almost-bald man in the cloth-apron, she was sure that fact was
written down somewhere.
Around four years ago in a wealthy area of the county of Cooridge, it was decided to harness the power of a river
that tumbled down off the basalt cliffs a few miles from an affluent town called Trasker. Trasker had also been a
mining town like Barren Wayz, but their favoured aggregate was Gilitte, the stone used for softening leather.
This rock -composed of fossilised seashells and pumice, holds a duel benefit in the leather industry as it applies the
ideal amount of abrasiveness to animal hides and erodes after an appropriate duration to ensure regular sales.
Using fairly shallow shafts around the land of the town to obtain the valuable mineral, the population grew along with
its prosperity. And so with the money rolling in over the years, the Elders of Trasker put forth a plan to exploit the falling
waters of their nearby river named -unsurprisingly, Trasker River.
The only hiccup was that the current design of a watermill-wheel couldn't survive the constant impact of such a cascade
and due to the depth of the pool at the bottom of the waterfall, the currents were unusually slow-moving. This is when a
certain thin-faced chap called Obadiah Havenshaw appeared and offered his idea of a dam.
Needless to say, the newcomer -who had the gift of the gab, convinced a Trasker committee to invest in his own design
of a barrier because he was an expert in the field of water-management. In reality, Havenshaw was a con-man and with
pumice being a porous stone -and hence the decrease in river flow, the construction not only eventually collapsed due
to the foundations being set on absorbent bedrock, the sudden release of water drowned two goats and took out the
Mayor's garden where his prized marrow resided.
I won't belabour the importance of the Cooridge County's famous vegetable competition, but Obadiah Havenshaw must
have had one of those strange aversions to community-based tournaments involving groomed-legumes, as he quickly
left town the same day his dam fell down.
Peggy Powler had witnessed the whole thing from its Panglossian start to its saturated finish because she happened
to be in Trasker wrestling with a rather-nasty demon that enjoyed ruining the delights of Madam Epstein's house of
ill repute.
The little Witch of Underhill had even attended the town-meeting where Havenshaw had rendered his bunkum and told
him so. But like most people too-willing to see the coin as their way to happiness, they went along with the seemingly
practical man with the silver tongue. A year later -when Peggy returned to Trasker, she could only smile as she saw the
washed-out streets and the rage of being fooled by a charlatan.
And now...
...................................................
"Aw, come on Ma'am..." Haver bleated as he rushed around from his product-enticing counter to meet the little woman
in the grubby poncho and too-large hat, "...You can't just walk in and ruin a man's business like this!" the skinny rascal
added and keeping clear of the memory of his dubious past, he closed the double-doors behind her.
Peggy sidled up to the well-polished work-top and waited like a hopeful customer would. "Ah' have a question or two
and then Ah'll be out of yer' hair" she said, recalling his sweating receding hairline when he'd proposed his doltish
scheme. Clark Haver returned to his place as a merchant and his disposition hadn't improved.
"I'm doing well here, I keep myself to myself and I haven't rocked the boat..." Clark lamented softly and with flickering
eyelids, did his best to convince the Witch -who can turn folk into trees he'd heard, in a similar manner he had swayed
the salad-growing Mayor to build that stupid dam. "...Can't you find it in your heart to give a guy a break?" he mewled
quietly with the idea of some-sort of trade.
"Torchwood, I need..." Peggy began and since it seemed to be a habit of the inhabitants of Barren Wayz to interrupt
their transients, Clark Haver quickly scampered sideways exclaiming that he had some of the costly paper and would
be happy to donate it to the Witch's obvious-paramount cause.
Removing her hat in exasperation, Peggy watched the frightened man collect the ream of tough material from a shelf
next to a wooden container of flashy-looking peacock quills and return to the counter. "As much as you need and you
can have them at net-cost" Clark said with a smile that rivalled the woman's earlier greeting.
"If yer' value yer' trade and what's beneath yer' apron, yer'll keep quiet and listen to what Ah' ask, okay?" Peggy stated
with a tone that could freeze water. Haver -a man who knew when the game was up, gulped and nodded only once.
...................................................
With the knowledge of who had bought the Torchwood paper and the usual whereabouts of the purchaser, Peggy
reckoned it was time to visit one of her favourite businesses and often held a bit of flesh to add to the bones of an
investigation. The Witch's shadow pooled beneath her as she wandered over towards the Blacksmith's workplace
and the thought on what Clark Haver had told her about the young woman with the name of Sarah Bowe.
The fly-by-night storekeeper had said she lived in a cabin out towards the foothills in the west and rarely came into
town. Surprisingly, she lived alone except for a huge coy-wolf that Haver had once asked the plain-faced woman to
keep tied-up outside of his premises. Peggy had pressed the wilting cad on how she made a living and with sweat
dripping off his chin, he said he didn't know.
When Haver had stutteringly suggested that her income may be connected to the fact that during her scarce visits,
she would go to the Post Office further down the street, Peggy's false-mood changed and she thanked Clark was
his time. To show that there were no hard-feelings between them, the amiable Witch accepted the candy-stick he
offered her.
Bram Janssen was scoffing a large piece of potato pie whilst sitting on his anvil. It was noon and obviously the time
for bolting potato pie down one's throat with gusto. Peggy discreetly entered the shaded foundry and curtsied as her
eyes adjusted from the outside glare.
"Fair travels, Mr Janssen..." she said and wafted her hat near her face to imply the external and internal heat. This bit
of theatre also doubled as an ice-breaker. "...Not a great day to be labourin' over an oven" the petite walk-in taunted
pleasantly as she absently popped the donated sweet-stick in her mouth.
The massive Blacksmith chewed on his fare and eventually nodded towards the tiny female who'd ventured into his
shadowy abode, entered and alone -he thought with a wander into dark thoughts. However, when the unshod visitor
announced her name, any carnal thoughts that the wide-shouldered Janssen had been entertaining fled quickly when
he realised who she was and worse, what she might do if he tried anything.
"Fair travels to you too, Ms Powler" he eventually replied around his final chunk of masticated lunch.
As Peggy cautiously asked Bram the giant metal-pounder about Sarah Bowe and her private life, she was slowly
forming a picture of the person who may have written the poem. Let's say she lives a simple life and let's say her
written balladry brought in some monies, but why mention the Dancing Dead...? Could the old legend of the terrible
malady be alive and well in the forsaken lands around Barren Wayz?
"Uh?" chirped Peggy as she pulled out of her evocation and squinted towards the colossal silhouette near the open
doors. Bram Janssen didn't look over his shoulder to repeat his utterance, he merely stayed in his position of eyeing
the quiet town outside of his forge and said "That's the Bowe-girl there... just going into the Mail Office".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.