It must be getting on towards dawn -Peggy Powler wondered, as she slowly revealed her tool for Jack Dor's final demise
and witnessing the four-foot long staff appearing from the Witch's magical satchel caused Duckworth Bowe to wonder if
he wasn't really tucked-up in bed and dreaming.
"What is that?" the Doctor asked and leaned closer on the incline for a better look. Peggy laid the smooth-honed wooden
rod on her thighs and smiled across the dark at the astounded academic. "It's called a Wiggan Stick me-darlin' and Ah'm
goin' to rid yer' desert of yon Daemon with it" she promised and her affable features hinted a determination he hadn't seen
for a very long time.
It had been hued from the oldest tree in the world and kept well-away from the Machiavellian-hands of humans. Decorated
with runes of long-lost symbols of charm, the oak shaft tapered slightly at one end and a sheath of copper hid whatever lay
beneath. What could be considered a handle had been carved into a clenched claw of an unknown animal of yore.
Duckworth gazed down at the abhorrent circus below and then looked back at the petite woman he'd once believed could
be Myrddin's equal. "You're going to beat Dor to death with that?!" he exclaimed and wondered if the bump on the head
that Peggy had acquired from his daughter had finally sent her over the edge.
"Nay me-canny lad..." the Underhill Witch said coyly, "...somethin' far-more harmful" and pulling at the small metal scabbard,
Peggy exposed a sharp point with small holes bored in the shape of a spiral. "Jackie-boy is in fur' a real treat" she hissed
and got to her feet.
They say the couple of hours before dawn is when the soul is at low-ebb, when the tide of life is it at its shallowest and the
best time that Death goes about his business. For those in the ways of Majick, they know that this duration is also a grand
time to put any malignant hellions back to the beyond.
Now slowly making her way down the sandy bank, Peggy Powler was resolute that this particular dastardly Daemon would not
slip her judgement again and be banished as the Seraph meant it to be. Ignoring the clumps of sagebrush tickling her beneath
her poncho, the notion that her actions were similar to the last time she'd met Jack Dor didn't go unnoticed.
Book-ends, maybe.
...................................................
The graves that Myrddin, Duckworth and Peggy investigated weren't really something one would call a final terminus.
One may suspect they were an accumulation of burial spots that a suspicious person would suggest an area where something
grim had occurred and to continue this atrocious activity, the provider of the contents of the holes had hidden his prey amongst
the woodland around Hatton in the Corn. There were no markers, no pile of soil to indicate a grave and certainly nothing to imply
any consecration from a religious party.
There were just holes where the Dancing Dead had climbed out of and toppled small trees that grown after an interment that had
become an obstacle when the deceased were encouraged from their resting-places. Peggy noticed discarded pieces of paper
laid about and believing they were notes of the bereaved, she daintily picked one up and read it.
The parchments contained odd-looking marks that one day, the last Witch of Underhill would understand and appreciate. Hieroglyphs
that spoke a language beyond human utterance and syllabaries that belong to those beyond the veil. With a glance of caution towards
the young man who stood next to her, she stuffed the arcane missive into a pocket of her poncho and delicately ventured forward.
"Be careful my children, here there be monsters" the older thaumaturge hissed and without taking his eyes from the undisturbed
grave, pointed at the canvas bag that hung from Peggy's shoulder. "It's time" he added almost inaudibly and stepped softly towards
the slight mound half-hidden under a withered crab-apple tree and surrounded by parched clumps of wormwood. As Myrddin softly
placed his feet on the ground near his goal, he gestured to the seventeen year-old to hand him the Lapis Veneficus.
Then the grave exploded.
...................................................
Duckworth Bowe watched with awe as the woman he'd once shared physical intimacy with, cleaned the remote ravine of the cavorting
cadavers. With a mysterious cane that held the antithetical pictographs that a seventeen year-old girl had once read on a ragged piece
of paper, the Dancing Dead became small clouds of dust and then, no more. Using words that the man of medicine could not even hold
in his mind for more than a second, Peggy Powler walked among the derelict graves and drove out the pathetic puppets of the Daemon
known as Jack Dor.
The profane creation from such a long-ago sacrilegious mating began to scream his rage, the bare-assed runt in the stupid hat dared
to trespass into his haven and disturb his enjoyment. The so-called Witch that he'd even felt a pang of lust for, was now walking among
his collection and destroying his congregation. The little boo-hag needed to taught a lesson again -he thought and stepped out onto the
remains of his private parish.
"So, the girl I see before me has learned some new tricks" Jack Dor hissed and readied himself for battle. Peggy Powler turned to face
the demon she scarred long ago and casually placing the Wiggan Stick against her shoulder, replied "missed me?!"
With the word 'whore' on his lips, Jack Dor raced forward to take his rightful compensation for the side of his head and at the same time,
the bare-assed runt in the stupid hat hoped the spell she'd recited back to Myrddin as she'd climbed aboard the broomstick, would work.
and witnessing the four-foot long staff appearing from the Witch's magical satchel caused Duckworth Bowe to wonder if
he wasn't really tucked-up in bed and dreaming.
"What is that?" the Doctor asked and leaned closer on the incline for a better look. Peggy laid the smooth-honed wooden
rod on her thighs and smiled across the dark at the astounded academic. "It's called a Wiggan Stick me-darlin' and Ah'm
goin' to rid yer' desert of yon Daemon with it" she promised and her affable features hinted a determination he hadn't seen
for a very long time.
It had been hued from the oldest tree in the world and kept well-away from the Machiavellian-hands of humans. Decorated
with runes of long-lost symbols of charm, the oak shaft tapered slightly at one end and a sheath of copper hid whatever lay
beneath. What could be considered a handle had been carved into a clenched claw of an unknown animal of yore.
Duckworth gazed down at the abhorrent circus below and then looked back at the petite woman he'd once believed could
be Myrddin's equal. "You're going to beat Dor to death with that?!" he exclaimed and wondered if the bump on the head
that Peggy had acquired from his daughter had finally sent her over the edge.
"Nay me-canny lad..." the Underhill Witch said coyly, "...somethin' far-more harmful" and pulling at the small metal scabbard,
Peggy exposed a sharp point with small holes bored in the shape of a spiral. "Jackie-boy is in fur' a real treat" she hissed
and got to her feet.
They say the couple of hours before dawn is when the soul is at low-ebb, when the tide of life is it at its shallowest and the
best time that Death goes about his business. For those in the ways of Majick, they know that this duration is also a grand
time to put any malignant hellions back to the beyond.
Now slowly making her way down the sandy bank, Peggy Powler was resolute that this particular dastardly Daemon would not
slip her judgement again and be banished as the Seraph meant it to be. Ignoring the clumps of sagebrush tickling her beneath
her poncho, the notion that her actions were similar to the last time she'd met Jack Dor didn't go unnoticed.
Book-ends, maybe.
...................................................
The graves that Myrddin, Duckworth and Peggy investigated weren't really something one would call a final terminus.
One may suspect they were an accumulation of burial spots that a suspicious person would suggest an area where something
grim had occurred and to continue this atrocious activity, the provider of the contents of the holes had hidden his prey amongst
the woodland around Hatton in the Corn. There were no markers, no pile of soil to indicate a grave and certainly nothing to imply
any consecration from a religious party.
There were just holes where the Dancing Dead had climbed out of and toppled small trees that grown after an interment that had
become an obstacle when the deceased were encouraged from their resting-places. Peggy noticed discarded pieces of paper
laid about and believing they were notes of the bereaved, she daintily picked one up and read it.
The parchments contained odd-looking marks that one day, the last Witch of Underhill would understand and appreciate. Hieroglyphs
that spoke a language beyond human utterance and syllabaries that belong to those beyond the veil. With a glance of caution towards
the young man who stood next to her, she stuffed the arcane missive into a pocket of her poncho and delicately ventured forward.
"Be careful my children, here there be monsters" the older thaumaturge hissed and without taking his eyes from the undisturbed
grave, pointed at the canvas bag that hung from Peggy's shoulder. "It's time" he added almost inaudibly and stepped softly towards
the slight mound half-hidden under a withered crab-apple tree and surrounded by parched clumps of wormwood. As Myrddin softly
placed his feet on the ground near his goal, he gestured to the seventeen year-old to hand him the Lapis Veneficus.
Then the grave exploded.
...................................................
Duckworth Bowe watched with awe as the woman he'd once shared physical intimacy with, cleaned the remote ravine of the cavorting
cadavers. With a mysterious cane that held the antithetical pictographs that a seventeen year-old girl had once read on a ragged piece
of paper, the Dancing Dead became small clouds of dust and then, no more. Using words that the man of medicine could not even hold
in his mind for more than a second, Peggy Powler walked among the derelict graves and drove out the pathetic puppets of the Daemon
known as Jack Dor.
The profane creation from such a long-ago sacrilegious mating began to scream his rage, the bare-assed runt in the stupid hat dared
to trespass into his haven and disturb his enjoyment. The so-called Witch that he'd even felt a pang of lust for, was now walking among
his collection and destroying his congregation. The little boo-hag needed to taught a lesson again -he thought and stepped out onto the
remains of his private parish.
"So, the girl I see before me has learned some new tricks" Jack Dor hissed and readied himself for battle. Peggy Powler turned to face
the demon she scarred long ago and casually placing the Wiggan Stick against her shoulder, replied "missed me?!"
With the word 'whore' on his lips, Jack Dor raced forward to take his rightful compensation for the side of his head and at the same time,
the bare-assed runt in the stupid hat hoped the spell she'd recited back to Myrddin as she'd climbed aboard the broomstick, would work.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.