Two Winters ago, Walter Dawson trudged through the snow from his home on the outskirts of Puddledown and went
half-heartedly to check in on his two cows. The blizzard had arrived a couple of days before and had only let-up some
time during the night. Now due to his age, the drifts were the only worry for the little man in his late-father's overcoat.
Walter's wife had told him she'd thought she'd heard one of the animals calling out during the night and considering the
strength of the storm that was battering Wheatland County, the fifty year-old peasant had informed the mother of his two
children that if he had to sleep out in the snow, he'd be moaning too. Martha had then farted in the bed and went back to
sleep, Walter -the ever-tolerant, took it as an evaluation to his terse suggestion.
The scene was a bloodbath. The heifer had been eviscerated and one its rear legs was missing. The full-grown calf that
his daughter had named Daisy was slumped over near the manger with a hole in its throat that Walter believed he could fit
his head into. Panting steam into the cold air, Walter tried to get a grip on the situation and what the impact would be on his
family.
Fearing the future without his precious livestock, the little man shuddered when his watery eyes alighted on the single large
paw print in the slushy-red snow. "Wolf" the terrified villager whispered and crossed himself.
...................................................
When eight year-old Edith Liddle went missing on her way back from church a week after the slaying of the cattle, a search
was immediately arranged to find the little russet-haired girl. Being taken in broad daylight didn't make sense in regards of
a predatory animal and fears that a person had grabbed the lass could bring the village's residents to second-glance each
other with suspicion.
They all knew this and it was only late into the first night and under the glow of one of the searchers lantern's glow that such
potential misgivings were sadly extinguished. A deviant in their midst, they could deal with, but an unknown was just that and
the possibilities of what this alien could be, had the potency to rot the the village from within.
The horrible solution to the notion that one of their own had grabbed little Edith was a track of well-defined paw prints and
whatever had left them was big. The depressions were deep and the gait was long, the spoor of the wolf -because the men
all agreed the creature that had passed this way was just that, went eastwards towards Calder's Way.
Even though no trace of the Liddle-girl accompanied the trail, those younger men who crossed themselves and injected
voiceless benediction into their steamy breathing, couldn't help but wonder if Puddledown had paid its dues and the wolf
had gone to seek further redress elsewhere. Peering out into the bleak darkness of the leafless woods around the hamlet,
Walter Dawson and some of the older men would look at each other and spoke an inner-knowing with their eyes.
Edith's blood-stained bonnet was found three miles from where her mother had taken her eyes off her for a moment on that
cold Sunday morning and only a few yards further on, the predator's tracks just stopped outside the remains of an earthworks
from a forgotten time. Despatching the Baker's fourteen year-old son to run back to the village with the news, those who had
hunted these neck-of-the-woods shook their heads at the puzzle of the evaporation of the animal's tread.
It just didn't make sense.
Under candlelight at the small community's Meeting House, the Elders of Puddledown met and discussed the repercussions
of the grizly discovery. The Chairman of the group was Edmund Munday and with what some of the committee secretly told
their families was overt theatrical affectation, warned the hoary congregation that overreacting over this awful emotive incident
shouldn't necessarily mean the village should be locked down. Munday suggested in a experienced tone that one winter-hungry
wolf didn't equate to safe-guarding by families hiding in their attics until Spring.
Among the old men was Phineas Stappen -a retired shoemaker who'd moved to the village fifteen years-ago and lived with his
wife in the cottage next to the Dawson family. In fact, it was Stappen who the trauma-ridden man had come to for advice after the
incident with the livestock.
During their low-muttered congress, Phineas had spoken of a similar abomination that had terrorised communities in and around
the counties of Summertide and Barnstead. A beast possessed with a calculating manner that many believed was the correlative
to mankind. Phineas' parable was mocked for its fear-essence and the Elders reminded him that -they too, had heard the scary
yarn and that the famous wolf named Accam Dey was slaughtered close to the village of Hexham.
What the same elderly conclave weren't aware of was that the renowned monster had ventured into a home on the edge of the
hamlet called Horton's Glebe in Barnstead County and taken Stappen's sister and mother. The talk went on until dawn and even
though the old cobbler felt his concerns had gone unheeded, stepping out into the slowly-melting snow he recalled what he had
witnessed from the darkness of his mother's kitchen cupboard and shook his head in the cold light of the day.
With a sigh of resignation, the maker of footwear went back to his little home and waited for the next thing to happen.
As it turned out, Phineas Stappen didn't have to wait long.
...................................................
Two years later.
The Midnight Mail Carrier was happy to see the twinkling lantern-lit windows of Puddledown as he steered his weary horse off the
main highway called Calder's Way. Slowing his snorting steed down to a steady walk, the messenger listened to the evensong of
the birds in the hedgerows and felt the serenity of the warm Summer evening wash over him. Stout wheat was well underway in the
surrounding fields and the orchards in the village's gardens hung heavy with fruit. Somewhere far off, a male fox barked its one-note
courting ballad and slumbering Puddledownion dogs twitched an ear then went back to dreaming of plump rabbits in the shrubbery.
"It's a pretty time of the day, wouldn't you agree?" the deliverer of news-sundries cooed softly over his shoulder to his fellow passenger
and the little woman in the big hat and grubby poncho agreed by nodding, but said nothing. The steady clip-clop of the mount fell in
with the end-of-the-day pace of the fifty-or-so community that had once been haunted by a ferocious beast and just like the Postman,
the town of Puddledown believed those days were far behind them.
The rump-sore little hitchhiker on the horse held no such ethos, for Peggy Powler -the Last Witch of Underhill, clutched a more practical
attitude. The damned thing had never been caught and from what she'd heard over the years, the devastation the creature had wrought
was beyond the usual level of self-survival. Thirteen dead, all taken during times that even a starving wolf wouldn't dare chance its luck.
The little Witch knew she was too-late to effect the horrible events that had made Puddledown a place to captain one's journey around,
but Peggy had always felt there was more to the gory tales of when a wolf came to specifically prey on the quaint vicinage that she now
entered.
...................................................
"...Aye, well Ah'll be sure to remember that" Peggy Powler informed the drunken man with the terrible breath. The tavern was quite full
for a work-day evening and the woman sitting near the lead-lined window was enduring the usual burden of supposedly being someone
of note.
There two standard archetypes she had accepted a long time ago. Either she was a person to keep clear of because of her powers and
beliefs or Peggy was a magnetic planet of wonder that drew the easily fascinated into her orbit.
It seemed the intoxicated man called Walter was one of the latter.
"You'll never know what we went through, back then..." the inebriated villager slurred as he ignored the dismissive tone from the little
Witch's comment. "...Big it t'were, with an appetite that coudn't be... couldn't be..." Peggy glanced towards the window once more
and murmured "sated" just before Walter Dawson continued his warning. "...Couldn't be sated, it was the Devil -himself Miss Powler,
Old Scratch on four legs and with a pelt that no arrow or bolt could penetrate" he cautioned with a hiccup.
A voice from the Inn's counter drew the drunk's attention and with it, a slight stagger away from the reluctant seated audience that had
already gleaned the facts about the Beast of Puddledown. Livestock, Children and adults, in that order. But it was the short leap from
domestic animals to humans that had caught Peggy's attention. For such a supposed bloodthirsty lupine, cattle and sheep was be the
far-easier choice of predation. Yet to the little Witch waiting for her update, it all seemed contrived, too calculated for a famished single
wolf aware that its invasive need would undoubtedly bring persecution.
Watching the shuffling silhouette of Phineas Stappen approach the tavern, Peggy wondered if she was wrong and the old Shoemaker
she hadn't spoken to for many years may be the jury to that possible verdict.
...................................................
A couple of sips from the flagon of ale seemed to ease Stappen's apprehension of visiting old memories and an old aquaintence, he
looked across the table at the sorceress and marvelled that it seemed age had been too busy elsewhere to make a call on the smiling
woman before him. Peggy was thinking the same about the retired Cobbler that had been the only living soul -apart from herself, that
had heard Accam Dey speak.
The many meetings and deliberations after the affair in the Summertide and Barnstead Counties had not discovered Stappen's secret
due to his young age and the ignorance from the Elders of those parishes believing testimony from a child brought nothing of interest
about the horrific attacks. It had been the next day after Peggy's all-night discourse with the decapitated head of Accam Dey that she'd
tenderly approached the wide-eyed boy and whilst watching the lad tuck into a syrup-coated apple on a stick, she had gently pried open
the abnormal fact that nobody wanted to hear.
"It's been a while..." the older version of the taffy-apple-eating teenager said, leaning forward onto the table to scrutinise the face of the
kind woman from his past. "...It's sad that our only connection is tragedy" Phineas admitted and checked the bar that nobody was paying
unwanted attention to the covert couple. Peggy patted the old man's hand and whispered "Aye, but we also have those spoken words of
your family's killer" and felt a little lame for being so patronising. The man who once fixed shoes for a living saw the Witch's features betray
her feelings and quickly agreed that there was another -more intimate bond.
Before any more small-talk could ruin the parley, Phineas modernised his old friend's knowing of what been happening in Puddledown
and the reason for him sending her the message. It didn't lighten the mood and it would take another jug of beer to lubricate the telling.
half-heartedly to check in on his two cows. The blizzard had arrived a couple of days before and had only let-up some
time during the night. Now due to his age, the drifts were the only worry for the little man in his late-father's overcoat.
Walter's wife had told him she'd thought she'd heard one of the animals calling out during the night and considering the
strength of the storm that was battering Wheatland County, the fifty year-old peasant had informed the mother of his two
children that if he had to sleep out in the snow, he'd be moaning too. Martha had then farted in the bed and went back to
sleep, Walter -the ever-tolerant, took it as an evaluation to his terse suggestion.
The scene was a bloodbath. The heifer had been eviscerated and one its rear legs was missing. The full-grown calf that
his daughter had named Daisy was slumped over near the manger with a hole in its throat that Walter believed he could fit
his head into. Panting steam into the cold air, Walter tried to get a grip on the situation and what the impact would be on his
family.
Fearing the future without his precious livestock, the little man shuddered when his watery eyes alighted on the single large
paw print in the slushy-red snow. "Wolf" the terrified villager whispered and crossed himself.
...................................................
When eight year-old Edith Liddle went missing on her way back from church a week after the slaying of the cattle, a search
was immediately arranged to find the little russet-haired girl. Being taken in broad daylight didn't make sense in regards of
a predatory animal and fears that a person had grabbed the lass could bring the village's residents to second-glance each
other with suspicion.
They all knew this and it was only late into the first night and under the glow of one of the searchers lantern's glow that such
potential misgivings were sadly extinguished. A deviant in their midst, they could deal with, but an unknown was just that and
the possibilities of what this alien could be, had the potency to rot the the village from within.
The horrible solution to the notion that one of their own had grabbed little Edith was a track of well-defined paw prints and
whatever had left them was big. The depressions were deep and the gait was long, the spoor of the wolf -because the men
all agreed the creature that had passed this way was just that, went eastwards towards Calder's Way.
Even though no trace of the Liddle-girl accompanied the trail, those younger men who crossed themselves and injected
voiceless benediction into their steamy breathing, couldn't help but wonder if Puddledown had paid its dues and the wolf
had gone to seek further redress elsewhere. Peering out into the bleak darkness of the leafless woods around the hamlet,
Walter Dawson and some of the older men would look at each other and spoke an inner-knowing with their eyes.
Edith's blood-stained bonnet was found three miles from where her mother had taken her eyes off her for a moment on that
cold Sunday morning and only a few yards further on, the predator's tracks just stopped outside the remains of an earthworks
from a forgotten time. Despatching the Baker's fourteen year-old son to run back to the village with the news, those who had
hunted these neck-of-the-woods shook their heads at the puzzle of the evaporation of the animal's tread.
It just didn't make sense.
Under candlelight at the small community's Meeting House, the Elders of Puddledown met and discussed the repercussions
of the grizly discovery. The Chairman of the group was Edmund Munday and with what some of the committee secretly told
their families was overt theatrical affectation, warned the hoary congregation that overreacting over this awful emotive incident
shouldn't necessarily mean the village should be locked down. Munday suggested in a experienced tone that one winter-hungry
wolf didn't equate to safe-guarding by families hiding in their attics until Spring.
Among the old men was Phineas Stappen -a retired shoemaker who'd moved to the village fifteen years-ago and lived with his
wife in the cottage next to the Dawson family. In fact, it was Stappen who the trauma-ridden man had come to for advice after the
incident with the livestock.
During their low-muttered congress, Phineas had spoken of a similar abomination that had terrorised communities in and around
the counties of Summertide and Barnstead. A beast possessed with a calculating manner that many believed was the correlative
to mankind. Phineas' parable was mocked for its fear-essence and the Elders reminded him that -they too, had heard the scary
yarn and that the famous wolf named Accam Dey was slaughtered close to the village of Hexham.
What the same elderly conclave weren't aware of was that the renowned monster had ventured into a home on the edge of the
hamlet called Horton's Glebe in Barnstead County and taken Stappen's sister and mother. The talk went on until dawn and even
though the old cobbler felt his concerns had gone unheeded, stepping out into the slowly-melting snow he recalled what he had
witnessed from the darkness of his mother's kitchen cupboard and shook his head in the cold light of the day.
With a sigh of resignation, the maker of footwear went back to his little home and waited for the next thing to happen.
As it turned out, Phineas Stappen didn't have to wait long.
...................................................
Two years later.
The Midnight Mail Carrier was happy to see the twinkling lantern-lit windows of Puddledown as he steered his weary horse off the
main highway called Calder's Way. Slowing his snorting steed down to a steady walk, the messenger listened to the evensong of
the birds in the hedgerows and felt the serenity of the warm Summer evening wash over him. Stout wheat was well underway in the
surrounding fields and the orchards in the village's gardens hung heavy with fruit. Somewhere far off, a male fox barked its one-note
courting ballad and slumbering Puddledownion dogs twitched an ear then went back to dreaming of plump rabbits in the shrubbery.
"It's a pretty time of the day, wouldn't you agree?" the deliverer of news-sundries cooed softly over his shoulder to his fellow passenger
and the little woman in the big hat and grubby poncho agreed by nodding, but said nothing. The steady clip-clop of the mount fell in
with the end-of-the-day pace of the fifty-or-so community that had once been haunted by a ferocious beast and just like the Postman,
the town of Puddledown believed those days were far behind them.
The rump-sore little hitchhiker on the horse held no such ethos, for Peggy Powler -the Last Witch of Underhill, clutched a more practical
attitude. The damned thing had never been caught and from what she'd heard over the years, the devastation the creature had wrought
was beyond the usual level of self-survival. Thirteen dead, all taken during times that even a starving wolf wouldn't dare chance its luck.
The little Witch knew she was too-late to effect the horrible events that had made Puddledown a place to captain one's journey around,
but Peggy had always felt there was more to the gory tales of when a wolf came to specifically prey on the quaint vicinage that she now
entered.
...................................................
"...Aye, well Ah'll be sure to remember that" Peggy Powler informed the drunken man with the terrible breath. The tavern was quite full
for a work-day evening and the woman sitting near the lead-lined window was enduring the usual burden of supposedly being someone
of note.
There two standard archetypes she had accepted a long time ago. Either she was a person to keep clear of because of her powers and
beliefs or Peggy was a magnetic planet of wonder that drew the easily fascinated into her orbit.
It seemed the intoxicated man called Walter was one of the latter.
"You'll never know what we went through, back then..." the inebriated villager slurred as he ignored the dismissive tone from the little
Witch's comment. "...Big it t'were, with an appetite that coudn't be... couldn't be..." Peggy glanced towards the window once more
and murmured "sated" just before Walter Dawson continued his warning. "...Couldn't be sated, it was the Devil -himself Miss Powler,
Old Scratch on four legs and with a pelt that no arrow or bolt could penetrate" he cautioned with a hiccup.
A voice from the Inn's counter drew the drunk's attention and with it, a slight stagger away from the reluctant seated audience that had
already gleaned the facts about the Beast of Puddledown. Livestock, Children and adults, in that order. But it was the short leap from
domestic animals to humans that had caught Peggy's attention. For such a supposed bloodthirsty lupine, cattle and sheep was be the
far-easier choice of predation. Yet to the little Witch waiting for her update, it all seemed contrived, too calculated for a famished single
wolf aware that its invasive need would undoubtedly bring persecution.
Watching the shuffling silhouette of Phineas Stappen approach the tavern, Peggy wondered if she was wrong and the old Shoemaker
she hadn't spoken to for many years may be the jury to that possible verdict.
...................................................
A couple of sips from the flagon of ale seemed to ease Stappen's apprehension of visiting old memories and an old aquaintence, he
looked across the table at the sorceress and marvelled that it seemed age had been too busy elsewhere to make a call on the smiling
woman before him. Peggy was thinking the same about the retired Cobbler that had been the only living soul -apart from herself, that
had heard Accam Dey speak.
The many meetings and deliberations after the affair in the Summertide and Barnstead Counties had not discovered Stappen's secret
due to his young age and the ignorance from the Elders of those parishes believing testimony from a child brought nothing of interest
about the horrific attacks. It had been the next day after Peggy's all-night discourse with the decapitated head of Accam Dey that she'd
tenderly approached the wide-eyed boy and whilst watching the lad tuck into a syrup-coated apple on a stick, she had gently pried open
the abnormal fact that nobody wanted to hear.
"It's been a while..." the older version of the taffy-apple-eating teenager said, leaning forward onto the table to scrutinise the face of the
kind woman from his past. "...It's sad that our only connection is tragedy" Phineas admitted and checked the bar that nobody was paying
unwanted attention to the covert couple. Peggy patted the old man's hand and whispered "Aye, but we also have those spoken words of
your family's killer" and felt a little lame for being so patronising. The man who once fixed shoes for a living saw the Witch's features betray
her feelings and quickly agreed that there was another -more intimate bond.
Before any more small-talk could ruin the parley, Phineas modernised his old friend's knowing of what been happening in Puddledown
and the reason for him sending her the message. It didn't lighten the mood and it would take another jug of beer to lubricate the telling.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.