07-10-2022, 07:36 PM
Clem Willard noticed that a slight sea-breeze had gotten up since he'd first entered the cave and now, absently fondling the smooth-edged
stone in his pocket, he conceded that he would never visit her again, no matter what the strange woman behind the makeshift curtain might
offer him from that box. Using his hefty size to push through the wilderness of swaying eight-foot high sedges, the sixteen year-old flicked his
straw-coloured hair back and peered up at the the sun's position in the sky. Just how long he'd been in that hidden grotto of the so-called
recluse called Gretna Grindylow? he wondered as he found the slim corridor of dried soil that meandered through the thick reedbed.
What had he been thinking...? whilst avoiding his chore of fishing for dozing Nosy-Gulpers, the blonde youngster had carefully traversed
the hazardous slimy rocks under the steep headland and thought he'd wait-out the day doing the one thing he had truly enjoyed before he'd
been burdened with his parents opinion that he'd reached adulthood. As a child, Clem had liked nothing more than exploring the sea-eroded
fissures of the surrounding cliffs. But it had only been recently that he'd felt he was strong and brave enough to negotiate the partly-submerged
reef beneath the promontory and leave any watchful eye of Seamarshes.
The Great Sea was a haze-choked millpond as he'd arrived back at where his fishing pole leaned on the woven clump of reeds he'd fashioned
into a rod-rest. Hoping his Pa hadn't checked on his lonely vigil of acquiring the costly-prey, the fair-haired lad peered into to the slightly-smelling
standing water and whispered a home-fashioned prayer. Clem's frowning face blossomed into a specimen of genuine happiness as he saw a
large round fish with a hook in its mouth wondering why it couldn't swim to somewhere else.
Maybe if catching these torpid critters was as easy as today's hunt -Clem Willard amusingly thought as he carefully pulled his quarry from the
water, he would adjust his initial commitment to not call in on the crazy half-dressed harridan after all. That salt-encrusted chest might contain
more of the currency that could set him on his way to a better life than just dragging fat fish from their watery worlds and spending the evening
smelling of the creature's innards. Maybe a couple of visits to that water-dripping subterranean den would be enough Clem told himself as he
dislodged the hook from the Gulper's rubbery lips.
A slight smile lingered around his own mouth as he concluded that the Gretna Grindylow he'd discovered in that chamber was a poor copy of
the character from one of his grandmother's scary yarns. The now-passed-over matriarch had created an evil ogress in her tales to keep children
from getting lost in the leagues of tall reeds. Whoever was hiding in the cavern beyond the cape, she wasn't the kiddie-eating hag that could
tempt the most cynical child from the embrace of their mother. Besides, he was a grown man now and those jewels weren't doing anyone any
good sitting in that cavern.
Watching the Gulper gulp for air, Clem fished out the chunk of rolled-lead from his rucksack that his father had given him and quickly quelled
the fish's need to inhale water. If an oath was needed, he did silently declare that he wouldn't be wasting his next visit telling the supposedly
-shy Gretna Grindylow of the boring gossip of the village and describing the characters of his tedious tittle-tattle.
"You're a welcome to our family" Clem murmured to the dead fish in the same time-honoured tradition all the residents of Seamarshes who
angled for Nosy-Gulpers had quoted for generations before him. With a final glance back to the jalousie of quivering reeds that hid his secret
journey to the mysterious woman, young Clem Willard bundled his bloated prize into his bag and set-off for home.
.................................................................
"Yer' a kind man, Mister Willard and Ah'd be only-too grateful te' tek' supper with thee..." Peggy Powler imparted to the old man in the faded
bib-and-braces. "...Tis' a lovely place yer' have and the the quiet is a tonic fur' such as me-self" the little Witch added as she removed her hat
and followed the owner of the stilted house up the narrow wooden ladder.
To a keen traveller of the regions the Last Witch of Underhill wandered through, it would be obvious that the village of Seamarshes followed
the same experienced building traditions of other fishing communities along the coast. Homes on high abutments in hopes of avoiding the
severest of flooding and positioned in coves away from whatever storms blew in from the Great Sea. Ben and Millie Willard's abode was a
perfect example of this cautious approach to living beside the perilous ocean that asked and gave no quarter, a house on legs.
Millie -in the traditional fishwife's headscarf, bowed slightly as Peggy cautiously stepped onto the reed-woven platform and mumbled the
long-established address of her village. "You're a welcome to our family" Mrs Willard whispered timidly and not wishing for any confrontation
with the famous spellbinder, kept her eyes facing the surrounding leagues of swaying reeds. Following her gaze out towards sea of stalks,
Peggy wondered if Mrs Willard was watching for possible offspring arriving from that direction. A minute later, the little Witch's expectations
were seen to be correct. "Fair travels, Ma'am" the bare-footed guest greeted her female host and followed Millie's husband through the narrow
front door.
.................................................................
He was a stout and fairly handsome lad -Peggy noted as he ducked his head to enter the Willard home, a blonde teenager who looked the type
to not be a fisher of Gulpers for long. The young of these secluded communities often left for what they believed were more exciting futures and
it would be that only in later years, they'd realise the world isn't the sparkling bauble they'd imagined.
"I caught one, Pa" Clem said as he surveyed the shoeless stranger sitting at the small wooden dinner table in the middle of the room across from
his father. Gingerly emulating the nod of the little woman in the weathered poncho, the tall youngster made his way into a rear room where Peggy
guessed meals were prepared. A room Millie Willard had already disappeared into.
As at other times in the necromancer's career, a small faint voice in the Last Witch of Underhill's head whispered there was more to this broad
-shouldered young man than met the eye and the skin on her forearms prickled as he passed by. Somewhere beneath that mop of flaxen hair,
there was a secret, not the usual unspoken hush-hush about his maturing body or coltish carnal thoughts, but something more uneasy that the
lad is genuinely struggling with.
"His name is Clem and I've still to get him to show some decent manners around guests..." Ben sneered in a resigned tone, as he watched
the big lad enter their kitchen. "...He's a good boy, but you know how the young spirit can be a restless one" the genial man appended and
waved his hands in imply what can one do about a fact of life. Peggy smiled, "Aye, one of those itches that must be scratched", she replied
and kept the private reference to her recent encounter to her herself.
Book-ends, she thought amusingly and waited for the old man to continue in idle chat-chat.
With the Nosy-Gulper gutted and cleaned, Clem glanced back through the door-less entrance of the kitchen and whispered his question to his
mother chopping some carrots and sea-potatoes. "Who is she?" he asked in a soft hiss and watching the knife cleaving the vegetables, the
only son waited for an answer that never came. Millie's vigilance of the sliced food never faltered as she murmured "later, you can get those
pants off for washing, you've had them on all week."
If quick-thinking is a skill, Clem Willard was going to have a prosperous future as he nodded and then replied that the Gulper needed to be
put in the saltwater bin outside first before he walked around half-naked. His Ma didn't clip his ear anymore, but only because he knew the
line not to cross. "Ow!" he hissed as his ear took the slap upside his head and lifting the remains of the fish, he would wait until he'd climbed
back down the steps and deposited the cleaned Gulper in the barrel beneath the Willard home before he rubbed the injured lug-hole.
Upstairs, the family table was being set for supper and a rare guest to dine with. The sixteen year-old lad changing into a clean pair of britches
was famished and only too-ready to find out more about the little woman that had came to eat. Downstairs, a dead fish floated belly-up in a
cask of fresh seawater and if it had still been alive, maybe it would've wondered why a sparkling jewel had been stuffed into its mouth.
stone in his pocket, he conceded that he would never visit her again, no matter what the strange woman behind the makeshift curtain might
offer him from that box. Using his hefty size to push through the wilderness of swaying eight-foot high sedges, the sixteen year-old flicked his
straw-coloured hair back and peered up at the the sun's position in the sky. Just how long he'd been in that hidden grotto of the so-called
recluse called Gretna Grindylow? he wondered as he found the slim corridor of dried soil that meandered through the thick reedbed.
What had he been thinking...? whilst avoiding his chore of fishing for dozing Nosy-Gulpers, the blonde youngster had carefully traversed
the hazardous slimy rocks under the steep headland and thought he'd wait-out the day doing the one thing he had truly enjoyed before he'd
been burdened with his parents opinion that he'd reached adulthood. As a child, Clem had liked nothing more than exploring the sea-eroded
fissures of the surrounding cliffs. But it had only been recently that he'd felt he was strong and brave enough to negotiate the partly-submerged
reef beneath the promontory and leave any watchful eye of Seamarshes.
The Great Sea was a haze-choked millpond as he'd arrived back at where his fishing pole leaned on the woven clump of reeds he'd fashioned
into a rod-rest. Hoping his Pa hadn't checked on his lonely vigil of acquiring the costly-prey, the fair-haired lad peered into to the slightly-smelling
standing water and whispered a home-fashioned prayer. Clem's frowning face blossomed into a specimen of genuine happiness as he saw a
large round fish with a hook in its mouth wondering why it couldn't swim to somewhere else.
Maybe if catching these torpid critters was as easy as today's hunt -Clem Willard amusingly thought as he carefully pulled his quarry from the
water, he would adjust his initial commitment to not call in on the crazy half-dressed harridan after all. That salt-encrusted chest might contain
more of the currency that could set him on his way to a better life than just dragging fat fish from their watery worlds and spending the evening
smelling of the creature's innards. Maybe a couple of visits to that water-dripping subterranean den would be enough Clem told himself as he
dislodged the hook from the Gulper's rubbery lips.
A slight smile lingered around his own mouth as he concluded that the Gretna Grindylow he'd discovered in that chamber was a poor copy of
the character from one of his grandmother's scary yarns. The now-passed-over matriarch had created an evil ogress in her tales to keep children
from getting lost in the leagues of tall reeds. Whoever was hiding in the cavern beyond the cape, she wasn't the kiddie-eating hag that could
tempt the most cynical child from the embrace of their mother. Besides, he was a grown man now and those jewels weren't doing anyone any
good sitting in that cavern.
Watching the Gulper gulp for air, Clem fished out the chunk of rolled-lead from his rucksack that his father had given him and quickly quelled
the fish's need to inhale water. If an oath was needed, he did silently declare that he wouldn't be wasting his next visit telling the supposedly
-shy Gretna Grindylow of the boring gossip of the village and describing the characters of his tedious tittle-tattle.
"You're a welcome to our family" Clem murmured to the dead fish in the same time-honoured tradition all the residents of Seamarshes who
angled for Nosy-Gulpers had quoted for generations before him. With a final glance back to the jalousie of quivering reeds that hid his secret
journey to the mysterious woman, young Clem Willard bundled his bloated prize into his bag and set-off for home.
.................................................................
"Yer' a kind man, Mister Willard and Ah'd be only-too grateful te' tek' supper with thee..." Peggy Powler imparted to the old man in the faded
bib-and-braces. "...Tis' a lovely place yer' have and the the quiet is a tonic fur' such as me-self" the little Witch added as she removed her hat
and followed the owner of the stilted house up the narrow wooden ladder.
To a keen traveller of the regions the Last Witch of Underhill wandered through, it would be obvious that the village of Seamarshes followed
the same experienced building traditions of other fishing communities along the coast. Homes on high abutments in hopes of avoiding the
severest of flooding and positioned in coves away from whatever storms blew in from the Great Sea. Ben and Millie Willard's abode was a
perfect example of this cautious approach to living beside the perilous ocean that asked and gave no quarter, a house on legs.
Millie -in the traditional fishwife's headscarf, bowed slightly as Peggy cautiously stepped onto the reed-woven platform and mumbled the
long-established address of her village. "You're a welcome to our family" Mrs Willard whispered timidly and not wishing for any confrontation
with the famous spellbinder, kept her eyes facing the surrounding leagues of swaying reeds. Following her gaze out towards sea of stalks,
Peggy wondered if Mrs Willard was watching for possible offspring arriving from that direction. A minute later, the little Witch's expectations
were seen to be correct. "Fair travels, Ma'am" the bare-footed guest greeted her female host and followed Millie's husband through the narrow
front door.
.................................................................
He was a stout and fairly handsome lad -Peggy noted as he ducked his head to enter the Willard home, a blonde teenager who looked the type
to not be a fisher of Gulpers for long. The young of these secluded communities often left for what they believed were more exciting futures and
it would be that only in later years, they'd realise the world isn't the sparkling bauble they'd imagined.
"I caught one, Pa" Clem said as he surveyed the shoeless stranger sitting at the small wooden dinner table in the middle of the room across from
his father. Gingerly emulating the nod of the little woman in the weathered poncho, the tall youngster made his way into a rear room where Peggy
guessed meals were prepared. A room Millie Willard had already disappeared into.
As at other times in the necromancer's career, a small faint voice in the Last Witch of Underhill's head whispered there was more to this broad
-shouldered young man than met the eye and the skin on her forearms prickled as he passed by. Somewhere beneath that mop of flaxen hair,
there was a secret, not the usual unspoken hush-hush about his maturing body or coltish carnal thoughts, but something more uneasy that the
lad is genuinely struggling with.
"His name is Clem and I've still to get him to show some decent manners around guests..." Ben sneered in a resigned tone, as he watched
the big lad enter their kitchen. "...He's a good boy, but you know how the young spirit can be a restless one" the genial man appended and
waved his hands in imply what can one do about a fact of life. Peggy smiled, "Aye, one of those itches that must be scratched", she replied
and kept the private reference to her recent encounter to her herself.
Book-ends, she thought amusingly and waited for the old man to continue in idle chat-chat.
With the Nosy-Gulper gutted and cleaned, Clem glanced back through the door-less entrance of the kitchen and whispered his question to his
mother chopping some carrots and sea-potatoes. "Who is she?" he asked in a soft hiss and watching the knife cleaving the vegetables, the
only son waited for an answer that never came. Millie's vigilance of the sliced food never faltered as she murmured "later, you can get those
pants off for washing, you've had them on all week."
If quick-thinking is a skill, Clem Willard was going to have a prosperous future as he nodded and then replied that the Gulper needed to be
put in the saltwater bin outside first before he walked around half-naked. His Ma didn't clip his ear anymore, but only because he knew the
line not to cross. "Ow!" he hissed as his ear took the slap upside his head and lifting the remains of the fish, he would wait until he'd climbed
back down the steps and deposited the cleaned Gulper in the barrel beneath the Willard home before he rubbed the injured lug-hole.
Upstairs, the family table was being set for supper and a rare guest to dine with. The sixteen year-old lad changing into a clean pair of britches
was famished and only too-ready to find out more about the little woman that had came to eat. Downstairs, a dead fish floated belly-up in a
cask of fresh seawater and if it had still been alive, maybe it would've wondered why a sparkling jewel had been stuffed into its mouth.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.