As the day wore on and the residents of Seamarshes absorbed the malicious chitter-chat through the conduit of the
vendors and merchants down the main thoroughfare, Peggy Powler witnessed the germinating neurosis that left
nobody above suspicion. The bright afternoon offered the Last Witch of Underhill little to ease her lack of sleep and
stepping away from the mushrooming madness, found some small solitude in between the buildings belonging to a
Butcher and the village's only Blacksmith.
"Aye, It's becoming a bedlam out their, Ma'am..." Ned Trotter said easily as he poured the gritty slurry of his dowsing
bucket into the back alleyway, "...Gossip is a disease best left to those with the mouths to chew it" he appended and
wiped a grimy rag across his sweating brow. The beater of metals peered over to where small woman in the big hat
seemed to be searching for a place in shadow as he slipped the strings of his leather apron over his head and folded
the grazed and charred pinafore across his arm. At a guess, Ned would reckon she was looking for somewhere to hide.
The dull headache that the sorceress was feeling offered a small lurch to her empty stomach as she turned to see who
the wise comment had come from and surveying the wide-shouldered blue-eyed man staring back, realised his remark
required an address. "Yer' nay wrong there Mister...?" Peggy began and after Ned introduced himself, continued with her
own judgement. "...Tis' an infection of the worst order and a tasty germ palatable te' most" she agreed.
The sun watched down as the tired Witch admitted that she was looking for a place to rest for a few minutes and after
some more small talk, Ned suggested the more-temperate area up along the headland, the sea breeze and the green
fields were more conducive to calming a soul than the chattering chaos out in front of the stores he added and stepped
back into the shade of his metal-forging business.
Adjusting the strap on her shoulder, the flagging spellbinder set her course for a setting that would hopefully help to
bring her slumber.
.................................................................
The Smithy had been correct and breathing in the cool air blowing in from the Great Sea, Peggy's spirits picked-up a
little as she arrived back on the familiar road of Calder's Way. The dry-stone walls that usually bordered the well-used
highway gave way to hedgerows of dogwood and wild privet laced with weathered wooden fencing. Sluggishly passing
the odd space between the shrubbery, the tired Witch could see docile sheep wondering who this pint-sized wanderer
was that dared to interrupt their grazing.
It was only when Peggy found a secluded location where a rogue struggling walnut tree leaned inland amongst swaying
white heather on the open bluff above Gretna Grindylow's cavern, did she fall forward into the ashen ling where some
believed fairies walked. As the salty zephyr brought some courtesy by blowing the frayed hem of Peggy's poncho over
her exposed buttocks, the exhausted owner of the rump tumbled down the passage of welcoming sleep.
.................................................................
"Is she dead, Pa?" the boy asked softly from the flatbed's seat as his father went to see who was recumbent on his land.
The sheep never liked this piece of heather-covered acreage and Saul Pritchard guessed it had something to do with the
openness to the sea. Maybe even the steep drop to the waters below was a factor too, he mused as approached the small
body laid near a stunted shrub.
Inspecting the unshod feet sticking out among the flowering heath, Saul caught himself crossing his chest with his finger
to protect him from the alleged Fae that were said to dance here when everyone was asleep. Silly superstitions muttered
by ignorant farmers he thought, although he'd never say it aloud.
The hat was massive and covered the head of this toppled would-be scarecrow. Nearing the body, the area's established
grower and transporter of meat, vegetables and fruit, wondered for a moment if Rufus was right about the prone figure
and someone had been murdered on his property. However as the breeze calmed, the loud snoring from the stranger
beneath what some would call a 'Devil Tree' told otherwise.
.................................................................
Peggy Powler mentally agreed with herself that the dog's cobalt blue eyes were a sight that bettered any of the false
jewels a mendacious Merethon with the nom de guerre of Muriel Gump could submit. The storm had become worse
here on the tossing ocean of her dreams and Peggy clinging to the sodden ropes of the rigging, knew that she and the
terrified skinny mutt were to be dashed on the cliffs glimpsed above the rolling waves.
Feeling her hat being snatched from her head by the surrounding cyclone, the little Witch fought to remember how she'd
found herself on this battered schooner and why she was alone accept for the dog. Shaking droplets from her wet face,
Peggy found that the blue-eyed dog could allay the confusion of its fellow passenger of doom.
"If you don't mind me saying so, Miss Powler, this voyage of ours would be a lot easier of us, had used a better hand on
the tiller, don't you think?" the cur suggested without moving it's fur-soaked muzzle. Sliding across the rain-lashed deck,
the soggy mongrel neared the wet woman hanging onto the side-stays of the ship. "There's an old proverb that might be
useful to us for our next trip, but can you recall it?"
.................................................................
Saul Pritchard plucked the wide-brimmed hat away to reveal a bantam-sized sleeping woman snoring happily into a clump
of heather. He'd moved all kinds of produce to many towns and villages along the coast, but staring down at the female in
the grubby poncho, he accepted that he'd never encountered such an unusual sight.
Then with a small snort of waking, the bare-legged stranger turned her head and smiled up at the man in the dark-green
smock and knee-length breeches. "A woman, a dog and a walnut tree..." Peggy whispered in a thick tone from drowsiness,
"The more yer' beat 'em, the better they be".
Looking back towards the wagon where his son waited, Saul crouched down and for some unknown reason replied "yes!"
vendors and merchants down the main thoroughfare, Peggy Powler witnessed the germinating neurosis that left
nobody above suspicion. The bright afternoon offered the Last Witch of Underhill little to ease her lack of sleep and
stepping away from the mushrooming madness, found some small solitude in between the buildings belonging to a
Butcher and the village's only Blacksmith.
"Aye, It's becoming a bedlam out their, Ma'am..." Ned Trotter said easily as he poured the gritty slurry of his dowsing
bucket into the back alleyway, "...Gossip is a disease best left to those with the mouths to chew it" he appended and
wiped a grimy rag across his sweating brow. The beater of metals peered over to where small woman in the big hat
seemed to be searching for a place in shadow as he slipped the strings of his leather apron over his head and folded
the grazed and charred pinafore across his arm. At a guess, Ned would reckon she was looking for somewhere to hide.
The dull headache that the sorceress was feeling offered a small lurch to her empty stomach as she turned to see who
the wise comment had come from and surveying the wide-shouldered blue-eyed man staring back, realised his remark
required an address. "Yer' nay wrong there Mister...?" Peggy began and after Ned introduced himself, continued with her
own judgement. "...Tis' an infection of the worst order and a tasty germ palatable te' most" she agreed.
The sun watched down as the tired Witch admitted that she was looking for a place to rest for a few minutes and after
some more small talk, Ned suggested the more-temperate area up along the headland, the sea breeze and the green
fields were more conducive to calming a soul than the chattering chaos out in front of the stores he added and stepped
back into the shade of his metal-forging business.
Adjusting the strap on her shoulder, the flagging spellbinder set her course for a setting that would hopefully help to
bring her slumber.
.................................................................
The Smithy had been correct and breathing in the cool air blowing in from the Great Sea, Peggy's spirits picked-up a
little as she arrived back on the familiar road of Calder's Way. The dry-stone walls that usually bordered the well-used
highway gave way to hedgerows of dogwood and wild privet laced with weathered wooden fencing. Sluggishly passing
the odd space between the shrubbery, the tired Witch could see docile sheep wondering who this pint-sized wanderer
was that dared to interrupt their grazing.
It was only when Peggy found a secluded location where a rogue struggling walnut tree leaned inland amongst swaying
white heather on the open bluff above Gretna Grindylow's cavern, did she fall forward into the ashen ling where some
believed fairies walked. As the salty zephyr brought some courtesy by blowing the frayed hem of Peggy's poncho over
her exposed buttocks, the exhausted owner of the rump tumbled down the passage of welcoming sleep.
.................................................................
"Is she dead, Pa?" the boy asked softly from the flatbed's seat as his father went to see who was recumbent on his land.
The sheep never liked this piece of heather-covered acreage and Saul Pritchard guessed it had something to do with the
openness to the sea. Maybe even the steep drop to the waters below was a factor too, he mused as approached the small
body laid near a stunted shrub.
Inspecting the unshod feet sticking out among the flowering heath, Saul caught himself crossing his chest with his finger
to protect him from the alleged Fae that were said to dance here when everyone was asleep. Silly superstitions muttered
by ignorant farmers he thought, although he'd never say it aloud.
The hat was massive and covered the head of this toppled would-be scarecrow. Nearing the body, the area's established
grower and transporter of meat, vegetables and fruit, wondered for a moment if Rufus was right about the prone figure
and someone had been murdered on his property. However as the breeze calmed, the loud snoring from the stranger
beneath what some would call a 'Devil Tree' told otherwise.
.................................................................
Peggy Powler mentally agreed with herself that the dog's cobalt blue eyes were a sight that bettered any of the false
jewels a mendacious Merethon with the nom de guerre of Muriel Gump could submit. The storm had become worse
here on the tossing ocean of her dreams and Peggy clinging to the sodden ropes of the rigging, knew that she and the
terrified skinny mutt were to be dashed on the cliffs glimpsed above the rolling waves.
Feeling her hat being snatched from her head by the surrounding cyclone, the little Witch fought to remember how she'd
found herself on this battered schooner and why she was alone accept for the dog. Shaking droplets from her wet face,
Peggy found that the blue-eyed dog could allay the confusion of its fellow passenger of doom.
"If you don't mind me saying so, Miss Powler, this voyage of ours would be a lot easier of us, had used a better hand on
the tiller, don't you think?" the cur suggested without moving it's fur-soaked muzzle. Sliding across the rain-lashed deck,
the soggy mongrel neared the wet woman hanging onto the side-stays of the ship. "There's an old proverb that might be
useful to us for our next trip, but can you recall it?"
.................................................................
Saul Pritchard plucked the wide-brimmed hat away to reveal a bantam-sized sleeping woman snoring happily into a clump
of heather. He'd moved all kinds of produce to many towns and villages along the coast, but staring down at the female in
the grubby poncho, he accepted that he'd never encountered such an unusual sight.
Then with a small snort of waking, the bare-legged stranger turned her head and smiled up at the man in the dark-green
smock and knee-length breeches. "A woman, a dog and a walnut tree..." Peggy whispered in a thick tone from drowsiness,
"The more yer' beat 'em, the better they be".
Looking back towards the wagon where his son waited, Saul crouched down and for some unknown reason replied "yes!"
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.