"Stand there and keep yer' glove on..." the small woman hissed quietly from the side of her mouth, "...and when Ah' touch me-hat,
yer' pull like yer've got a Gulper on it. Okay?" Smiling up at Clem Willard, she offered another mint-flavoured Black-Bullet from her
paper-bag and turned to leave. The fair-haired lad in knee-high britches nodded in his bewilderment and watching the poncho-wearing
spell-worker walking out of the dusty alleyway with a pail of water into the late-morning sunshine, reviewed his initial opinion on the
renowned sorceress they call Peggy Powler.
Like most of the adults around him -a faction of society that Clem Willard's parents had thrust him into without asking if he was ready
for such an association, the sixteen year-old had believed that the bare-footed traveller held great magical powers to ease the day-to-day
living for those who toiled on the land and sea. With wonders that stole one's breath away, Clem's mother had explained over breakfast
that their recent guest was said to police the regions with illustrious wizardry and was a formidable foe against those of the supernatural.
But what seemed to be a more remarkable talent of the wandering warlock -a predilection Millie Willard seemed proud of as she posited
over washing the dishes, was that the Last Witch of Underhill tended to work and hold an affinity with those she predominantly catered
for. Namely, the common people.
Continuing his appraisal as he watched the thin twine spool out across the dried-dirt, Clem had to admit that Miss Powler's accent was
strange and bawdy at times, the manner of someone not out of place in an alleyway or in a rowdy tavern. She never wore shoes and
from the rare glimpses he'd been afforded during the short time he'd been with her, Clem could suggest she was barren of the most
scantiest of undergarments.
Yet here this famous necromancer was, ambling out into Seamarshes' main-street without a magical spell to stop the awful gossiping
malady that had befallen the village, just a borrowed fishing-hook pinched between her fingers in one hand and a sloshing bucket of
seawater in the other.
It had been a confusing time for the son of a fisherman, discovering a jewel could change into a mundane stone of the sea, unknowingly
relating hearsay to a conniving cave-dwelling lizard-woman he had believed was called Gretna Grindylow and now, angling for something
beyond his backwoods imagination from the shadows betwixt a bakery and a leather-goods store.
Maybe that was why Clem merely nodded and sucked on his sweetmeat.
.................................................................
"I'd have never believed it of Silas Mann..." Gertrude Petticoat whispered to the Post Mistress leaning forward on the counter-top, "...all
this time playing around behind his lovely wife's back with that strumpet!" she added with a twist of her painted lips to show her verdict
on the matter. Absently sliding the letter into the appropriate pigeonhole for the next Midnight Mail rider to pick up, Hilda Poppins kept
her own features neutral as she examined the information the busy-body of Seamarshes had just dramatically articulated.
Technically, Gertrude was correct, the owner of the large general store down the street was engaged in some hanky-panky with a woman
who he wasn't married to. But it wasn't Victoria Bunker from the dolled-up diner, it was Hilda Poppins and nobody -to date, had any idea
the mousy-spinster in the nose-tweaking spectacles from the Post Office and the whiny moustached seller of everyday commodities were
meeting amongst the vast reedbeds out near the shore with the sole intention of dalliance.
Realising the village's veteran yenta was still rambling on about the miss-aimed adultery, Hilda struggled to drag her focus back to the
backdoor-gossip as she removed her glasses and touched the faint marks left by tight frame. "It's just like I said to Muriel..." Gertrude
continued, "...this vulgar underbelly of Seamarshes is not a place for a lady to endure and I've been seriously thinking on speaking to
my husband about moving along the coast to a new village I've heard about called Mocking Bay".
Checking that her chattering customer's enveloped-message was in the correct slot for collection, Hilda Poppins merely nodded.
.................................................................
She was still wearing the crimson gown and bowing slightly as she left the conversation with the greengrocer checking on his outside
display, Muriel Gump set her course to cross main-street to the place where she'd first acquired the blood-coloured garment, Under the
shaded eyes of a little grubby-looking woman with a big hat, the destructive harridan that hid in plain sight bathed in her piecemeal
plan to desolate the sedate settlement of these loathsome land-dwellers.
This was the way Gretna Grindylow was going to succeed, it was a different way many of her kind had attempted before her. Since the
days the land-people had first found ways of trespassing onto the waters and taking what was not theirs to take, Merethons had vowed
to strike back and clear the oceans of those who dared to use the kingdom of the sea creatures as their own. But it had ironically been
a fruit of the haven from this bombastic band of sea-roamers that had given Gretna the upper-hand on her executed ancestors and their
failed plots.
A magical kernel found in the dashed-remains of a vessel, a simple black walnut that gave the owner the ability of a pretender. It had
taken Gretna Grindylow many years to master its glammer and now under the bright summer sun, that harness was in full-authority.
Oh, how they will pay for their transgression.
"It's a grand day, would yer' agree?" Peggy Powler asked cordially as the disguised Merethon stepped onto the wooden boardwalk
where a runt-vagrant with the big hat languished whilst sucking on some type of candy. "Er... yes it is, Ma'am" Muriel replied with
a tone of someone speaking down to someone of low quality and passing the uncouth time-waster, noticed a slight movement as
the small woman touched her headwear. Assuming it was simply part of a grimy-rustic's address, the creator of ruin in Seamarshes
returned to arranging her thoughts before she began to spin another web of lies in the establishment of Silas Mann.
As the red gown swished, a young man with hair of unripe straw pulled on the fishing line with all his might and the reality that had
been accepted in the prosperous hamlet, changed forever. The pearl-encrusted purse isn't real, Muriel Gump isn't real, but under the
murmured conjuration from the idle drifter who'd fought demons and monsters, one would reveal the other of this false adumbration.
Sparkling gemstones spilled from the tear of the Witch's fish-grapple and bounced on the wood as dull pebbles, the contents of the
purse scattered upon the boardwalk and for a moment, the world of Peggy Powler and Gretna Grindylow became still. But within
that flicker of a candle's flame, it was the smaller of the pair who moved first and reached out to grasp the object larger than the
surrounding sea-burnished stones coming to rest at the hem of Muriel Gump's vermilion-coloured vestment.
It is said a black walnut can draw lightning and this was why farmers chop down walnut trees where cows sometimes seek shelter
from inclement weather. Ship builders will not use the wood because of this vexing curse and even insects shun the shade from the
Devil Tree. But what was secret to most was that a special black walnut can also afford its bearer a counterfeit costume. A bogus suit
that can fool the eye.
To Silas Mann peering out of the window at the full-figured prospective customer, it was like one of those light-shows they put-on at
Carnivals or a trick with a curtain and distracting words a travelling magician might use to entertain his crowd. Under a noon-sun, the
the busty woman shimmered in her red dress and then became something worse than the moustached-man's wife finding out he was
grinding hips with the Post Mistress.
It was a monster, a lizard-like thing with an uncoiling tail that had been wrapped around her body. Shiny scales of keratin covered the
creature's entire torso and as the black walnut recanted its glammer of subterfuge, the crimson garment Silas Mann had sold, fell from
the Merethon's true form. Where eyes of lustful beguile once peered out at those enchanted by Muriel Gump's saucy charges of the
village's residents, black slits of a reptile now blinked at the realisation of a scheme unmasked.
Screams of alarm arose around the once-quiet encounter on the noon-day thoroughfare as the little Witch drove home the revelation of
who had infected their parish and hurled the contents of the bucket towards the transformed trickster from beneath the cliffs. Screeching
with savage rage, Gretna Grindylow suddenly lunged at the thief of her camouflage and almost found purchase on the swinging satchel.
But Peggy had rehearsed her foil during her return from the Pritchard estate and a scaly claw only found warm air where the little Witch
had once stood.
With shocked faces abound on main-street, the hissing Merethon, once held in high regard by those now seeing -what they would later
would eagerly agree was the cause of their mistrust in each other, lurched away from her hated enemies and halfway there, continued
her escape on all-fours. The flailing tail slipping to the labyrinth of reeds was the last Seamarshes saw of Gretna Grindylow.
.................................................................
Epilogue.
It would be the beginning of Autumn before Seamarshes could be said to be back to normal. The gossip was now accepted as part of
the invader's design to spoil their way of life and in many quarters, apologies were given in private. Saul Pritchard was the recipient
of many of these repents and just as a side-note, Silas and Hilda called a halt to their reed-bed ruttings... for the time being, anyway.
For Peggy Powler, there'd been an odd type of gratitude from the folks of Seamarshes. Provisions were given to help her during her
journey and invites to a particular tea room had been many. As the leaves in the Pritchard orchard fell from their moorings and little
Iris hummed a nursery rhyme taught to her by a ghost among the trees readying for winter, the item that Ned Trotter had forged in
his kiln was secretly handed over to the saviour of the Blacksmith's community.
The chimneys of Seamarshes coughed out their woodsmoke to bind with the cold mists that were becoming regular from the Great Sea
and the Willard family went on with their life of catching Nosy-Gulpers. Their flaxon-haired son had taken up with a pretty young woman
called Jenny Longyard, a past friend of his who was growing into being more than someone of similar age and interests.
As the Fall came calling and Clem Willard would check to see if the fat-round fish had taken to his bait, he'd nervously glance towards
the stoic reeds that led to Gretna Grindylow's lair. Maybe it'd been a dream he'd had after witnessing the horrid creature flee the street
in broad daylight, a wishful delusion of a boy becoming a man and wanting a settled path for his future.
But peering into the brackish water in the reeds, he'd sometimes wonder if he had really heard a faint reciting of a little girl's poem.
Alas, if Clem had looked out of his bedroom window into the darkness of that late-summer's night, he may have seen the troubadour of
that ballad quietly tugging sackcloth from the freshly-tempered spear laced with strange runes and bizarre scrawl. She wore a big hat.
'I had a little walnut tree, where nothing could be found, but a black walnut laying on the ground.
A woman with a tail came to visit me, and all for the sake of my little walnut tree.
Missus Skink's dress was made of crimson, her smile was of a cove. She asked to take my walnut and promised me my love.
I shooed her to the water, I drove her to the sea. And then the salty waves took the Mermaid away from me.'
The End.
yer' pull like yer've got a Gulper on it. Okay?" Smiling up at Clem Willard, she offered another mint-flavoured Black-Bullet from her
paper-bag and turned to leave. The fair-haired lad in knee-high britches nodded in his bewilderment and watching the poncho-wearing
spell-worker walking out of the dusty alleyway with a pail of water into the late-morning sunshine, reviewed his initial opinion on the
renowned sorceress they call Peggy Powler.
Like most of the adults around him -a faction of society that Clem Willard's parents had thrust him into without asking if he was ready
for such an association, the sixteen year-old had believed that the bare-footed traveller held great magical powers to ease the day-to-day
living for those who toiled on the land and sea. With wonders that stole one's breath away, Clem's mother had explained over breakfast
that their recent guest was said to police the regions with illustrious wizardry and was a formidable foe against those of the supernatural.
But what seemed to be a more remarkable talent of the wandering warlock -a predilection Millie Willard seemed proud of as she posited
over washing the dishes, was that the Last Witch of Underhill tended to work and hold an affinity with those she predominantly catered
for. Namely, the common people.
Continuing his appraisal as he watched the thin twine spool out across the dried-dirt, Clem had to admit that Miss Powler's accent was
strange and bawdy at times, the manner of someone not out of place in an alleyway or in a rowdy tavern. She never wore shoes and
from the rare glimpses he'd been afforded during the short time he'd been with her, Clem could suggest she was barren of the most
scantiest of undergarments.
Yet here this famous necromancer was, ambling out into Seamarshes' main-street without a magical spell to stop the awful gossiping
malady that had befallen the village, just a borrowed fishing-hook pinched between her fingers in one hand and a sloshing bucket of
seawater in the other.
It had been a confusing time for the son of a fisherman, discovering a jewel could change into a mundane stone of the sea, unknowingly
relating hearsay to a conniving cave-dwelling lizard-woman he had believed was called Gretna Grindylow and now, angling for something
beyond his backwoods imagination from the shadows betwixt a bakery and a leather-goods store.
Maybe that was why Clem merely nodded and sucked on his sweetmeat.
.................................................................
"I'd have never believed it of Silas Mann..." Gertrude Petticoat whispered to the Post Mistress leaning forward on the counter-top, "...all
this time playing around behind his lovely wife's back with that strumpet!" she added with a twist of her painted lips to show her verdict
on the matter. Absently sliding the letter into the appropriate pigeonhole for the next Midnight Mail rider to pick up, Hilda Poppins kept
her own features neutral as she examined the information the busy-body of Seamarshes had just dramatically articulated.
Technically, Gertrude was correct, the owner of the large general store down the street was engaged in some hanky-panky with a woman
who he wasn't married to. But it wasn't Victoria Bunker from the dolled-up diner, it was Hilda Poppins and nobody -to date, had any idea
the mousy-spinster in the nose-tweaking spectacles from the Post Office and the whiny moustached seller of everyday commodities were
meeting amongst the vast reedbeds out near the shore with the sole intention of dalliance.
Realising the village's veteran yenta was still rambling on about the miss-aimed adultery, Hilda struggled to drag her focus back to the
backdoor-gossip as she removed her glasses and touched the faint marks left by tight frame. "It's just like I said to Muriel..." Gertrude
continued, "...this vulgar underbelly of Seamarshes is not a place for a lady to endure and I've been seriously thinking on speaking to
my husband about moving along the coast to a new village I've heard about called Mocking Bay".
Checking that her chattering customer's enveloped-message was in the correct slot for collection, Hilda Poppins merely nodded.
.................................................................
She was still wearing the crimson gown and bowing slightly as she left the conversation with the greengrocer checking on his outside
display, Muriel Gump set her course to cross main-street to the place where she'd first acquired the blood-coloured garment, Under the
shaded eyes of a little grubby-looking woman with a big hat, the destructive harridan that hid in plain sight bathed in her piecemeal
plan to desolate the sedate settlement of these loathsome land-dwellers.
This was the way Gretna Grindylow was going to succeed, it was a different way many of her kind had attempted before her. Since the
days the land-people had first found ways of trespassing onto the waters and taking what was not theirs to take, Merethons had vowed
to strike back and clear the oceans of those who dared to use the kingdom of the sea creatures as their own. But it had ironically been
a fruit of the haven from this bombastic band of sea-roamers that had given Gretna the upper-hand on her executed ancestors and their
failed plots.
A magical kernel found in the dashed-remains of a vessel, a simple black walnut that gave the owner the ability of a pretender. It had
taken Gretna Grindylow many years to master its glammer and now under the bright summer sun, that harness was in full-authority.
Oh, how they will pay for their transgression.
"It's a grand day, would yer' agree?" Peggy Powler asked cordially as the disguised Merethon stepped onto the wooden boardwalk
where a runt-vagrant with the big hat languished whilst sucking on some type of candy. "Er... yes it is, Ma'am" Muriel replied with
a tone of someone speaking down to someone of low quality and passing the uncouth time-waster, noticed a slight movement as
the small woman touched her headwear. Assuming it was simply part of a grimy-rustic's address, the creator of ruin in Seamarshes
returned to arranging her thoughts before she began to spin another web of lies in the establishment of Silas Mann.
As the red gown swished, a young man with hair of unripe straw pulled on the fishing line with all his might and the reality that had
been accepted in the prosperous hamlet, changed forever. The pearl-encrusted purse isn't real, Muriel Gump isn't real, but under the
murmured conjuration from the idle drifter who'd fought demons and monsters, one would reveal the other of this false adumbration.
Sparkling gemstones spilled from the tear of the Witch's fish-grapple and bounced on the wood as dull pebbles, the contents of the
purse scattered upon the boardwalk and for a moment, the world of Peggy Powler and Gretna Grindylow became still. But within
that flicker of a candle's flame, it was the smaller of the pair who moved first and reached out to grasp the object larger than the
surrounding sea-burnished stones coming to rest at the hem of Muriel Gump's vermilion-coloured vestment.
It is said a black walnut can draw lightning and this was why farmers chop down walnut trees where cows sometimes seek shelter
from inclement weather. Ship builders will not use the wood because of this vexing curse and even insects shun the shade from the
Devil Tree. But what was secret to most was that a special black walnut can also afford its bearer a counterfeit costume. A bogus suit
that can fool the eye.
To Silas Mann peering out of the window at the full-figured prospective customer, it was like one of those light-shows they put-on at
Carnivals or a trick with a curtain and distracting words a travelling magician might use to entertain his crowd. Under a noon-sun, the
the busty woman shimmered in her red dress and then became something worse than the moustached-man's wife finding out he was
grinding hips with the Post Mistress.
It was a monster, a lizard-like thing with an uncoiling tail that had been wrapped around her body. Shiny scales of keratin covered the
creature's entire torso and as the black walnut recanted its glammer of subterfuge, the crimson garment Silas Mann had sold, fell from
the Merethon's true form. Where eyes of lustful beguile once peered out at those enchanted by Muriel Gump's saucy charges of the
village's residents, black slits of a reptile now blinked at the realisation of a scheme unmasked.
Screams of alarm arose around the once-quiet encounter on the noon-day thoroughfare as the little Witch drove home the revelation of
who had infected their parish and hurled the contents of the bucket towards the transformed trickster from beneath the cliffs. Screeching
with savage rage, Gretna Grindylow suddenly lunged at the thief of her camouflage and almost found purchase on the swinging satchel.
But Peggy had rehearsed her foil during her return from the Pritchard estate and a scaly claw only found warm air where the little Witch
had once stood.
With shocked faces abound on main-street, the hissing Merethon, once held in high regard by those now seeing -what they would later
would eagerly agree was the cause of their mistrust in each other, lurched away from her hated enemies and halfway there, continued
her escape on all-fours. The flailing tail slipping to the labyrinth of reeds was the last Seamarshes saw of Gretna Grindylow.
.................................................................
Epilogue.
It would be the beginning of Autumn before Seamarshes could be said to be back to normal. The gossip was now accepted as part of
the invader's design to spoil their way of life and in many quarters, apologies were given in private. Saul Pritchard was the recipient
of many of these repents and just as a side-note, Silas and Hilda called a halt to their reed-bed ruttings... for the time being, anyway.
For Peggy Powler, there'd been an odd type of gratitude from the folks of Seamarshes. Provisions were given to help her during her
journey and invites to a particular tea room had been many. As the leaves in the Pritchard orchard fell from their moorings and little
Iris hummed a nursery rhyme taught to her by a ghost among the trees readying for winter, the item that Ned Trotter had forged in
his kiln was secretly handed over to the saviour of the Blacksmith's community.
The chimneys of Seamarshes coughed out their woodsmoke to bind with the cold mists that were becoming regular from the Great Sea
and the Willard family went on with their life of catching Nosy-Gulpers. Their flaxon-haired son had taken up with a pretty young woman
called Jenny Longyard, a past friend of his who was growing into being more than someone of similar age and interests.
As the Fall came calling and Clem Willard would check to see if the fat-round fish had taken to his bait, he'd nervously glance towards
the stoic reeds that led to Gretna Grindylow's lair. Maybe it'd been a dream he'd had after witnessing the horrid creature flee the street
in broad daylight, a wishful delusion of a boy becoming a man and wanting a settled path for his future.
But peering into the brackish water in the reeds, he'd sometimes wonder if he had really heard a faint reciting of a little girl's poem.
Alas, if Clem had looked out of his bedroom window into the darkness of that late-summer's night, he may have seen the troubadour of
that ballad quietly tugging sackcloth from the freshly-tempered spear laced with strange runes and bizarre scrawl. She wore a big hat.
'I had a little walnut tree, where nothing could be found, but a black walnut laying on the ground.
A woman with a tail came to visit me, and all for the sake of my little walnut tree.
Missus Skink's dress was made of crimson, her smile was of a cove. She asked to take my walnut and promised me my love.
I shooed her to the water, I drove her to the sea. And then the salty waves took the Mermaid away from me.'
The End.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.