"Fair travels" the man called from his sail-flapping Coble and the small woman dipping her bare feet in the warm estuary water
answered with the standard and appropriate reply. "Tight sheets and a clear wake, Sir" Peggy Powler offered along with a slight
wave.
The small boat continued its journey under the hot morning sun and as the clothed-capped man went back to his chores, the last
Witch of Underhill soaked in the serenity of this Summer Saturday. The surrounding salt marshes hinted that high tides were rare
visitors to the parish of St Martin's and as Peggy begrudgingly set her mind back to the problem in hand, a passing breeze brushed
some nearby reeds in an attempt to distract the small woman.
Ten children had gone missing over two years, all girls of a particular age and all disappearing in the evening. The families of St Martin's
had pressed the county's constabulary to investigate and apart from a silly superstition, no theory for the vanishings had been arrived at.
That was a month ago.
The idea of a Woodwose had grabbed the girls was a stupid one, Peggy knew a great deal of these elusive forest beings and invasion
of a household had never been known by those who understood the ways of the ambiguous creatures. There were wooded areas around
the village and there is enough herbage to sustain a small community of Woodwose, but apart from the footprint beside a small stream
that one of St Martin's residents had found, Peggy believed the proposal of a focused kidnapping by these hairy beasts belonged to the
ignorant.
No, something else was going on in St Martin's and the diminutive sorceress guessed it was more mundane than shaggy arms snatching
adolescent females from their beds. The small boat was reaching the edge of the Great Sea as Peggy Powler rose from her comfortable
seat, adjusted her pointy hat and set her own sails to continue the requested examination.
Freshly-washed bare feet trod confidently along the dusty track that led towards the area that the footprint was discovered and beneath
the shade of her wide-brimmed hat, the middle-aged necromancer pondered the variables involving the stolen children
What was their worth...? What abilities can a young girl provide? True, regular birthing had validity and Peggy had heard of such a situation
where a crazy male had built such a terrible 'family'. In fact, she'd later attended the man's hanging after finding the terrified girls stashed
in a cave up in the Grey Wolf mountains.
The coolness of the foliage was welcoming as Peggy stepped into the charitably-called greenwood, a 'copse' would be more accurate she
thought as she followed the small stream that ran through it. Ferns and wild Gingers carpeted the moist soil and the layer of dust that Peggy's
feet had acquired from the path now became sticky with the sun-starved earth.
It was only a minute later that the Witch came across the only alleged evidence that a seven-foot beast had taken up residence of the sleepy
coterie of St Martin's and at a glance, the obvious fakery caused Peggy to smile and stifle a giggle. To the uninitiated of folklore and ancient
races of the land, the large footprint could be taken as proof that a large lumbering wriggling-girl-carrying creature had passed this way.
It wasn't too-bad a fabrication.
The smile remained as small woman in the green poncho crouched to examine the single impression in the bank of the bubbling beck and
resisted the need to utter the query "Did he hop out of here?!" Large toes carved out with fingers and a heel that was obviously created with
the palm of the hand, the forgery hinted at a scheme Peggy knew she was way behind of and a plan she needed to catch-up on quickly.
This was man-made.
But Peggy's fading grin altered into a tight-lipped line of concentration as she peered closer to the footprint, there was another footmark here.
With her nose almost touching the mud and her bare-behind exposed to anyone passing, the Witch observed the faint trace of a smaller
impression, maybe the mark of a young person.
Getting to her feet, Peggy Powler wondered if a return to the small hamlet of St Martin's should be her first stop on the trail of the missing girls.
...................................................
When Peggy had first arrived at the village close to the coast, she was well-impressed by the layout of the white-plastered cottages and
the single paved-road that led to the reason for the community's name. Local history offers that a renowned holy man had been travelling
Calder's Way on a unspecified pilgrimage and came across a well-manicured plateau of grassed land surrounded by large standing-stones.
Not wishing to leave this ancient place without the blessing of his God, the venerated monk began his benediction. That was when the true
owners of the property appeared from the gloom of the surrounding cedars. Druids. The usual scenarios were rolled-out with displays of
magic and legends thrown as justifiable reasons why the sacred ground should remain within the Soothsayers' command.
Unusual for such stories, the roving priest agreed with the white-robed group of Magus and asking for the name of the hallowed domain,
the Elder of the Druids countered the query by asking the preacher's title. The response was 'St Martin' and so the leader of the mystical
religion proclaimed the flat lawn-like place of aged stones would now be known as St Martin's O' The Lawn. The latter-village's full name.
Peggy had spent the Friday afternoon with the nearest-title to a Mayor, a overweight man who bore the accolade 'Village Chief'.
The ruddy-faced gent in the faded tweed suit and sideburns that would rival those of a Woodwose explained the whole situation regarding
the disappearances of the youngsters. Sitting behind a gnarled desk in his dusty-but obtrusive home that doubled as the nearest thing to a
town hall, retired-major Horace Evans gave the impression that all avenues of investigation had been checked and all possible speculations
had been fully dowsed. It was a true mystery.
The first to be taken was Harriet Heron, a mousy-haired girl who lived with her grandmother. To bring income to the adopted home, Harriet
had advertised that she was willing to repair clothes and laundry if need be. It had been the eve of the Summer Fete and the quaint people of
St Martin festooned the monoliths with bunting and set long tables in the centre of the henge. Accounts say that Harriet took part in preparing
the festivities and the actual gaily-coloured flags that flapped in the warm evening breeze, were her contribution to the gala.
The preparations were done, everyone went home and Harriet Heron never made it to her grandmother's house. That was it.
As the regimental would-be Mayor droned on with his narrative regarding the other girls, Peggy's mind stayed with the initial disappearance.
The beginning always held the real reason and any pre-set statements held little clues, she needed to talk to the villagers.
...................................................
Peggy had decided to enjoy her lunch in the solitude of the countryside before visiting the twenty-or-so inhabitants of the tidy hamlet, only
because of the weather and the perfect surroundings. The sea was now over a mile away and could still be seen from the hillock that was
now doubling as a dining area. The magical satchel that Peggy always carried with her had produced a canteen of cool spring water and
a wax-paper-wrapped sandwich jammed with aromatic cheeses.
A hawthorn hedge that blocked the view to the village assured some privacy and a cheerful blackbird that lived in the long line of bushes
offered a pleasant melody in his territory-claim. Peggy ate her meal with relish and ruminated on her current quandary.
Saturday afternoon sneaked in quickly and the Witch's need to interrogate the residents of St Martin's resisted the urge to allow her leave
the tranquil place of rest. Faint braying of sheep added to the peaceful nature of the atmosphere and pulling her hat over her eyes, Peggy
convinced herself that a ten-minute nap would only help in the future inquiries.
...................................................
"Ma'am...?" the voice from beyond the shadows of the hat asked, "...I don't wish to disturb you, but have we need of your bedding-area"
the polite tones stated. The drowsy enchanter lifted the rim of her headwear and peered with half-lidded eyes at the two-foot-tall man
standing near her left shoulder. It was a Bogle, a wary -but smiling, creature that was known to reside alongside humans and often assist
in a human's tasks of maintaining a home.
Peggy slowly moved from her prone position and the Bogle retreated as she moved. "I recognise you from the stories my ancestors handed
down and I apologise for waking you" explained the little man in the dark-blue tunic and ragged pants. Getting to her feet, the yawning Peggy
realised that time had cheated her, the day had almost gone.
"My name is Juno and we..." the knee-high visitor waved a hand towards the shadows of the hawthorn hedge, "...my friends and I usually
take supper here on this hillock. By the way, it's a honour to meet you Ms Powler" Juno added and broadened his smile.
Peggy gathered her wool-wrapped thoughts and took stock of the intruder of her slumber, sleep that she thought she hadn't needed.
"Thank you for your courtesy and please accept my apologies for my unintended trespass" she said with a dry-throat. Juno flinched as she
reached for the canteen on the grass, but saw that the famous poncho-wearing magician meant no harm.
The sky was still blue, but an early evening azure now held sway in the heavens. Peggy grimaced inwardly and wondered where she would
spend the night. The countryside was not on the menu, but glancing over her shoulder she realised by the odd lantern light in the village that
it wasn't too late to make a visit.
"Do you know anything of the children vanishing in these parts?" Peggy asked the tolerant Bogle who was busy trying to coax his comrades
from the darkness of the bushes and with wide-eyes, he halted his task for the question. "No Ma'am, it's a tragic human business that we
have purposely steered of..." Juno answered "...but I'll wager there's no majick involved" he added enigmatically.
Straightening her hat, Peggy bid the Bogle and his hidden friends fair travels and adjusting the strap of her faithful canvas rucksack, she
set off for St Martin's O' The Lawn.
answered with the standard and appropriate reply. "Tight sheets and a clear wake, Sir" Peggy Powler offered along with a slight
wave.
The small boat continued its journey under the hot morning sun and as the clothed-capped man went back to his chores, the last
Witch of Underhill soaked in the serenity of this Summer Saturday. The surrounding salt marshes hinted that high tides were rare
visitors to the parish of St Martin's and as Peggy begrudgingly set her mind back to the problem in hand, a passing breeze brushed
some nearby reeds in an attempt to distract the small woman.
Ten children had gone missing over two years, all girls of a particular age and all disappearing in the evening. The families of St Martin's
had pressed the county's constabulary to investigate and apart from a silly superstition, no theory for the vanishings had been arrived at.
That was a month ago.
The idea of a Woodwose had grabbed the girls was a stupid one, Peggy knew a great deal of these elusive forest beings and invasion
of a household had never been known by those who understood the ways of the ambiguous creatures. There were wooded areas around
the village and there is enough herbage to sustain a small community of Woodwose, but apart from the footprint beside a small stream
that one of St Martin's residents had found, Peggy believed the proposal of a focused kidnapping by these hairy beasts belonged to the
ignorant.
No, something else was going on in St Martin's and the diminutive sorceress guessed it was more mundane than shaggy arms snatching
adolescent females from their beds. The small boat was reaching the edge of the Great Sea as Peggy Powler rose from her comfortable
seat, adjusted her pointy hat and set her own sails to continue the requested examination.
Freshly-washed bare feet trod confidently along the dusty track that led towards the area that the footprint was discovered and beneath
the shade of her wide-brimmed hat, the middle-aged necromancer pondered the variables involving the stolen children
What was their worth...? What abilities can a young girl provide? True, regular birthing had validity and Peggy had heard of such a situation
where a crazy male had built such a terrible 'family'. In fact, she'd later attended the man's hanging after finding the terrified girls stashed
in a cave up in the Grey Wolf mountains.
The coolness of the foliage was welcoming as Peggy stepped into the charitably-called greenwood, a 'copse' would be more accurate she
thought as she followed the small stream that ran through it. Ferns and wild Gingers carpeted the moist soil and the layer of dust that Peggy's
feet had acquired from the path now became sticky with the sun-starved earth.
It was only a minute later that the Witch came across the only alleged evidence that a seven-foot beast had taken up residence of the sleepy
coterie of St Martin's and at a glance, the obvious fakery caused Peggy to smile and stifle a giggle. To the uninitiated of folklore and ancient
races of the land, the large footprint could be taken as proof that a large lumbering wriggling-girl-carrying creature had passed this way.
It wasn't too-bad a fabrication.
The smile remained as small woman in the green poncho crouched to examine the single impression in the bank of the bubbling beck and
resisted the need to utter the query "Did he hop out of here?!" Large toes carved out with fingers and a heel that was obviously created with
the palm of the hand, the forgery hinted at a scheme Peggy knew she was way behind of and a plan she needed to catch-up on quickly.
This was man-made.
But Peggy's fading grin altered into a tight-lipped line of concentration as she peered closer to the footprint, there was another footmark here.
With her nose almost touching the mud and her bare-behind exposed to anyone passing, the Witch observed the faint trace of a smaller
impression, maybe the mark of a young person.
Getting to her feet, Peggy Powler wondered if a return to the small hamlet of St Martin's should be her first stop on the trail of the missing girls.
...................................................
When Peggy had first arrived at the village close to the coast, she was well-impressed by the layout of the white-plastered cottages and
the single paved-road that led to the reason for the community's name. Local history offers that a renowned holy man had been travelling
Calder's Way on a unspecified pilgrimage and came across a well-manicured plateau of grassed land surrounded by large standing-stones.
Not wishing to leave this ancient place without the blessing of his God, the venerated monk began his benediction. That was when the true
owners of the property appeared from the gloom of the surrounding cedars. Druids. The usual scenarios were rolled-out with displays of
magic and legends thrown as justifiable reasons why the sacred ground should remain within the Soothsayers' command.
Unusual for such stories, the roving priest agreed with the white-robed group of Magus and asking for the name of the hallowed domain,
the Elder of the Druids countered the query by asking the preacher's title. The response was 'St Martin' and so the leader of the mystical
religion proclaimed the flat lawn-like place of aged stones would now be known as St Martin's O' The Lawn. The latter-village's full name.
Peggy had spent the Friday afternoon with the nearest-title to a Mayor, a overweight man who bore the accolade 'Village Chief'.
The ruddy-faced gent in the faded tweed suit and sideburns that would rival those of a Woodwose explained the whole situation regarding
the disappearances of the youngsters. Sitting behind a gnarled desk in his dusty-but obtrusive home that doubled as the nearest thing to a
town hall, retired-major Horace Evans gave the impression that all avenues of investigation had been checked and all possible speculations
had been fully dowsed. It was a true mystery.
The first to be taken was Harriet Heron, a mousy-haired girl who lived with her grandmother. To bring income to the adopted home, Harriet
had advertised that she was willing to repair clothes and laundry if need be. It had been the eve of the Summer Fete and the quaint people of
St Martin festooned the monoliths with bunting and set long tables in the centre of the henge. Accounts say that Harriet took part in preparing
the festivities and the actual gaily-coloured flags that flapped in the warm evening breeze, were her contribution to the gala.
The preparations were done, everyone went home and Harriet Heron never made it to her grandmother's house. That was it.
As the regimental would-be Mayor droned on with his narrative regarding the other girls, Peggy's mind stayed with the initial disappearance.
The beginning always held the real reason and any pre-set statements held little clues, she needed to talk to the villagers.
...................................................
Peggy had decided to enjoy her lunch in the solitude of the countryside before visiting the twenty-or-so inhabitants of the tidy hamlet, only
because of the weather and the perfect surroundings. The sea was now over a mile away and could still be seen from the hillock that was
now doubling as a dining area. The magical satchel that Peggy always carried with her had produced a canteen of cool spring water and
a wax-paper-wrapped sandwich jammed with aromatic cheeses.
A hawthorn hedge that blocked the view to the village assured some privacy and a cheerful blackbird that lived in the long line of bushes
offered a pleasant melody in his territory-claim. Peggy ate her meal with relish and ruminated on her current quandary.
Saturday afternoon sneaked in quickly and the Witch's need to interrogate the residents of St Martin's resisted the urge to allow her leave
the tranquil place of rest. Faint braying of sheep added to the peaceful nature of the atmosphere and pulling her hat over her eyes, Peggy
convinced herself that a ten-minute nap would only help in the future inquiries.
...................................................
"Ma'am...?" the voice from beyond the shadows of the hat asked, "...I don't wish to disturb you, but have we need of your bedding-area"
the polite tones stated. The drowsy enchanter lifted the rim of her headwear and peered with half-lidded eyes at the two-foot-tall man
standing near her left shoulder. It was a Bogle, a wary -but smiling, creature that was known to reside alongside humans and often assist
in a human's tasks of maintaining a home.
Peggy slowly moved from her prone position and the Bogle retreated as she moved. "I recognise you from the stories my ancestors handed
down and I apologise for waking you" explained the little man in the dark-blue tunic and ragged pants. Getting to her feet, the yawning Peggy
realised that time had cheated her, the day had almost gone.
"My name is Juno and we..." the knee-high visitor waved a hand towards the shadows of the hawthorn hedge, "...my friends and I usually
take supper here on this hillock. By the way, it's a honour to meet you Ms Powler" Juno added and broadened his smile.
Peggy gathered her wool-wrapped thoughts and took stock of the intruder of her slumber, sleep that she thought she hadn't needed.
"Thank you for your courtesy and please accept my apologies for my unintended trespass" she said with a dry-throat. Juno flinched as she
reached for the canteen on the grass, but saw that the famous poncho-wearing magician meant no harm.
The sky was still blue, but an early evening azure now held sway in the heavens. Peggy grimaced inwardly and wondered where she would
spend the night. The countryside was not on the menu, but glancing over her shoulder she realised by the odd lantern light in the village that
it wasn't too late to make a visit.
"Do you know anything of the children vanishing in these parts?" Peggy asked the tolerant Bogle who was busy trying to coax his comrades
from the darkness of the bushes and with wide-eyes, he halted his task for the question. "No Ma'am, it's a tragic human business that we
have purposely steered of..." Juno answered "...but I'll wager there's no majick involved" he added enigmatically.
Straightening her hat, Peggy bid the Bogle and his hidden friends fair travels and adjusting the strap of her faithful canvas rucksack, she
set off for St Martin's O' The Lawn.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.