04-26-2021, 11:29 AM
Mary Bretton stood watching the small woman sitting at the only table in the room and wondered what kind of
life Peggy Powler has lived before coming to St Martin's. During their talk, the widow had also pondered if it would
be appropriate to ask famous Witch to spend the night under her roof.
Although she was not used to having guests, one didn't dare deny the last Witch of Underhill a bed.
The neighbours were sparse, but still, what would they think?
"Where will yer' be sleeping tonight?" Mary asked during a small space of silence in the consultation and was
surprised by the reply. She'd chattered on so much about the residents of the village, a rare act for the lonely
dowager, that time had slipped by like a cheeky sugar-stealing Pixie.
Peggy had been mulling over the information that her host had imparted and for a moment, the small living-room
waited alongside the weary Bretton-Senior and the half-asleep Bretton-Junior for a response. It would be a poor
gambler that would've lost his shirt on the reply.
"'Ah'll be be spending the night up on the Green" the Witch murmured as if her mind was still assembling Mrs Bretton's
comments, there was something there... some connection between the missing children. However, Peggy's scrutiny on
what she'd heard and what she'd been asked, didn't blind her from noticing Kittie's worried gaze.
"They say great magic resides amongst the stones..." the now-alert girl whispered, "...they say Phinneas The Cunning
fought the horrible wolf..." she continued until her mother cut her off. "Enough with the foolishness of a drunkard, me-girl
and it's time you were sound asleep". Mary Bretton's voice was stern and strong, a rare show of emotion in a house of
loss. The clock above the dying fire ignored the silent scene.
Peggy reached for her hat and at the same time, checked to see if her teacup was empty. "Aye lass, 'Ah've heard the
tales..." she said and rose from her seat at the table. "...Phinneas was a great one" she added without conviction in
her words. Something that didn't go unnoticed by the other two females.
To lighten the mood, Peggy asked about the beautiful well-stitched hangings on the wall as she hoisted her large bag
onto her shoulder. There were four, all with colours that told of countryside and a life of rural tranquillity.
The tapestry nearest the cottage door displayed a scene that was obviously taken from a view from this actual house.
The sea-stone lane, the surrounding foliage and at the top of the arras, the lawn with its tall monoliths looking like fangs
against the darkness of the trees behind them.
Mary Bretton smiled sadly and stepped-up beside the smaller woman in the green poncho. "Ah yes, places where one
can lose themselves" she said softly. The pair gazed at the threaded vistas, one soaking in the peaceful landscapes
whilst the other ruminating on the gossip revealed earlier.
"How Maggie stitched such beauty is beyond me" Mary murmured and somewhere under the Witch's floppy hat, a faint
spark told Peggy to remember that comment.
The last Bretton child was now asleep, the teapot was empty and midnight was an inch of candle away.
The sacred place that gave the dying village its name awaited and Peggy Powler had some thinking to do.
With a thank you at the door and patting hand on the shoulder of the sad woman who brewed weak tea, the bare-footed
Wizard set off for -what some may consider, her bedroom.
...................................................
"It's a bit late for a Yetun to be out-and-about, isn't it?" Peggy said easily as she kept her eyes on the cobbled road leading
up to the well-preserved lawn. The not-quite-a-shadow beneath the hawthorn hedge failed to keep still at the comment, and
the sigh of failure only added to the creature's whereabouts.
He was around a foot tall and tentatively avoiding a nomad tulip that nodded in his passing, Treacle Thistle stepped out
from where the thorns had threatened to tear his hat. "Fair travels, Ma'am" the Fayman reluctantly greeted the small woman
scanning him in the road and for a moment, he was tempted to flee.
Treacle wore a brown felt hat that had seen better days, the brim was well-thumbed and sported a large hawthorn barb that
could leave a nasty mark if he wasn't careful. A dark-brown tunic above the obligatory moleskin pants offered a look -that with
the right conditions, could help a Yetun keep a low profile from the humans here-abouts.
Peggy was about to crouch down to keep any conversation on an even-keel when she recalled that she was naked beneath
her poncho. Midnight darkness or not, it would be unseemly for a renown sorceress to be in such a situation.
"My name is Treacle Thistle and I was just going home from visiting a sick friend.." the flustered Brag answered, but the bright
green eyes beneath the hat told otherwise. "...Please Witch, let me be on my way?" he forced his voice to be demanding, but it
still implied a plea.
He'd heard about the children going missing in the human community and it was no leap of deduction to suggest that was why
the woman standing in the lane was here. But still, it was none of his business and best to keep a nose out of it.
Peggy adjusted her satchel-strap and applied the waiting-game. A silent stare can give any Yetun the heebie-jeebies, something
her mother had told her back at the carnival. Memories of those days threatened to soften Peggy's unblinking gaze, but such a
visual study tends not to take long on breaking these types of Bogle.
"You...you're here about the little 'uns going missing, I overhear things" Treacle stuttered and went to nervously reach for his headwear.
The sudden movement from his taller company caused him to flinch, but the speedy motion managed to pluck the thorn from his hat
before he impaled his fingers on it. "I am" Peggy said smoothly and showed Mr. Thistle the reason for her hasty grab.
Red-cheeked and grateful, Treacle realised he was in the shadow of someone smarter than himself and maybe even part of something
he wanted to avoid. But the wicked-looking wooden spike being tossed back into the hedgerow was evidence that some-sort of
gratitude should be reciprocated.
The night waited for the unenthusiastic thanks.
"I mean no disrespect, but do you know about Chimers?" Treacle asked into the shadow of the wide-rimmed Witch's hat and the faint
-but confident, nod of affirmation told him he was dealing with no layman here. "Well, those poor souls who were taken from St Martin's
were all Chime Children, all born between the Witching... between twelve o'clock and four in the morning." the anxious Yetun supplemented.
Peggy breathed heavily through her nose, a gesture of annoyance that Treacle understood fully. Chimers held the ability to touch the other
realms of reality, to converse with spirits and in some cases, cure ailing crops and heal animals.
This wasn't about a randy Wodewose or even some lurking Gypsy with a mind to sell children, this was deeper. The Bogle called Juno had
earlier said he doubted 'majick' was involved, but standing to her full height on the path to the monoliths, Peggy now wondered if something
darker had come to St Martin's O' The Lawn.
Something from the Other-side.
life Peggy Powler has lived before coming to St Martin's. During their talk, the widow had also pondered if it would
be appropriate to ask famous Witch to spend the night under her roof.
Although she was not used to having guests, one didn't dare deny the last Witch of Underhill a bed.
The neighbours were sparse, but still, what would they think?
"Where will yer' be sleeping tonight?" Mary asked during a small space of silence in the consultation and was
surprised by the reply. She'd chattered on so much about the residents of the village, a rare act for the lonely
dowager, that time had slipped by like a cheeky sugar-stealing Pixie.
Peggy had been mulling over the information that her host had imparted and for a moment, the small living-room
waited alongside the weary Bretton-Senior and the half-asleep Bretton-Junior for a response. It would be a poor
gambler that would've lost his shirt on the reply.
"'Ah'll be be spending the night up on the Green" the Witch murmured as if her mind was still assembling Mrs Bretton's
comments, there was something there... some connection between the missing children. However, Peggy's scrutiny on
what she'd heard and what she'd been asked, didn't blind her from noticing Kittie's worried gaze.
"They say great magic resides amongst the stones..." the now-alert girl whispered, "...they say Phinneas The Cunning
fought the horrible wolf..." she continued until her mother cut her off. "Enough with the foolishness of a drunkard, me-girl
and it's time you were sound asleep". Mary Bretton's voice was stern and strong, a rare show of emotion in a house of
loss. The clock above the dying fire ignored the silent scene.
Peggy reached for her hat and at the same time, checked to see if her teacup was empty. "Aye lass, 'Ah've heard the
tales..." she said and rose from her seat at the table. "...Phinneas was a great one" she added without conviction in
her words. Something that didn't go unnoticed by the other two females.
To lighten the mood, Peggy asked about the beautiful well-stitched hangings on the wall as she hoisted her large bag
onto her shoulder. There were four, all with colours that told of countryside and a life of rural tranquillity.
The tapestry nearest the cottage door displayed a scene that was obviously taken from a view from this actual house.
The sea-stone lane, the surrounding foliage and at the top of the arras, the lawn with its tall monoliths looking like fangs
against the darkness of the trees behind them.
Mary Bretton smiled sadly and stepped-up beside the smaller woman in the green poncho. "Ah yes, places where one
can lose themselves" she said softly. The pair gazed at the threaded vistas, one soaking in the peaceful landscapes
whilst the other ruminating on the gossip revealed earlier.
"How Maggie stitched such beauty is beyond me" Mary murmured and somewhere under the Witch's floppy hat, a faint
spark told Peggy to remember that comment.
The last Bretton child was now asleep, the teapot was empty and midnight was an inch of candle away.
The sacred place that gave the dying village its name awaited and Peggy Powler had some thinking to do.
With a thank you at the door and patting hand on the shoulder of the sad woman who brewed weak tea, the bare-footed
Wizard set off for -what some may consider, her bedroom.
...................................................
"It's a bit late for a Yetun to be out-and-about, isn't it?" Peggy said easily as she kept her eyes on the cobbled road leading
up to the well-preserved lawn. The not-quite-a-shadow beneath the hawthorn hedge failed to keep still at the comment, and
the sigh of failure only added to the creature's whereabouts.
He was around a foot tall and tentatively avoiding a nomad tulip that nodded in his passing, Treacle Thistle stepped out
from where the thorns had threatened to tear his hat. "Fair travels, Ma'am" the Fayman reluctantly greeted the small woman
scanning him in the road and for a moment, he was tempted to flee.
Treacle wore a brown felt hat that had seen better days, the brim was well-thumbed and sported a large hawthorn barb that
could leave a nasty mark if he wasn't careful. A dark-brown tunic above the obligatory moleskin pants offered a look -that with
the right conditions, could help a Yetun keep a low profile from the humans here-abouts.
Peggy was about to crouch down to keep any conversation on an even-keel when she recalled that she was naked beneath
her poncho. Midnight darkness or not, it would be unseemly for a renown sorceress to be in such a situation.
"My name is Treacle Thistle and I was just going home from visiting a sick friend.." the flustered Brag answered, but the bright
green eyes beneath the hat told otherwise. "...Please Witch, let me be on my way?" he forced his voice to be demanding, but it
still implied a plea.
He'd heard about the children going missing in the human community and it was no leap of deduction to suggest that was why
the woman standing in the lane was here. But still, it was none of his business and best to keep a nose out of it.
Peggy adjusted her satchel-strap and applied the waiting-game. A silent stare can give any Yetun the heebie-jeebies, something
her mother had told her back at the carnival. Memories of those days threatened to soften Peggy's unblinking gaze, but such a
visual study tends not to take long on breaking these types of Bogle.
"You...you're here about the little 'uns going missing, I overhear things" Treacle stuttered and went to nervously reach for his headwear.
The sudden movement from his taller company caused him to flinch, but the speedy motion managed to pluck the thorn from his hat
before he impaled his fingers on it. "I am" Peggy said smoothly and showed Mr. Thistle the reason for her hasty grab.
Red-cheeked and grateful, Treacle realised he was in the shadow of someone smarter than himself and maybe even part of something
he wanted to avoid. But the wicked-looking wooden spike being tossed back into the hedgerow was evidence that some-sort of
gratitude should be reciprocated.
The night waited for the unenthusiastic thanks.
"I mean no disrespect, but do you know about Chimers?" Treacle asked into the shadow of the wide-rimmed Witch's hat and the faint
-but confident, nod of affirmation told him he was dealing with no layman here. "Well, those poor souls who were taken from St Martin's
were all Chime Children, all born between the Witching... between twelve o'clock and four in the morning." the anxious Yetun supplemented.
Peggy breathed heavily through her nose, a gesture of annoyance that Treacle understood fully. Chimers held the ability to touch the other
realms of reality, to converse with spirits and in some cases, cure ailing crops and heal animals.
This wasn't about a randy Wodewose or even some lurking Gypsy with a mind to sell children, this was deeper. The Bogle called Juno had
earlier said he doubted 'majick' was involved, but standing to her full height on the path to the monoliths, Peggy now wondered if something
darker had come to St Martin's O' The Lawn.
Something from the Other-side.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.