The dawn was almost ready to carry the day as Peggy Powler peeked from beneath the flap of her satchel and sighed
from her troubled sleep. After saying goodnight to the nervous Treacle Thistle, she'd eventually decided to take her rest
on the edge of the monolith-strewn lawn, next to the gate of entry.
The large bag that Peggy always carried with her doubled as her sleeping aide, a place where she could enjoy warmth
and know that no beholding to house-dwellers would be needed. The Witch of Underhill had never attempted to discover
the magic of the satchel, the large leather container had always provided what she needed and when the darkness came,
was always empty and ready for slumber.
Except last night, such rest took some time to hunt down.
Chime-Children, the circle of stones, the odd footprint and something she couldn't quite grasp... thoughts and half-baked
theories had jostled inside Peggy's head for placing to build a plan. Staring out towards the where blackness had stolen
the sea, the sorceress had heard the imaginary voice of Mary Bretton again.
"How Maggie stitched such beauty is beyond me"
The puzzle laughed mockingly and followed Peggy down the drowsy tunnel of fitful sleep.
Sunday's chilly morning wouldn't be arriving for another half-hour and denying herself a snooze, Peggy focused on rising
and doing her ablutions. During her visit to the Major Evans, she'd noticed the water-pump in -what seemed to be, the
centre of St. Martin's, but determined that washing one's naked body in a street could cause a loss of respect.
Best to find another place.
Realising that the village was basically oval-shaped with the Brettons living at one of the elongated ends, Peggy gathered
herself, settled her faithful hat on her head and left the silent-staring of the stoic standing-stones to see if St. Martins held a
better emplacement to clean oneself.
...................................................
The bushes along the lane gave an occasional rustle that Peggy believed was a bird looking for an early breakfast, no self
-respecting Boggart or sprite would dare to be out until it was certain that the owls had retired for the night.
A chirp of delight endorsed the Witch's speculation.
The residence with a barrel at its front door was the Brewer's home, It was the last domicile before the lane slipped away
up the bank to where Calder's Way awaited. The Brettons were next with their colourful garden and shadowed windows.
Kittie was in dream-land now, maybe searching for her sister.
At the point where the large gate of Farmer Bulmer's met the lane, the cobbled byway turned slightly left and passing three
more cottages, Peggy realised she was approaching what would be deemed the hub of St. Martin's. The water-pump, the
far-too long trough and a well-worn stone pedestal that may have held a statue at some point, markers of an attempt to be
a town-square.
A grocery-store leaned next to a run-down building that Peggy guessed was once a drapery, the store sign was gone except
for a rotten wooden piece that proclaimed' Madame Tar.., the rest -the half-curious Witch believed, had allowed the winter to
get its fingers in.
With a twist of her lips at her faint reflection in the dirt-smudged window lined with cobwebs, Peggy pressed on.
Passing a large badly-damaged door that she wagered was the workshop of a Blacksmith, a dark-red building loomed in the
shadows of beech trees further down the cobbled road. Like a pariah, it sat on it's own and held no banner. But the static wheel
jutting out from its rear told Peggy it was a watermill and also hinted as a good place to take a wash.
Checking that no lantern flickered in its windows or stirrings around the main door, the slight figure in the crumpled hat followed
the remains of a stone path down to where the water gurgled over the unmoving turbine. Moss grew everywhere and the quiet
Witch wondered if the mill -just like some of the stores, had been abandoned.
The flow was enough for Peggy's requirements, carefully taking off her hat and bag, the diminutive silhouette carefully clambered
down to where the splashing of falling water told Peggy was the ideal spot for bathing. Small thoughts regarding the terrain darted
through her mind as she scanned her gloomy surroundings.
The river -which a title was a bit of a push, had -though the ages, eroded a passageway in the penultimate part of its journey to
the sea. Pulling the only garment she owned over her head, Peggy wondered if the little stream where the footprint resided ran
into this poor parody of a river.
It was cold, with her well-worn poncho hanging from a ivy-wrapped outcrop of the surrounding rock walls, the naked Peggy Powler
cleaned the night away with a soft cloth from her trusty satchel. If anyone had happened to peek from one the mill's dark windows,
they'd have seen a woman who -merely due to her travelling-required trade, owned a body of high breasts, a flat stomach and
sported a tone of all-around good physical health.
But such an observation would have failed to puncture the spell-binder's ruminations. The rawness of the drenching sang through
Peggy's body and with a stoic upturned face enjoying the cascade of icy water, she arranged her thought-process to re-study the
meagre information involving the missing children.
Harriet Heron, the first child to disappear. She lived with her grandmother and recalling Major Evans' tedious chronology, Peggy
wondered if the location of their home had any relevance. The corpulent functionary had told the small Witch across his desk that
Harriet's grandmother lived in a ramshackle cabin at the rear of the cedars on the plateau. A fact that could have a bearing.
With a brisk shiver, the bare-assed necromancer stepped out of the natural shower and felt the morning air begin to dry her skin.
With her poncho -a garment that could really do with a wash itself, back over her thin shoulders, Peggy climbed onto the stony bank
to retrieve her hat and bag.
...................................................
It was a welcomed mug of coffee. Granny Heron sat in the creaking rocking-chair next to her fire-hearth and watched the legendary
Witch sip at the hot brew. The day was fully awake now and the shadows of tall trees that waited just beyond the small property were
too busy trying to keep their own immediate domain in shade rather than stretch their umbra towards the shack that the old woman
called home.
"Yer'll be here to find our Harriet?" the toothless crone asked with a tone that said she already knew the answer. Peggy looked over
the rim of her steaming mug and wondered what clues lay within the old woman's almost-bald head. "Aye, me-thinks the lassie is
still alive too" Peggy replied. The room offered the same amount of hope as it's occupier and the physical and mental gloom was
unmistakable.
What were once brightly-coloured fabrics adorning the cabin's walls now hung like dusty limp memories of autumn. Behind Granny
Heron, stretched linen on hazel poles brandished faded flowers and advertised the suffocating melancholy that now soaked the
room.
"T'were me-own fault... lettin' the girl roam yon back woods..." the cracked-voice of the ninety year-old tendered. "...There's dark
magic back there and things a kiddie shouldn't know about". Granny's slow rocking movement lulled the time as Peggy reached for
threads of a cohesive audit . Somewhere far off, a cockerel boasted of his harem.
Putting down the half-empty pot, Peggy began her questioning.
from her troubled sleep. After saying goodnight to the nervous Treacle Thistle, she'd eventually decided to take her rest
on the edge of the monolith-strewn lawn, next to the gate of entry.
The large bag that Peggy always carried with her doubled as her sleeping aide, a place where she could enjoy warmth
and know that no beholding to house-dwellers would be needed. The Witch of Underhill had never attempted to discover
the magic of the satchel, the large leather container had always provided what she needed and when the darkness came,
was always empty and ready for slumber.
Except last night, such rest took some time to hunt down.
Chime-Children, the circle of stones, the odd footprint and something she couldn't quite grasp... thoughts and half-baked
theories had jostled inside Peggy's head for placing to build a plan. Staring out towards the where blackness had stolen
the sea, the sorceress had heard the imaginary voice of Mary Bretton again.
"How Maggie stitched such beauty is beyond me"
The puzzle laughed mockingly and followed Peggy down the drowsy tunnel of fitful sleep.
Sunday's chilly morning wouldn't be arriving for another half-hour and denying herself a snooze, Peggy focused on rising
and doing her ablutions. During her visit to the Major Evans, she'd noticed the water-pump in -what seemed to be, the
centre of St. Martin's, but determined that washing one's naked body in a street could cause a loss of respect.
Best to find another place.
Realising that the village was basically oval-shaped with the Brettons living at one of the elongated ends, Peggy gathered
herself, settled her faithful hat on her head and left the silent-staring of the stoic standing-stones to see if St. Martins held a
better emplacement to clean oneself.
...................................................
The bushes along the lane gave an occasional rustle that Peggy believed was a bird looking for an early breakfast, no self
-respecting Boggart or sprite would dare to be out until it was certain that the owls had retired for the night.
A chirp of delight endorsed the Witch's speculation.
The residence with a barrel at its front door was the Brewer's home, It was the last domicile before the lane slipped away
up the bank to where Calder's Way awaited. The Brettons were next with their colourful garden and shadowed windows.
Kittie was in dream-land now, maybe searching for her sister.
At the point where the large gate of Farmer Bulmer's met the lane, the cobbled byway turned slightly left and passing three
more cottages, Peggy realised she was approaching what would be deemed the hub of St. Martin's. The water-pump, the
far-too long trough and a well-worn stone pedestal that may have held a statue at some point, markers of an attempt to be
a town-square.
A grocery-store leaned next to a run-down building that Peggy guessed was once a drapery, the store sign was gone except
for a rotten wooden piece that proclaimed' Madame Tar.., the rest -the half-curious Witch believed, had allowed the winter to
get its fingers in.
With a twist of her lips at her faint reflection in the dirt-smudged window lined with cobwebs, Peggy pressed on.
Passing a large badly-damaged door that she wagered was the workshop of a Blacksmith, a dark-red building loomed in the
shadows of beech trees further down the cobbled road. Like a pariah, it sat on it's own and held no banner. But the static wheel
jutting out from its rear told Peggy it was a watermill and also hinted as a good place to take a wash.
Checking that no lantern flickered in its windows or stirrings around the main door, the slight figure in the crumpled hat followed
the remains of a stone path down to where the water gurgled over the unmoving turbine. Moss grew everywhere and the quiet
Witch wondered if the mill -just like some of the stores, had been abandoned.
The flow was enough for Peggy's requirements, carefully taking off her hat and bag, the diminutive silhouette carefully clambered
down to where the splashing of falling water told Peggy was the ideal spot for bathing. Small thoughts regarding the terrain darted
through her mind as she scanned her gloomy surroundings.
The river -which a title was a bit of a push, had -though the ages, eroded a passageway in the penultimate part of its journey to
the sea. Pulling the only garment she owned over her head, Peggy wondered if the little stream where the footprint resided ran
into this poor parody of a river.
It was cold, with her well-worn poncho hanging from a ivy-wrapped outcrop of the surrounding rock walls, the naked Peggy Powler
cleaned the night away with a soft cloth from her trusty satchel. If anyone had happened to peek from one the mill's dark windows,
they'd have seen a woman who -merely due to her travelling-required trade, owned a body of high breasts, a flat stomach and
sported a tone of all-around good physical health.
But such an observation would have failed to puncture the spell-binder's ruminations. The rawness of the drenching sang through
Peggy's body and with a stoic upturned face enjoying the cascade of icy water, she arranged her thought-process to re-study the
meagre information involving the missing children.
Harriet Heron, the first child to disappear. She lived with her grandmother and recalling Major Evans' tedious chronology, Peggy
wondered if the location of their home had any relevance. The corpulent functionary had told the small Witch across his desk that
Harriet's grandmother lived in a ramshackle cabin at the rear of the cedars on the plateau. A fact that could have a bearing.
With a brisk shiver, the bare-assed necromancer stepped out of the natural shower and felt the morning air begin to dry her skin.
With her poncho -a garment that could really do with a wash itself, back over her thin shoulders, Peggy climbed onto the stony bank
to retrieve her hat and bag.
...................................................
It was a welcomed mug of coffee. Granny Heron sat in the creaking rocking-chair next to her fire-hearth and watched the legendary
Witch sip at the hot brew. The day was fully awake now and the shadows of tall trees that waited just beyond the small property were
too busy trying to keep their own immediate domain in shade rather than stretch their umbra towards the shack that the old woman
called home.
"Yer'll be here to find our Harriet?" the toothless crone asked with a tone that said she already knew the answer. Peggy looked over
the rim of her steaming mug and wondered what clues lay within the old woman's almost-bald head. "Aye, me-thinks the lassie is
still alive too" Peggy replied. The room offered the same amount of hope as it's occupier and the physical and mental gloom was
unmistakable.
What were once brightly-coloured fabrics adorning the cabin's walls now hung like dusty limp memories of autumn. Behind Granny
Heron, stretched linen on hazel poles brandished faded flowers and advertised the suffocating melancholy that now soaked the
room.
"T'were me-own fault... lettin' the girl roam yon back woods..." the cracked-voice of the ninety year-old tendered. "...There's dark
magic back there and things a kiddie shouldn't know about". Granny's slow rocking movement lulled the time as Peggy reached for
threads of a cohesive audit . Somewhere far off, a cockerel boasted of his harem.
Putting down the half-empty pot, Peggy began her questioning.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.