05-20-2021, 09:23 AM
After the ten minute chat with the old woman, Peggy Powler decided to take a look at the so-called 'back-wood' that
Granny Heron had blamed for her grand-daughter's disappearance and to be fair, Peggy didn't think much of it.
Standing next to the remains of a wooden fence and a fierce set of thorny bramble vines, the Witch of Underhill took
stock of the scene before her. Due the trees being so close together, very little foliage obscured the view into the cedar
grove. Carefully avoiding the wicked-looking barbs, Peggy stepped into the shade of the thicket for a better perspective.
The off-white monoliths could be seen on her left quite easily as it seemed any small bushes that attempted to grow
between the wood and the lawn had been taken out. Peggy assumed the residents of St. Martin's still retained some
duty to the hallowed place, but guessed such diligence could be due to them holding their festival on the plateau.
On the right-hand side, the cedars could give vent to their growth and the dry-stone wall that accompanied Calder's
Way was shrouded with low branches that reached for the fabled highway. The wall would continue until the lane that
serviced St. Martin's met with Calder's Way further down the long copse.
Peggy breathed in the spicy aroma of the cedars as she scanned the needle and bark-strewn ground for clues.
There were indications of shoe prints and what branches that had fallen could be see to have been moved.
No doubt, from the worried families that had searched the area.
There was no strange atmosphere or tingling that Peggy would normally pick up when majick had occurred and
the whole place just seemed to simply be what it offered, a clump of trees growing on a hillside. No feelings of
unearthly displacement, no residue of dark incantations and no traces of frightening iniquitousness.
Adjusting her hat and settling the satchel-strap on her shoulder, the small Witch turned her attention back to where
the sunlight waited beyond the unkempt border of Granny Heron's property and the cool shadows of the cedars.
There must be a clue somewhere.
The cabin sat on a piece of land that hadn't seen a spade in a long time, knee-high coarse grass covered most of the
plot except for where the winding hard-packed track came up from the cobbled lane and a smaller attempt that led
towards the cedars.
Blue Cornflowers nodded on the light breeze that had managed to avoid the barrier of trees and woolly-leafed
Candlewick waited just off the path that Peggy had used. Squinting in the late-morning sunshine, a vague memory
bustled its way into the deliberations of the Witch from the days of her teachings in the Carnival.
"Take heed my-girl..." said her drunken fortune-telling mother, "...this Candlewick makes a fine poultice for buckshot
wounds". The young girl in the green dress had watched as Madame Powler -Queen of the Prognosticators, took
another swig of her bottle and fell ungainly onto the sawdust-strewn floor of her tent.
Even at that young age, Peggy had come to realise that the advice from her mother had a connection to the badly-
bleeding Mr Volcano being treated in the next marquee to where she stood.
Something about an irate farmer and his chickens.
Peggy smiled into the warm sunlight and brought her attention back to the present.
A couple of forgotten apple trees stood morosely to the right of Granny's weather-worn building and beyond them,
down the slight rise, Peggy could just see the rear of the grocery-store and drapery.
As the Witch began to turn her focus back towards interrogating the reticent Granny Heron again, a strange series of
thoughts fluttered in Peggy's mind so quickly, that she almost dismissed them immediately.
Drapery... Harriet Heron and Maggie Bretton...the faded tapestries... "Ah yes, places where one can lose themselves".
Peggy's eyes widened in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat as she realised the sewing and embroidery were important
factors in this mystery and to support this undeveloped theory, she needed more relevant evidence.
Time to revisit the retired-Major and maybe, take in some blether with Treacle Thistle again.
...................................................
"...It's like this, Ms. Powler..." the red-faced man grunted as he took down a box of cleaning materials from a high shelf.
"...The county's constabulary have scoured the surroundings of St. Martin's and looked at every possible angle involving
the abductions" Major Evans added and wandered from his office and out into the high-ceiling corridor.
Moments later, the glass cabinet that displayed the military man's medals was opened and the weekly routine of polishing
began.
"You're a year too-late and if I may...?" Evans' voice boomed in the echoing passageway, "...I'd suggest looking for tinkers
and vagabonds that passed this way, they're the likely culprits". A contented humming began of some soldiering tune and
the well-dressed man with the whiskery face went about his ritual of remembrance.
Peggy remained at the leather-embossed desk in his office and fumed quietly, but at least she had the list.
She had decided to visit the Major at his imposing manor house due to it being Sunday. Even a self-announced leader
of a small community doesn't ruffle the feathers of his church-going minions by working on a day of prayer. Peggy held
that her profession held no such interdict and so, her bare-feet trod the gravelled path to Evans' large home for further
investigation.
After politely refusing tea and apologising for intruding on the Major's day of rest -an act that Peggy later felt was a little
over-the-top, she asked him if he could recite the names of the missing children of St. Martin's again. Holding her large
hat in front of her, Peggy fumbled with the brim in a manner the Witch believed was servile and toady enough for the
pretentious buffoon sitting behind his expensive bureau.
Major Evans frowned and his bushy eyebrows told of his scorn for such amateurish comportment. Still, the Army had
trained him this way -he thought, and it would be a lot to demand civilians to hold the qualities he had acquired... and
certainly not from a bare-footed female.
Alas, benevolence went hand-in-hand with leadership, Major Horace Evans believed and so -with Peggy busy scribbling
down the names with a borrowed pencil and on a donated sheet of paper, the names and approximate dates of the
vanishings were once again recalled.
All girls and all between ten and fifteen years of age.
It took Peggy a lot of restraint to endure the prattle of the medal-polishing imperious man in the hallway, but she managed
it with aplomb. Nodding in the right places, the Witch of Underhill moved slowly past Major Evans sitting on the small stool
and chattering on about battles of the past. She even smiled twice.
With an accentuated glance at the tall clock near the front door, Peggy explained that the day was getting away from her
and that she should be going. Assuming Evans was amid some mental foray of ordering soldiers to their death, Peggy
left without a goodbye from him and herself.
Leaving the manor and setting a bare foot back towards the hamlet of St. Martin's O' The Green, the hungry Witch silently
read the list of names and prepared her next step of her investigation. During her rushed writing, Peggy had noticed the
dates were all on or about some kind of event or celebration. This could mean -she thought to herself as she closed the
large gate of Major Evans' long driveway, that she may have a deadline as Midsummer was only a week away.
But first, some food and a chat with Mr Treacle.
Granny Heron had blamed for her grand-daughter's disappearance and to be fair, Peggy didn't think much of it.
Standing next to the remains of a wooden fence and a fierce set of thorny bramble vines, the Witch of Underhill took
stock of the scene before her. Due the trees being so close together, very little foliage obscured the view into the cedar
grove. Carefully avoiding the wicked-looking barbs, Peggy stepped into the shade of the thicket for a better perspective.
The off-white monoliths could be seen on her left quite easily as it seemed any small bushes that attempted to grow
between the wood and the lawn had been taken out. Peggy assumed the residents of St. Martin's still retained some
duty to the hallowed place, but guessed such diligence could be due to them holding their festival on the plateau.
On the right-hand side, the cedars could give vent to their growth and the dry-stone wall that accompanied Calder's
Way was shrouded with low branches that reached for the fabled highway. The wall would continue until the lane that
serviced St. Martin's met with Calder's Way further down the long copse.
Peggy breathed in the spicy aroma of the cedars as she scanned the needle and bark-strewn ground for clues.
There were indications of shoe prints and what branches that had fallen could be see to have been moved.
No doubt, from the worried families that had searched the area.
There was no strange atmosphere or tingling that Peggy would normally pick up when majick had occurred and
the whole place just seemed to simply be what it offered, a clump of trees growing on a hillside. No feelings of
unearthly displacement, no residue of dark incantations and no traces of frightening iniquitousness.
Adjusting her hat and settling the satchel-strap on her shoulder, the small Witch turned her attention back to where
the sunlight waited beyond the unkempt border of Granny Heron's property and the cool shadows of the cedars.
There must be a clue somewhere.
The cabin sat on a piece of land that hadn't seen a spade in a long time, knee-high coarse grass covered most of the
plot except for where the winding hard-packed track came up from the cobbled lane and a smaller attempt that led
towards the cedars.
Blue Cornflowers nodded on the light breeze that had managed to avoid the barrier of trees and woolly-leafed
Candlewick waited just off the path that Peggy had used. Squinting in the late-morning sunshine, a vague memory
bustled its way into the deliberations of the Witch from the days of her teachings in the Carnival.
"Take heed my-girl..." said her drunken fortune-telling mother, "...this Candlewick makes a fine poultice for buckshot
wounds". The young girl in the green dress had watched as Madame Powler -Queen of the Prognosticators, took
another swig of her bottle and fell ungainly onto the sawdust-strewn floor of her tent.
Even at that young age, Peggy had come to realise that the advice from her mother had a connection to the badly-
bleeding Mr Volcano being treated in the next marquee to where she stood.
Something about an irate farmer and his chickens.
Peggy smiled into the warm sunlight and brought her attention back to the present.
A couple of forgotten apple trees stood morosely to the right of Granny's weather-worn building and beyond them,
down the slight rise, Peggy could just see the rear of the grocery-store and drapery.
As the Witch began to turn her focus back towards interrogating the reticent Granny Heron again, a strange series of
thoughts fluttered in Peggy's mind so quickly, that she almost dismissed them immediately.
Drapery... Harriet Heron and Maggie Bretton...the faded tapestries... "Ah yes, places where one can lose themselves".
Peggy's eyes widened in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat as she realised the sewing and embroidery were important
factors in this mystery and to support this undeveloped theory, she needed more relevant evidence.
Time to revisit the retired-Major and maybe, take in some blether with Treacle Thistle again.
...................................................
"...It's like this, Ms. Powler..." the red-faced man grunted as he took down a box of cleaning materials from a high shelf.
"...The county's constabulary have scoured the surroundings of St. Martin's and looked at every possible angle involving
the abductions" Major Evans added and wandered from his office and out into the high-ceiling corridor.
Moments later, the glass cabinet that displayed the military man's medals was opened and the weekly routine of polishing
began.
"You're a year too-late and if I may...?" Evans' voice boomed in the echoing passageway, "...I'd suggest looking for tinkers
and vagabonds that passed this way, they're the likely culprits". A contented humming began of some soldiering tune and
the well-dressed man with the whiskery face went about his ritual of remembrance.
Peggy remained at the leather-embossed desk in his office and fumed quietly, but at least she had the list.
She had decided to visit the Major at his imposing manor house due to it being Sunday. Even a self-announced leader
of a small community doesn't ruffle the feathers of his church-going minions by working on a day of prayer. Peggy held
that her profession held no such interdict and so, her bare-feet trod the gravelled path to Evans' large home for further
investigation.
After politely refusing tea and apologising for intruding on the Major's day of rest -an act that Peggy later felt was a little
over-the-top, she asked him if he could recite the names of the missing children of St. Martin's again. Holding her large
hat in front of her, Peggy fumbled with the brim in a manner the Witch believed was servile and toady enough for the
pretentious buffoon sitting behind his expensive bureau.
Major Evans frowned and his bushy eyebrows told of his scorn for such amateurish comportment. Still, the Army had
trained him this way -he thought, and it would be a lot to demand civilians to hold the qualities he had acquired... and
certainly not from a bare-footed female.
Alas, benevolence went hand-in-hand with leadership, Major Horace Evans believed and so -with Peggy busy scribbling
down the names with a borrowed pencil and on a donated sheet of paper, the names and approximate dates of the
vanishings were once again recalled.
All girls and all between ten and fifteen years of age.
It took Peggy a lot of restraint to endure the prattle of the medal-polishing imperious man in the hallway, but she managed
it with aplomb. Nodding in the right places, the Witch of Underhill moved slowly past Major Evans sitting on the small stool
and chattering on about battles of the past. She even smiled twice.
With an accentuated glance at the tall clock near the front door, Peggy explained that the day was getting away from her
and that she should be going. Assuming Evans was amid some mental foray of ordering soldiers to their death, Peggy
left without a goodbye from him and herself.
Leaving the manor and setting a bare foot back towards the hamlet of St. Martin's O' The Green, the hungry Witch silently
read the list of names and prepared her next step of her investigation. During her rushed writing, Peggy had noticed the
dates were all on or about some kind of event or celebration. This could mean -she thought to herself as she closed the
large gate of Major Evans' long driveway, that she may have a deadline as Midsummer was only a week away.
But first, some food and a chat with Mr Treacle.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.