Looking eastwards, Peggy Powler stared blankly at the thunder-heads on the horizon of the Great Sea and deliberated on her
rescuing scheme. Even though the elevation of the Heron property afforded such a serene vista, the Witch's reason for being
there on this warm late-afternoon was to re-examine the engineering needed to recover the stolen girls.
Peggy was now sure that all of the colleens had been taken by Gwydionel and if the books in the library of Ambroaz had any
merit, time worked differently where this ignoble virago dwelt. Maybe the full amount of girls were still alive and maybe... just
maybe, St. Martin's O' The Green could reclaim some dignity as well as the children.
But the Witch's current concern were the frames, the physical surroundings that contained the magical aperture that Gwydionel
had utilised. To accomplish the plan that Peggy and Thistle had finalised, the evil doorways had to be closed permanently.
A short walk off the beaten track that led to Grannie Heron's home brought the poncho-wearing Warlock to where the long-ago
stealing of a Druid's daughter had taken place. Between the two apple trees that stood on the bank of overgrown grass and
distorted alliums, Peggy allowed her inner-spirit to take the temperature of the immediate vicinity.
After a minute or so, she concluded that if an ethereal doorway had existed here, it wasn't maintained.
It wasn't a regular means of passage.
But cautiousness had been a byword for all fairground folk during Peggy's early years and the small solitary woman in the wide
-rimmed hat surveying the dishevelled pasture had adhered to such prudence since she'd first set out on her purpose of policing
the darker-side of the supernatural. Today was to be no different.
With careful contemplation, Peggy scanned the overgrown area and found no hidden amulets or totems of power. The soil was not
accessible for any scrawled runes of sorcery and the skinny trunks of the stunted apple trees held no carved incantations in their
bark. With a small smile appearing on her lips, the last Witch of Underhill noticed the young sprigs of a Rosemary growing around
the base of one the trees and being a herb that certain malevolence detest, Peggy felt confident, this potential doorway would now
be out of bounds.
However, just to be on the safe side, a quick fumbling in her ensorcelled satchel produced an item that would make certain Gwydionel
the Snatcher would not be prowling between the apple trees in the near future. To an onlooker, it would seem Peggy held a small slab
of greyish clay, a fashioned ingot of dry earth that twinkled with pyrite when turned in the sun.
Assuming our imagined-onlooker would show some decency and find interest in the clouds out at sea, Peggy reached up on her
tip-toes and allowing the summer air to dance upon parts of her body usually shrouded by her poncho, she plucked a twig from
the tree with the garnish of Rosemary.
Words of ceremonial constraint were written on the wedge of semi-dried mud and yet this act was not the simple task of leaving
exorcism-instructions in a forgotten place, the ingredients of the tablet far outweighed the scrawled spell.
Kneaded into the soil were the crushed bones of a gibbeted man that have been cherished for seven years.
Mixed with dried graveyard moss, pyrite (fool's gold) and the head of Hag-worm, the ungodly dough can be fashioned into a
quire where hexes and spells can be written. However, one must wait seven months after such an esoteric suffusion before
these conjurations will activate.
Squatting down, Peggy moved some grass to one side and placed the sacred billet beneath the aromatic leaves of the Rosemary
plant, the Witch's face showed solemnity throughout the act. It was done.
Then out of the blue, another example of tact murmured in Peggy's thoughts. This time it came in the form of Thistle Treacle's voice
and his previous-night's warning of 'damned bolt-holes'. Standing to her full height, Peggy gazed around as she reflected on the advice
until her eyes alighted on the backyard of the grocery store and the derelict abode of Madame Tanner.
...................................................
"It's a sad-sight to see one -such as yourself, pondering to enter such a dark place" Turnip Mudd said and stepped out from behind
a sad-looking gooseberry bush that used the remains of a crumbling wall to hide against the worst of St. Martin's wintery weather.
Holding a battered burlap at his side and what looked like a rolled-up piece of fabric under his arm, Peggy deduced that she'd
interrupted the Gnome gathering his larder.
But considering the time of day, she wondered why the hoary introverted Elf was taking such a risk to collect the young sour-tasting
cuisine. The answer soon arrived.
"Before St. Martin's was here, the Bitch On The Hill was said to be sometimes seen down here" Mr Mudd said and adjusted his
burden beneath his arm. They were both in the shadow of the drapery building and the temperature seemed lower than it should be.
"My ancestors told of the grey hellion appearing near some rocks that resided just where this structure now stands."
Peggy lifted her chin to show she understood and waited for whatever may happen next. The Gnome looked out of place and his
stance implied that the gathering of goosegogs and his information weren't the only the reasons he was here in the dangerous time
of daylight.
"I... er, I brought you this" Turnip stumbled to say in his awkwardness of being used to solitude. With the quarter-filled Hessian sack
dropped onto the hard-packed earth of the drapery yard, the small friendless being stepped closer to the Witch and handed over
the rolled piece of cloth.
Accepting nodded approval from Turnip Mudd, Peggy unfurled the fabric and with a small intake of air, marvelled at the embroidered
artwork. "It belonged to my mother and her mother before her..." the red-cheeked Gnome said hurriedly "... it's shows the countryside
before humans came here".
And it did too. The little lane where Peggy had first met Thistle was just an imagined space between the fat spruces and what looked
a line of hawthorn bushes. Such thinning between shrubs and trees were ideal places where rabbits used to escape their burrows.
The flat lawn of standing-stones could hardly be seen for the surrounding trees and where the Brettons would live was just an eroded
bank where the rabbits frolicked.
On the right-hand side of the tapestry, more woodland abided and with the use of grey thread, indications of the stone ravine belonging
to the river, was deftly displayed. Showing her genuine enjoyment of the ancient cloth, Peggy whispered " my goodness" before altering
her features into a look of concern.
There -just to the right of where burrows riddled the disintegrated rain-eroded gurry that would be cottages in the future, two dark red
objects could be glimpsed. Clumps of gorse bushes hid most of what they were supposed to be, but Peggy's mind immediately leapt
to what Turnip had mentioned earlier.
The Witch's eyes moved from the stitched map to the same coloured rocks now sitting in the remains of the yard-wall and with a twist
of her lips, hissed "Whey yer' bugger, it looks like we've found the bitch's bolt-hole".
rescuing scheme. Even though the elevation of the Heron property afforded such a serene vista, the Witch's reason for being
there on this warm late-afternoon was to re-examine the engineering needed to recover the stolen girls.
Peggy was now sure that all of the colleens had been taken by Gwydionel and if the books in the library of Ambroaz had any
merit, time worked differently where this ignoble virago dwelt. Maybe the full amount of girls were still alive and maybe... just
maybe, St. Martin's O' The Green could reclaim some dignity as well as the children.
But the Witch's current concern were the frames, the physical surroundings that contained the magical aperture that Gwydionel
had utilised. To accomplish the plan that Peggy and Thistle had finalised, the evil doorways had to be closed permanently.
A short walk off the beaten track that led to Grannie Heron's home brought the poncho-wearing Warlock to where the long-ago
stealing of a Druid's daughter had taken place. Between the two apple trees that stood on the bank of overgrown grass and
distorted alliums, Peggy allowed her inner-spirit to take the temperature of the immediate vicinity.
After a minute or so, she concluded that if an ethereal doorway had existed here, it wasn't maintained.
It wasn't a regular means of passage.
But cautiousness had been a byword for all fairground folk during Peggy's early years and the small solitary woman in the wide
-rimmed hat surveying the dishevelled pasture had adhered to such prudence since she'd first set out on her purpose of policing
the darker-side of the supernatural. Today was to be no different.
With careful contemplation, Peggy scanned the overgrown area and found no hidden amulets or totems of power. The soil was not
accessible for any scrawled runes of sorcery and the skinny trunks of the stunted apple trees held no carved incantations in their
bark. With a small smile appearing on her lips, the last Witch of Underhill noticed the young sprigs of a Rosemary growing around
the base of one the trees and being a herb that certain malevolence detest, Peggy felt confident, this potential doorway would now
be out of bounds.
However, just to be on the safe side, a quick fumbling in her ensorcelled satchel produced an item that would make certain Gwydionel
the Snatcher would not be prowling between the apple trees in the near future. To an onlooker, it would seem Peggy held a small slab
of greyish clay, a fashioned ingot of dry earth that twinkled with pyrite when turned in the sun.
Assuming our imagined-onlooker would show some decency and find interest in the clouds out at sea, Peggy reached up on her
tip-toes and allowing the summer air to dance upon parts of her body usually shrouded by her poncho, she plucked a twig from
the tree with the garnish of Rosemary.
Words of ceremonial constraint were written on the wedge of semi-dried mud and yet this act was not the simple task of leaving
exorcism-instructions in a forgotten place, the ingredients of the tablet far outweighed the scrawled spell.
Kneaded into the soil were the crushed bones of a gibbeted man that have been cherished for seven years.
Mixed with dried graveyard moss, pyrite (fool's gold) and the head of Hag-worm, the ungodly dough can be fashioned into a
quire where hexes and spells can be written. However, one must wait seven months after such an esoteric suffusion before
these conjurations will activate.
Squatting down, Peggy moved some grass to one side and placed the sacred billet beneath the aromatic leaves of the Rosemary
plant, the Witch's face showed solemnity throughout the act. It was done.
Then out of the blue, another example of tact murmured in Peggy's thoughts. This time it came in the form of Thistle Treacle's voice
and his previous-night's warning of 'damned bolt-holes'. Standing to her full height, Peggy gazed around as she reflected on the advice
until her eyes alighted on the backyard of the grocery store and the derelict abode of Madame Tanner.
...................................................
"It's a sad-sight to see one -such as yourself, pondering to enter such a dark place" Turnip Mudd said and stepped out from behind
a sad-looking gooseberry bush that used the remains of a crumbling wall to hide against the worst of St. Martin's wintery weather.
Holding a battered burlap at his side and what looked like a rolled-up piece of fabric under his arm, Peggy deduced that she'd
interrupted the Gnome gathering his larder.
But considering the time of day, she wondered why the hoary introverted Elf was taking such a risk to collect the young sour-tasting
cuisine. The answer soon arrived.
"Before St. Martin's was here, the Bitch On The Hill was said to be sometimes seen down here" Mr Mudd said and adjusted his
burden beneath his arm. They were both in the shadow of the drapery building and the temperature seemed lower than it should be.
"My ancestors told of the grey hellion appearing near some rocks that resided just where this structure now stands."
Peggy lifted her chin to show she understood and waited for whatever may happen next. The Gnome looked out of place and his
stance implied that the gathering of goosegogs and his information weren't the only the reasons he was here in the dangerous time
of daylight.
"I... er, I brought you this" Turnip stumbled to say in his awkwardness of being used to solitude. With the quarter-filled Hessian sack
dropped onto the hard-packed earth of the drapery yard, the small friendless being stepped closer to the Witch and handed over
the rolled piece of cloth.
Accepting nodded approval from Turnip Mudd, Peggy unfurled the fabric and with a small intake of air, marvelled at the embroidered
artwork. "It belonged to my mother and her mother before her..." the red-cheeked Gnome said hurriedly "... it's shows the countryside
before humans came here".
And it did too. The little lane where Peggy had first met Thistle was just an imagined space between the fat spruces and what looked
a line of hawthorn bushes. Such thinning between shrubs and trees were ideal places where rabbits used to escape their burrows.
The flat lawn of standing-stones could hardly be seen for the surrounding trees and where the Brettons would live was just an eroded
bank where the rabbits frolicked.
On the right-hand side of the tapestry, more woodland abided and with the use of grey thread, indications of the stone ravine belonging
to the river, was deftly displayed. Showing her genuine enjoyment of the ancient cloth, Peggy whispered " my goodness" before altering
her features into a look of concern.
There -just to the right of where burrows riddled the disintegrated rain-eroded gurry that would be cottages in the future, two dark red
objects could be glimpsed. Clumps of gorse bushes hid most of what they were supposed to be, but Peggy's mind immediately leapt
to what Turnip had mentioned earlier.
The Witch's eyes moved from the stitched map to the same coloured rocks now sitting in the remains of the yard-wall and with a twist
of her lips, hissed "Whey yer' bugger, it looks like we've found the bitch's bolt-hole".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.