The smoke from the Blacksmith's forge was still curling from its brick chimney-stack when Peggy Powler stumbled from
the backyard of Madame Tanner's store and into the lane. The sun was beginning its arc towards the west and the little
Witch's shadow hurried ahead as she made her way to the farrier's large battered door.
The dark-red rock in her arms threatened to wriggle free during every heavy step of Peggy's bare feet and yet it was
the Gnome who had suggested he'd take the longer route to the Smithy's establishment, she was more concerned with.
"It pays me no great sense of pride to be seen by these humans..." Turnip Mudd had said, grunting in lifting the second
boulder. "...But there's a trail I know that will get me close to yon metal-worker" he'd gasped and gave a look that told
the four-foot tall woman in the poncho not to question his strength when laid against his age.
Without another word, Turnip lumbered behind the gooseberry bush with his burden and was gone. In the shadow of
the drapery, Peggy acknowledged the favour that the little old Elf had taken and scooping up Turnip's half-filled bag of
gooseberries, she carefully placed them in her own. Then adjusting the strap of said satchel and spitting on her hands,
the last Witch of Underhill set about attacking her own rubescent encumberment.
Arriving at her goal, Peggy unceremoniously dropped the rock outside the half-open door of the Blacksmith's. She was
sweating heavily, but still managed a wry smile at the sight of the second aggregate sitting in its own crater. Mudd had
beaten her to the finish line.
Where redundant materials of a Plover resided and where rural spiders had come to the conclusion that webs across
rusting urban wheel-rims worked just as well as willow branches, a dark shape moved amongst the other dark shapes
there. Long bars of iron that were as thick as a man's wrist leaned against the Blacksmith's outer-wall and lumps of
energy-spent coke lay scattered everywhere.
"I'll be getting home now, necromancer..." Turnip whispered and his laboured breathing was obvious. Peggy walked
softly down the side of the building and met the weary-looking Gnome who struggled to fake an easy leaning against
a forgotten saw-horse. "...If I'm correct in your notion, it'll pay you to bind those boulders well" he said and offered
one of his rare smiles.
Peggy kneeled down and gently took Turnip's hand, the skin was hard with age and toil. " Yer' a canny 'un in my book,
Mr Mudd" she whispered and handed over his sack of small fruit. The weight told both of them that majick had taken
place as Turnip's eyes widened as he accepted the brimming bag. "I thank yer' lady" he murmured humbly.
...................................................
Peeking around the weather-chewed door of the Blacksmith's abode, Peggy peered into the shadows and called
out the usual greeting. "Fair travels... is anyone home?". There was some hurried movement in the rear of the dark
interior and when two silhouettes fleetingly appeared before a rear window, the little Witch took the assumption that
Daniel Marney was with his wife.
"And fair elements to you, Ma'am...how can I help" the taller of the dark shapes answered. Peggy stepped out of
the bright sun and allowed her vision to adjust to the shade. Doffing her hat helped too.
Daniel Marney looked around thirty years of age, Peggy estimated and she'd wager his health would be that
of a decade-younger man by the look of his broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. The pretty woman beside
him -who curtsied as they met their prospective customer, must have left her teens very recently.
"Good day, I'm Hattie Marney" she said daintily and ironed any creases from the front of her long frock. The single
strand of straw that stuck out her long fair hair only added to what the Witch believed she had interrupted.
As a dove cooed somewhere up in the eaves, Peggy asked if the Blacksmith could perform the task she outlined
and the handsome man with the handsome wife assured it could be done.
Even if he thought the request was quite odd.
...................................................
She slept well that night, with Thistle providing roasted rabbit and a bounty of selected salads from around St. Martin's,
Peggy's full tummy and aching arms comforted the tired sorceress in the same manner the Blacksmith had done in
regards of the labour he was undertaking.
Over the flames of Thistle's small campfire and around a final mouthful of delicious fat-fried chicory, she asked her
friendly Yetun if he knew anything about the Marneys and especially about the young woman. The small brown-hatted
being looked out towards the coast and gathered his thoughts.
"He's a fine lad, lived in the cluster of cottages further down the lane..." Thistle said nostalgically. "I first saw him when
his Pa used to take him fishing down at the marshes, he's a stand-up fella -that one" he added and scratched his chin
in further thought.
Peggy eyed her satchel and yet, denied a few more minutes to fall into the arms of Morpheus for a single sorrel leaf
and any information on the wife of this favoured man. Thistle looked inwardly puzzled and rubbing his face similar to
the act of washing, he eventually sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
"You know, I can't recall where she came from" he said and strangely to the affable Bogle, his response drew a grin
from his tired guest. "Aye, Ah' thought not" Peggy replied enigmatically.
The full moon told them that it was time for bed and before the little door of Thistle Treacle's home closed once more,
he wished the spellbinder snuggling down in the magical bag, a very goodnight. Peggy reciprocated the wish and
allowed the strains of the day to take her to dreamland.
Yet a wee-small voice called to her as she tumbled down the feather-soft tunnel of sleep, a voice that asked one
single question. Is Hattie Marney really the now-full-grown Harriet Heron?
the backyard of Madame Tanner's store and into the lane. The sun was beginning its arc towards the west and the little
Witch's shadow hurried ahead as she made her way to the farrier's large battered door.
The dark-red rock in her arms threatened to wriggle free during every heavy step of Peggy's bare feet and yet it was
the Gnome who had suggested he'd take the longer route to the Smithy's establishment, she was more concerned with.
"It pays me no great sense of pride to be seen by these humans..." Turnip Mudd had said, grunting in lifting the second
boulder. "...But there's a trail I know that will get me close to yon metal-worker" he'd gasped and gave a look that told
the four-foot tall woman in the poncho not to question his strength when laid against his age.
Without another word, Turnip lumbered behind the gooseberry bush with his burden and was gone. In the shadow of
the drapery, Peggy acknowledged the favour that the little old Elf had taken and scooping up Turnip's half-filled bag of
gooseberries, she carefully placed them in her own. Then adjusting the strap of said satchel and spitting on her hands,
the last Witch of Underhill set about attacking her own rubescent encumberment.
Arriving at her goal, Peggy unceremoniously dropped the rock outside the half-open door of the Blacksmith's. She was
sweating heavily, but still managed a wry smile at the sight of the second aggregate sitting in its own crater. Mudd had
beaten her to the finish line.
Where redundant materials of a Plover resided and where rural spiders had come to the conclusion that webs across
rusting urban wheel-rims worked just as well as willow branches, a dark shape moved amongst the other dark shapes
there. Long bars of iron that were as thick as a man's wrist leaned against the Blacksmith's outer-wall and lumps of
energy-spent coke lay scattered everywhere.
"I'll be getting home now, necromancer..." Turnip whispered and his laboured breathing was obvious. Peggy walked
softly down the side of the building and met the weary-looking Gnome who struggled to fake an easy leaning against
a forgotten saw-horse. "...If I'm correct in your notion, it'll pay you to bind those boulders well" he said and offered
one of his rare smiles.
Peggy kneeled down and gently took Turnip's hand, the skin was hard with age and toil. " Yer' a canny 'un in my book,
Mr Mudd" she whispered and handed over his sack of small fruit. The weight told both of them that majick had taken
place as Turnip's eyes widened as he accepted the brimming bag. "I thank yer' lady" he murmured humbly.
...................................................
Peeking around the weather-chewed door of the Blacksmith's abode, Peggy peered into the shadows and called
out the usual greeting. "Fair travels... is anyone home?". There was some hurried movement in the rear of the dark
interior and when two silhouettes fleetingly appeared before a rear window, the little Witch took the assumption that
Daniel Marney was with his wife.
"And fair elements to you, Ma'am...how can I help" the taller of the dark shapes answered. Peggy stepped out of
the bright sun and allowed her vision to adjust to the shade. Doffing her hat helped too.
Daniel Marney looked around thirty years of age, Peggy estimated and she'd wager his health would be that
of a decade-younger man by the look of his broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. The pretty woman beside
him -who curtsied as they met their prospective customer, must have left her teens very recently.
"Good day, I'm Hattie Marney" she said daintily and ironed any creases from the front of her long frock. The single
strand of straw that stuck out her long fair hair only added to what the Witch believed she had interrupted.
As a dove cooed somewhere up in the eaves, Peggy asked if the Blacksmith could perform the task she outlined
and the handsome man with the handsome wife assured it could be done.
Even if he thought the request was quite odd.
...................................................
She slept well that night, with Thistle providing roasted rabbit and a bounty of selected salads from around St. Martin's,
Peggy's full tummy and aching arms comforted the tired sorceress in the same manner the Blacksmith had done in
regards of the labour he was undertaking.
Over the flames of Thistle's small campfire and around a final mouthful of delicious fat-fried chicory, she asked her
friendly Yetun if he knew anything about the Marneys and especially about the young woman. The small brown-hatted
being looked out towards the coast and gathered his thoughts.
"He's a fine lad, lived in the cluster of cottages further down the lane..." Thistle said nostalgically. "I first saw him when
his Pa used to take him fishing down at the marshes, he's a stand-up fella -that one" he added and scratched his chin
in further thought.
Peggy eyed her satchel and yet, denied a few more minutes to fall into the arms of Morpheus for a single sorrel leaf
and any information on the wife of this favoured man. Thistle looked inwardly puzzled and rubbing his face similar to
the act of washing, he eventually sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
"You know, I can't recall where she came from" he said and strangely to the affable Bogle, his response drew a grin
from his tired guest. "Aye, Ah' thought not" Peggy replied enigmatically.
The full moon told them that it was time for bed and before the little door of Thistle Treacle's home closed once more,
he wished the spellbinder snuggling down in the magical bag, a very goodnight. Peggy reciprocated the wish and
allowed the strains of the day to take her to dreamland.
Yet a wee-small voice called to her as she tumbled down the feather-soft tunnel of sleep, a voice that asked one
single question. Is Hattie Marney really the now-full-grown Harriet Heron?
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.