Some time in the hour before dawn a fret of rain swept in from the coast and watered the Delphiniums in the Bretton
garden and quenched the thirst of the Lady's Mantle along the lane. Sadly, the weak force of the lone cloud failed to
enhance the power of the river in the village, but let us hope that it had better fortunes further inland.
Peggy Powler woke to her Friday morning with a smell of fried mushrooms and hot chicory-coffee hitching a ride on
the wood-smoke of Thistle's campfire. Out at sea, faint squawks of fighting seagulls accompanied the drowsy Witch's
rousing and ruffling her hair, Peggy climbed out of her satchel and like the seabirds, focused on getting on with the day.
The knee-high Bogle pushed back his wrinkled hat and watched the woman in the poncho stumble away into the bushes
for her morning chore. Wondering if she'd be happy with his sewing endeavours, Thistle smiled to himself and went back
to pouring his friend a mug of horseweed.
The freshly-picked mushrooms sizzled in the pan inherited from his grandmother, but whether that cooking skillet was
designed to cloud Peggy's cursing -due to tripping on a root, we can't say. But the foul-language was as faint as the gulls
arguing over their breakfast.
"Mornin' Thistle..." Peggy muttered as she appeared from behind an overgrown rhododendron, the little Witch looked like
someone had dragged her through the azalea shrub during her sleep. "...It feels like the day doesn't want me awake" she
mumbled and plonked herself down beside her genial host.
It would be another ten minutes before the usual investigator from Underhill was her proper self again and Thistle put it
down to a honey-laced mug of coffee, a nicely-browned mushroom and the cold pitcher of seawater he'd bravely acquired
during the dawn's rain.
Another household vessel bequeathed by Mrs Treacle the Elder.
"What do you think?" Thistle asked as Peggy treated herself to another demitasse of beverage. The little Yetun was standing
as tall as he could on the bank outside his home and was merely a ghostly voice behind the blanket that he held high.
The banner proclaimed that 'Peggy Powler, Mistress of the Mysterious, Can Tell Your Fortune And Bring You Happiness...
All for the price of a single coin'. Scarlet darn scrolled around the edges of the material and like the root that brought its
bear-footed victim to the ground earlier, entwined with gaily-coloured renderings of roadside flowers and ripened berries.
The words were embroidered with golden thread and patterned with stitching that had never seen the hole of a worn sock
or torn pants. Filaments of deep blue flowed in subtle curls like a lazy water's edge of a summer ocean and added a cool
strength to the overall vibrancy of the Yetun-high pennant.
"Whey yer' bugger...!" Peggy exclaimed and applauding the work of Thistle, stood up and went to where her unaware friend
was grunting to display what he was proud of. "..'Ah've seen some posters in me-time at the Carnival, but yours takes the
biscuit" she said and manoeuvred around the breeze-flapping flag.
The little Bogle who'd been reluctant to engage the stranger he'd met on the road one night, the scared Elf who had no sensible
reason to endanger himself to the talons of owls and the jaws of foxes, The quiet Fae they called Thistle Treacle looked up from
his attentive position for approval of his enterprise to help rid St. Martin's of an unknown evil.
Peggy's kiss on his warm cheek brought him his answer.
As the pair prepared for the day ahead, the question of where -and even how, the opulent materials that had turned a workaday
bed-sheet into a banner of rococo prisms of colour, was never asked. I've heard it said that Bogle's move in mysterious ways,
just as Peggy often does.
Best to just leave things like that alone, eh?
...................................................
It looked like a poor attempt to make a snowman out of iron and stone, a creation that failed miserably in the context of art,
but a blue-ribbon winner in the world of stopping girl-stealing bitches. Daniel Marney straightened his rolled-up sleeves
and offered Peggy Powler the same look a smaller being had tendered earlier.
"Well, what do you think?" the young man asked with a light tone of pride and guessing he didn't mean his well-muscled arms,
the Witch of Underhill nodded with appreciation. Although to be fair, the acknowledgment she performed would've been the same
even if he had asked about his sinewy toned-limbs.
Keeping her pondering to herself, "Perfect" she answered softly and leaned closer for a better look.
The two dark-red boulders were bound in cages of metal, not dissimilar from a parcel, four flattened bars were wrapped around
the rocks and then bolted together to make one single object. Not asked for, but drawing no complaint from Peggy, the Smithy
had welded a plate to one end and stood the whole piece upright.
One boulder on top of another, but no space between them. "Perfect" the customer whispered again.
The homely-smells of the farrier's workplace made the morning seem a time when neighbours chat over garden fences or when wily
farmers chew the cud whilst scrutinising tradable livestock. Daniel's well-worn forge glowed like the gates of Gehenna and emanated
a heat that only hammered ores and the wretched damned could appreciate.
In such a cozy setting, Peggy waited for the cost.
"We usually charge ten frollis for such work..." the young lady said as she appeared from the shadows of the foundry, "...but I'm
sure we can come to a reasonable price for our famous visitor" Hattie said easily and displayed a smile that told Peggy why the
broad-shoulder hunk in the leather apron had fallen for her.
Peggy curtsied at the compliment and returned a smile with her own. "Aye, It's a canny piece of work, alright" she said and moved
her hand across the beaten metal, the Witch's other hand remained beneath her poncho. "Me-purse might be small, but 'Ah'm no
robber" she quipped benignly and watched Daniel step back into his realm of twisted minerals and dragon's breath.
Then Peggy cast her spell.
When Daniel glanced up from his toil at the anvil, he saw a chest-high woman in a wide-brimmed hat walking out into the sunlight
with the love of his life. Further perusal would have deducted the notion that the two women were involved in facile palaver and
certainly nothing to be concerned about. The Blacksmith returned to fixing a broken plough blade.
"Yer'll be Harriet Heron then...?" Peggy asked, but it was obviously not a question, "...the lassie who escaped the clutches of the
devil known as Gwydionel" she stated and surveyed the lane for any interruption. Hattie gazed up at the blue sky and sighed,
she was struggling not to answer. A wiggle of the Witch's finger allayed her conflict.
"She... she made us work to create colour..." the pretty woman moaned softly. "...the darkness, the darkness retreated as we sewed"
Peggy watched the torment on Hattie's face as the memories returned, whatever the domain she'd endured in seemed to be a place
of doom and abandonment.
"Yes, but you got away, you found a way out" Peggy urged and pointed aimlessly out into the countryside -just in the event Daniel was
watching. "Tell me how you did it" she hissed tenderly and feigned a smile over her shoulder towards the shadows of the foundry.
Hattie was panting now and the Witch knew she didn't have long left, the mental torment was rising.
"It's the standing-stones... she left the door open and I ran away into the wilds" Hattie responded between gasps and Peggy could
see that she was starting faint. "Are there any other doorways?" she snapped quickly and Mrs Marney lurched alarmingly forward
in her pursuit to stay upright. Peggy rushed to help her and checking to see if her husband was watching, she guided his dazed
partner away from the barn's entrance.
"The apple trees of my grandmother..." Hattie whispered as she almost fell onto the wooden bench her husband had made a year
ago. "Just the trees and the drapery" she repeated and slumped senseless against the wall of her property.
Peggy murmured another invocation and the young woman's eyelids began to flutter, the Witch licked her lips and went into the second
act of her performance. "...And as 'Ah say, such grand work demands better settlement than a mere ten frollis" Peggy said theatrically.
Swifts screamed their joy overhead in the morning air and unseen by anyone, a weasel hesitated in his hunt amongst the tall cattails
across from the Blacksmiths to watch two nearby upright predators acting strangely.
Hattie Marney was now looking around in a similar manner that Treacle had after his trance, but the poncho-wearing woman standing
bare-footed in the dirt seemed too absorbed in her own commentary to have noticed. "A gold numma... no more and no less!" Peggy
exclaimed into the bailiwick of the birds and raised her arms to deny any protestations from her audience.
After another thank you towards Daniel, an assurance that someone would be along to pick up the boulders and of course, the passing
-over of the payment, the relieved Witch of Underhill went on to tackle the next part of her plan.
Hattie Marney pondered on her momentary swoon and when no answer came, she went back to her morning task on the bellows.
garden and quenched the thirst of the Lady's Mantle along the lane. Sadly, the weak force of the lone cloud failed to
enhance the power of the river in the village, but let us hope that it had better fortunes further inland.
Peggy Powler woke to her Friday morning with a smell of fried mushrooms and hot chicory-coffee hitching a ride on
the wood-smoke of Thistle's campfire. Out at sea, faint squawks of fighting seagulls accompanied the drowsy Witch's
rousing and ruffling her hair, Peggy climbed out of her satchel and like the seabirds, focused on getting on with the day.
The knee-high Bogle pushed back his wrinkled hat and watched the woman in the poncho stumble away into the bushes
for her morning chore. Wondering if she'd be happy with his sewing endeavours, Thistle smiled to himself and went back
to pouring his friend a mug of horseweed.
The freshly-picked mushrooms sizzled in the pan inherited from his grandmother, but whether that cooking skillet was
designed to cloud Peggy's cursing -due to tripping on a root, we can't say. But the foul-language was as faint as the gulls
arguing over their breakfast.
"Mornin' Thistle..." Peggy muttered as she appeared from behind an overgrown rhododendron, the little Witch looked like
someone had dragged her through the azalea shrub during her sleep. "...It feels like the day doesn't want me awake" she
mumbled and plonked herself down beside her genial host.
It would be another ten minutes before the usual investigator from Underhill was her proper self again and Thistle put it
down to a honey-laced mug of coffee, a nicely-browned mushroom and the cold pitcher of seawater he'd bravely acquired
during the dawn's rain.
Another household vessel bequeathed by Mrs Treacle the Elder.
"What do you think?" Thistle asked as Peggy treated herself to another demitasse of beverage. The little Yetun was standing
as tall as he could on the bank outside his home and was merely a ghostly voice behind the blanket that he held high.
The banner proclaimed that 'Peggy Powler, Mistress of the Mysterious, Can Tell Your Fortune And Bring You Happiness...
All for the price of a single coin'. Scarlet darn scrolled around the edges of the material and like the root that brought its
bear-footed victim to the ground earlier, entwined with gaily-coloured renderings of roadside flowers and ripened berries.
The words were embroidered with golden thread and patterned with stitching that had never seen the hole of a worn sock
or torn pants. Filaments of deep blue flowed in subtle curls like a lazy water's edge of a summer ocean and added a cool
strength to the overall vibrancy of the Yetun-high pennant.
"Whey yer' bugger...!" Peggy exclaimed and applauding the work of Thistle, stood up and went to where her unaware friend
was grunting to display what he was proud of. "..'Ah've seen some posters in me-time at the Carnival, but yours takes the
biscuit" she said and manoeuvred around the breeze-flapping flag.
The little Bogle who'd been reluctant to engage the stranger he'd met on the road one night, the scared Elf who had no sensible
reason to endanger himself to the talons of owls and the jaws of foxes, The quiet Fae they called Thistle Treacle looked up from
his attentive position for approval of his enterprise to help rid St. Martin's of an unknown evil.
Peggy's kiss on his warm cheek brought him his answer.
As the pair prepared for the day ahead, the question of where -and even how, the opulent materials that had turned a workaday
bed-sheet into a banner of rococo prisms of colour, was never asked. I've heard it said that Bogle's move in mysterious ways,
just as Peggy often does.
Best to just leave things like that alone, eh?
...................................................
It looked like a poor attempt to make a snowman out of iron and stone, a creation that failed miserably in the context of art,
but a blue-ribbon winner in the world of stopping girl-stealing bitches. Daniel Marney straightened his rolled-up sleeves
and offered Peggy Powler the same look a smaller being had tendered earlier.
"Well, what do you think?" the young man asked with a light tone of pride and guessing he didn't mean his well-muscled arms,
the Witch of Underhill nodded with appreciation. Although to be fair, the acknowledgment she performed would've been the same
even if he had asked about his sinewy toned-limbs.
Keeping her pondering to herself, "Perfect" she answered softly and leaned closer for a better look.
The two dark-red boulders were bound in cages of metal, not dissimilar from a parcel, four flattened bars were wrapped around
the rocks and then bolted together to make one single object. Not asked for, but drawing no complaint from Peggy, the Smithy
had welded a plate to one end and stood the whole piece upright.
One boulder on top of another, but no space between them. "Perfect" the customer whispered again.
The homely-smells of the farrier's workplace made the morning seem a time when neighbours chat over garden fences or when wily
farmers chew the cud whilst scrutinising tradable livestock. Daniel's well-worn forge glowed like the gates of Gehenna and emanated
a heat that only hammered ores and the wretched damned could appreciate.
In such a cozy setting, Peggy waited for the cost.
"We usually charge ten frollis for such work..." the young lady said as she appeared from the shadows of the foundry, "...but I'm
sure we can come to a reasonable price for our famous visitor" Hattie said easily and displayed a smile that told Peggy why the
broad-shoulder hunk in the leather apron had fallen for her.
Peggy curtsied at the compliment and returned a smile with her own. "Aye, It's a canny piece of work, alright" she said and moved
her hand across the beaten metal, the Witch's other hand remained beneath her poncho. "Me-purse might be small, but 'Ah'm no
robber" she quipped benignly and watched Daniel step back into his realm of twisted minerals and dragon's breath.
Then Peggy cast her spell.
When Daniel glanced up from his toil at the anvil, he saw a chest-high woman in a wide-brimmed hat walking out into the sunlight
with the love of his life. Further perusal would have deducted the notion that the two women were involved in facile palaver and
certainly nothing to be concerned about. The Blacksmith returned to fixing a broken plough blade.
"Yer'll be Harriet Heron then...?" Peggy asked, but it was obviously not a question, "...the lassie who escaped the clutches of the
devil known as Gwydionel" she stated and surveyed the lane for any interruption. Hattie gazed up at the blue sky and sighed,
she was struggling not to answer. A wiggle of the Witch's finger allayed her conflict.
"She... she made us work to create colour..." the pretty woman moaned softly. "...the darkness, the darkness retreated as we sewed"
Peggy watched the torment on Hattie's face as the memories returned, whatever the domain she'd endured in seemed to be a place
of doom and abandonment.
"Yes, but you got away, you found a way out" Peggy urged and pointed aimlessly out into the countryside -just in the event Daniel was
watching. "Tell me how you did it" she hissed tenderly and feigned a smile over her shoulder towards the shadows of the foundry.
Hattie was panting now and the Witch knew she didn't have long left, the mental torment was rising.
"It's the standing-stones... she left the door open and I ran away into the wilds" Hattie responded between gasps and Peggy could
see that she was starting faint. "Are there any other doorways?" she snapped quickly and Mrs Marney lurched alarmingly forward
in her pursuit to stay upright. Peggy rushed to help her and checking to see if her husband was watching, she guided his dazed
partner away from the barn's entrance.
"The apple trees of my grandmother..." Hattie whispered as she almost fell onto the wooden bench her husband had made a year
ago. "Just the trees and the drapery" she repeated and slumped senseless against the wall of her property.
Peggy murmured another invocation and the young woman's eyelids began to flutter, the Witch licked her lips and went into the second
act of her performance. "...And as 'Ah say, such grand work demands better settlement than a mere ten frollis" Peggy said theatrically.
Swifts screamed their joy overhead in the morning air and unseen by anyone, a weasel hesitated in his hunt amongst the tall cattails
across from the Blacksmiths to watch two nearby upright predators acting strangely.
Hattie Marney was now looking around in a similar manner that Treacle had after his trance, but the poncho-wearing woman standing
bare-footed in the dirt seemed too absorbed in her own commentary to have noticed. "A gold numma... no more and no less!" Peggy
exclaimed into the bailiwick of the birds and raised her arms to deny any protestations from her audience.
After another thank you towards Daniel, an assurance that someone would be along to pick up the boulders and of course, the passing
-over of the payment, the relieved Witch of Underhill went on to tackle the next part of her plan.
Hattie Marney pondered on her momentary swoon and when no answer came, she went back to her morning task on the bellows.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.