The Postal Office was open, which to Peggy Powler seemed to be an unusual situation as she assumed a sleepy town
like Barren Wayz wasn't a hub for much correspondence. Maybe it was due to the Sheriff's crotchety manner to anyone
around him or even the Witch's view that folk like Clark Haver wished to allow the world outside of this desert community
to forget about them, whatever it was, Peggy was mildly surprised to see the little door ajar as she loitered on the dusty
street to speak to the user of the trusted conveyor of private information.
Through the immaculately-clean window of the building, the last Witch of Underhill surveyed the the young woman standing
beside a sitting tail-wagging brute that Haver had claimed was a wolf. Sarah Bowe wore her shoulder-length hair in a tight
platted pony-tail that lay on a cardigan unsuitable for such a climate. This told Peggy that she hadn't walked into town and
somewhere behind this line of property, a horse waited. Men's jeans that had seen better days hung from her belted hips
and just like the work-boots, dried paint could bee seen.
The canine seemed affable enough as he watched his master in conversation with the bushy-moustached man adjusting
his sleeve-garters and listening intently to his only customer. Yes... Peggy would agree with the sham of a storekeeper who
didn't know anything about water-course barricades, the big animal was a coy-wolf.
The sun was ramping up its heat and Main Street seemed an inappropriate place to be hanging about. Bram Janssen's
establishment had struck-up it's usual sound of metal being forced into a shape under the power of a hammer and Peggy
glanced across the space between the Postal Office and the Dry Goods Store. There was the man once called Obadiah
Havenshaw sweeping the boardwalk and occasionally looking to see if his nemesis was returning.
A man and a woman shuffled across Main Street from the lodgings hostel and with great pleasure, Clark Haver invited them
inside his harborage of fine goods. With one glance of contempt towards Peggy leaning on the empty horse-rail and then he
was gone.
Peggy held back a chuckle and nonchalantly scanning the structures across the way, her eyes settled on the empty windows
of the Sheriff's Office. Dropping the cheerful features from her face, the little Witch still held firm with her decision to allow
the big law man to discharge his body-waste if-or-when he lays eyes on his would-be poncho-wearing victim.
But that still didn't mean she should create a situation for him to do so.
Then a faint voice saying "Thank you again" came to Peggy's attention and straightening her satchel -along with her hat, she
quickly mentally prepared to introduce herself to another possible lead about the strange poem from Myrddin's cooler county.
"Er... Miss Bowe, may Ah' speak to yer?" the little woman standing in the hot street asked politely and just as Clark Haver had
described, Peggy could see why he would say that Sarah Bowe was plain-looking.
It was the clothing that did it really, Sarah wasn't ugly and sported a face that might tell an onlooker that she was someone
who did her own thing and struggled in her journey to resist external assistance. 'Prim' would be the word Peggy would use,
but for someone like Sheriff Brunton, he might suggest the adjective 'Prissy'.
Placing a hand into the thick fur of her pet's neck, Sarah Bowe surveyed the stranger in the large hat and shabby cape with
suspicious gray-blue eyes. "What do you want?" she said uneasily and slightly emphasised the pronoun 'You'.
Offering her best smile, Peggy acknowledged the fact that this woman knew her.
...................................................
As the two-wheeled buggy discovered another fist-sized rock to trundle over, Peggy Powler cautiously patted the wary-eyed
woolly hybrid sitting between her and the wolf's owner. "I wrote that almost two years ago..." Sarah said and kept her eye
on the unruly terrain before the cart. The ex-mining pony clopped along in the same gait it once pulled Benzonite-filled
wagons and when the priggish lass clucked the reins and the pack-animal ignored her.
"...It was just a silly poem, a... a creative moment when I penned my thoughts, that's all" Sarah snapped softly and stared
out at the uncultivable landscape. As the bumpy journey continued in silence, Peggy thought back to when they had first
spoken and how she'd convinced the straight-laced woman to accompany her back to her cabin.
"I have nothing to say, I'm just a simple writer for the newspaper in Jericho" Sarah had informed the Witch following her along
the wooden walkway. Peggy had to almost jog to keep up and fearing for any sudden attack from the furry canine, she felt she
would have to get straight to the point and quickly.
"Where did yer' get the phrase 'Chorus Mortuus' from?" she blurted and almost collided with the Bowe woman as she
drew to a halt. Sarah stared for a couple of seconds before answering and Peggy watched her eyes flick left and upwards,
she was creating a false response -the Witch realised.
"I got it out of a book, okay...?" Sarah replied crassly and was about to turn back towards where her ride waited, when she
added "...it was an old book and I keep old books" and failed miserably to hide her deceit. Peggy knew it and Sarah knew
that Peggy knew it.
The Witch of Underhill then made her play to find out more and wiggled her little finger just a tad. "Then yer' won't mind
me seeing this book. The phrase is rare and was meant to only known by those of the mystic circles" she stated quietly.
"Such a book should never be allowed to fall into the wrong hands... if yer' don't mind me sayin' so" Peggy slowly told the
woman who had seemed to be drained of any annoyance. Peggy didn't enjoy acting like this, majick wasn't a parlour-trick
to be used instead of level-headed discourse. But needs must and so with a quick scan of the dusty street to ensure their
little parley had gone unseen, Peggy advised Sarah Bowe that it might be prudent for her to invite her little acquaintance
along to view this alleged esoteric compendium.
...................................................
"Do they still mine here?" Peggy asked absently as she gazed out to where a certain Desert Gnome had ran off to discover
her defective flying-machine. Cacti fought the eternal conflict with sage brush and blocked-in tumbleweed, but together,
they strove to cover the desert floor and feeling another bump vibrate up through the wooden seat, the little Witch wondered
if maybe the physical collateral damage of such a war was what they were riding over.
Sarah sighed enduringly and responded without the need to show her disdain for being fooled into bringing her passenger
along. "Not really, the Benzonite quartz petered out around three years ago and many of the prospectors moved on. There's
a reason why it's now called Barren Wayz". This last piece of information came with a note of lampoon and a swish of her
pony-tail.
As they came over a slight rise, Ms Powler and Ms Bowe could view the shallow valley where the latter lived and where the
former believed a clue awaited regarding the Dancing Dead. There was no old book with such arcane knowledge residing
between its sun-dried pages, Myrddin would have said so.
But the knowing of such a phrase may still be held by a fellow-Seer and the reason to impart it to the young woman urging
a bloody-minded pony to get its ass moving, as something Peggy really needed to know. Just then, somewhere under the
wide-brimmed hat, a little alarm bell went off and the girl's surname had something to with it.
As a vague calculation began in Peggy's thought-process, the large pet leaped from the carriage and began racing towards
the one-story log cabin. The wolf-dog was yelping loudly and its master seemed unperturbed by the sudden disembarking.
"My father must be back from his walk" Sarah mentioned and steered the stubborn pony to a hitching pole near a sawn-off
barrel.
The bounding shaggy cur smashed through the door in its eager merriment to reach the Sarah's parent and disappeared into
the shadows of the well-made chalet. A minute later, the woman in the paint-spattered jeans and her smaller guest stepped
into the same obscurity.
"You took your time, Peggy... is Myrddin with you?" asked Doctor Duckworth Bowe and fell backwards off his chair when the
receiver of the query punched him in the nose.
like Barren Wayz wasn't a hub for much correspondence. Maybe it was due to the Sheriff's crotchety manner to anyone
around him or even the Witch's view that folk like Clark Haver wished to allow the world outside of this desert community
to forget about them, whatever it was, Peggy was mildly surprised to see the little door ajar as she loitered on the dusty
street to speak to the user of the trusted conveyor of private information.
Through the immaculately-clean window of the building, the last Witch of Underhill surveyed the the young woman standing
beside a sitting tail-wagging brute that Haver had claimed was a wolf. Sarah Bowe wore her shoulder-length hair in a tight
platted pony-tail that lay on a cardigan unsuitable for such a climate. This told Peggy that she hadn't walked into town and
somewhere behind this line of property, a horse waited. Men's jeans that had seen better days hung from her belted hips
and just like the work-boots, dried paint could bee seen.
The canine seemed affable enough as he watched his master in conversation with the bushy-moustached man adjusting
his sleeve-garters and listening intently to his only customer. Yes... Peggy would agree with the sham of a storekeeper who
didn't know anything about water-course barricades, the big animal was a coy-wolf.
The sun was ramping up its heat and Main Street seemed an inappropriate place to be hanging about. Bram Janssen's
establishment had struck-up it's usual sound of metal being forced into a shape under the power of a hammer and Peggy
glanced across the space between the Postal Office and the Dry Goods Store. There was the man once called Obadiah
Havenshaw sweeping the boardwalk and occasionally looking to see if his nemesis was returning.
A man and a woman shuffled across Main Street from the lodgings hostel and with great pleasure, Clark Haver invited them
inside his harborage of fine goods. With one glance of contempt towards Peggy leaning on the empty horse-rail and then he
was gone.
Peggy held back a chuckle and nonchalantly scanning the structures across the way, her eyes settled on the empty windows
of the Sheriff's Office. Dropping the cheerful features from her face, the little Witch still held firm with her decision to allow
the big law man to discharge his body-waste if-or-when he lays eyes on his would-be poncho-wearing victim.
But that still didn't mean she should create a situation for him to do so.
Then a faint voice saying "Thank you again" came to Peggy's attention and straightening her satchel -along with her hat, she
quickly mentally prepared to introduce herself to another possible lead about the strange poem from Myrddin's cooler county.
"Er... Miss Bowe, may Ah' speak to yer?" the little woman standing in the hot street asked politely and just as Clark Haver had
described, Peggy could see why he would say that Sarah Bowe was plain-looking.
It was the clothing that did it really, Sarah wasn't ugly and sported a face that might tell an onlooker that she was someone
who did her own thing and struggled in her journey to resist external assistance. 'Prim' would be the word Peggy would use,
but for someone like Sheriff Brunton, he might suggest the adjective 'Prissy'.
Placing a hand into the thick fur of her pet's neck, Sarah Bowe surveyed the stranger in the large hat and shabby cape with
suspicious gray-blue eyes. "What do you want?" she said uneasily and slightly emphasised the pronoun 'You'.
Offering her best smile, Peggy acknowledged the fact that this woman knew her.
...................................................
As the two-wheeled buggy discovered another fist-sized rock to trundle over, Peggy Powler cautiously patted the wary-eyed
woolly hybrid sitting between her and the wolf's owner. "I wrote that almost two years ago..." Sarah said and kept her eye
on the unruly terrain before the cart. The ex-mining pony clopped along in the same gait it once pulled Benzonite-filled
wagons and when the priggish lass clucked the reins and the pack-animal ignored her.
"...It was just a silly poem, a... a creative moment when I penned my thoughts, that's all" Sarah snapped softly and stared
out at the uncultivable landscape. As the bumpy journey continued in silence, Peggy thought back to when they had first
spoken and how she'd convinced the straight-laced woman to accompany her back to her cabin.
"I have nothing to say, I'm just a simple writer for the newspaper in Jericho" Sarah had informed the Witch following her along
the wooden walkway. Peggy had to almost jog to keep up and fearing for any sudden attack from the furry canine, she felt she
would have to get straight to the point and quickly.
"Where did yer' get the phrase 'Chorus Mortuus' from?" she blurted and almost collided with the Bowe woman as she
drew to a halt. Sarah stared for a couple of seconds before answering and Peggy watched her eyes flick left and upwards,
she was creating a false response -the Witch realised.
"I got it out of a book, okay...?" Sarah replied crassly and was about to turn back towards where her ride waited, when she
added "...it was an old book and I keep old books" and failed miserably to hide her deceit. Peggy knew it and Sarah knew
that Peggy knew it.
The Witch of Underhill then made her play to find out more and wiggled her little finger just a tad. "Then yer' won't mind
me seeing this book. The phrase is rare and was meant to only known by those of the mystic circles" she stated quietly.
"Such a book should never be allowed to fall into the wrong hands... if yer' don't mind me sayin' so" Peggy slowly told the
woman who had seemed to be drained of any annoyance. Peggy didn't enjoy acting like this, majick wasn't a parlour-trick
to be used instead of level-headed discourse. But needs must and so with a quick scan of the dusty street to ensure their
little parley had gone unseen, Peggy advised Sarah Bowe that it might be prudent for her to invite her little acquaintance
along to view this alleged esoteric compendium.
...................................................
"Do they still mine here?" Peggy asked absently as she gazed out to where a certain Desert Gnome had ran off to discover
her defective flying-machine. Cacti fought the eternal conflict with sage brush and blocked-in tumbleweed, but together,
they strove to cover the desert floor and feeling another bump vibrate up through the wooden seat, the little Witch wondered
if maybe the physical collateral damage of such a war was what they were riding over.
Sarah sighed enduringly and responded without the need to show her disdain for being fooled into bringing her passenger
along. "Not really, the Benzonite quartz petered out around three years ago and many of the prospectors moved on. There's
a reason why it's now called Barren Wayz". This last piece of information came with a note of lampoon and a swish of her
pony-tail.
As they came over a slight rise, Ms Powler and Ms Bowe could view the shallow valley where the latter lived and where the
former believed a clue awaited regarding the Dancing Dead. There was no old book with such arcane knowledge residing
between its sun-dried pages, Myrddin would have said so.
But the knowing of such a phrase may still be held by a fellow-Seer and the reason to impart it to the young woman urging
a bloody-minded pony to get its ass moving, as something Peggy really needed to know. Just then, somewhere under the
wide-brimmed hat, a little alarm bell went off and the girl's surname had something to with it.
As a vague calculation began in Peggy's thought-process, the large pet leaped from the carriage and began racing towards
the one-story log cabin. The wolf-dog was yelping loudly and its master seemed unperturbed by the sudden disembarking.
"My father must be back from his walk" Sarah mentioned and steered the stubborn pony to a hitching pole near a sawn-off
barrel.
The bounding shaggy cur smashed through the door in its eager merriment to reach the Sarah's parent and disappeared into
the shadows of the well-made chalet. A minute later, the woman in the paint-spattered jeans and her smaller guest stepped
into the same obscurity.
"You took your time, Peggy... is Myrddin with you?" asked Doctor Duckworth Bowe and fell backwards off his chair when the
receiver of the query punched him in the nose.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.