Peggy Powler & The Puddledown Incident.

[BIAD]

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It had been mid-Spring when Phineas Stappen listened to young Chester Connor explain what he'd witnessed in the refuge
of Puddledown's assumed saviours. The boy's story was bloodthirsty -to say the least, but after Peggy Powler had checked the
old lychgate of St. Luke's for twisted sixpences and knotted ropes of horse-mane, she quietly picked her way around the leaning
gravestones and probed the tale again for clues to hint at what the sinister wolf that felled the five hunters, was primarily thinking.

Conner had said it didn't eat any of its victims and the appalled lad clinging to the king post in the roof of the barn continued
with his notion that there was a mark of cruelty in the brute's behaviour. Twice, the beast had struck an almost-fatal blow to an
individual, but instead of persisting in its savagery, it instantly turned to face the next hunter who threatened danger. It was only
after the fifth man was enfeebled by his wounds, did the wolf return to extinguish the lives of those suffering.

The manner that the prowling creature had entered the barn of the would-be slayers was never asked and that little piece of the
jigsaw irked the Last Witch of Underhill as she sought a haven for the night. Just past the rough-stone south-transept of village's
chapel, a large elm tree stood beside the fence that bordered the field where Francis Proctor was attacked and with a grunt of
acceptance, the bare-legged necromancer believed she'd found her goal. Peggy needed more time to process the rudimentary
information she'd been given and up there among the high branches, she could nestle in her magical satchel and collate what
she'd been told.

After a couple of unfortunate instances of her poncho getting snagged on the occasional twig and any passing night-prowler
acquiring a bizarre display not generic to deciduous flora, Peggy Powler eventually settled down in to her comfortable dangling
canvas-pocket of safety and began to untangle the lore of the shadowy visitor of Puddledown.
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As tall as an average man, a dark sooty pelt with a chestnut-hue streak along its back and down its tail. The head was unusually
wide for a wolf -Chester had often impressed on his wide-eyed audience and the beast's muzzle held the customary amount of
teeth, but the mouth was said to 'look all wrong'.

Peggy stared up at the flap of her faithful bag and resisted to align the likeness to Accam Dey, the description of the animal's coat
was the same and the head-dimensions smacked of what she'd seen in the glass-case at Hexham all those years ago. But the clue
was in what she'd seen... just the head. Accam Dey was dead, beaten, killed and decapitated. Peggy knew of no wizard deranged
enough to resurrect the beast that thought like a man, nor any of the Fae-folk to dare and bring such an abominable creature from
out of the ground. And anyway, if it had been Accam Dey, Connor wouldn't have been alive to tell his tale.

Peeking out of her satchel into the darkness of the cemetery and annoyed that sleep was not visiting, Peggy cleared her mind of
'could be' or 'might be'. Right now she needed to focus on what is. Folding her hat into a pillow, she curled up and went back to
her examination.

Chester Connor's testimony added that the wolf's feet were slightly splayed and he didn't see any long claws. This might explain
the earlier account of a horse tied-up near Phineas' home only receiving a slight wound, but why would such a random act be so
perilous to the predator and hardly detrimental to the potential victim? It was a waste unless it was an attempt to distract from a
more treasured goal. Peggy hoped she would recall in the morning to ask Phineas if anyone -anyone at all, had gone missing
around the time of the equine mauling.

The final part of the Witch's mulling of the young hunter's account was something the pendent shaman could appreciate considering
her source for the comment. The old shoemaker knew well of Accam Dey's logic and acumen, the cunning demeanour clothed in
cruel astuteness had been audible to the once-young lad that had hid in his mother's cupboard.

Chester had looked up from beneath the horse-blanket and over his trembling mug of tea and murmured to Elijah Cox and Phineas
Stappen of what the wolf had done before leaving the blood-covered storage building. As the Sandman finally promised to give the
spellbinder amongst the leaves her much-needed slumber, the kid's words followed Peggy down to Dreamland.

"Then it looked up at me and smiled... I swear to Herne, it smiled and then left".
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The next day brought another Summer's chorus of morning birds celebrating the season alongside their prowess of parenthood.
It was still too early for flying insects, so the swallows waited on the surrounding branches and twittered to each other. The clipped
chatter from the dark-blue acrobats of the skies doubled as an alarm clock for the waking magician in her own kind of nest.

After carefully descending the huge elm and patting its bark in gratitude, Peggy set her bare feet towards the Stappen residence
and wondered if her reliance on humans could be adverse to her investigation. After arriving in Puddledown, it had been too dark
to seek out out any Fae assistance and now as she peered over towards the surrounding woods and wheat-filled acreage, she
concluded that it would be prudent to find those who lived inconspicuously beside the frightened community and ask for advice.

Nearing the gate that she'd leaned against last night, the little Witch saw a movement that caught her breath for a second until she
realised what had caused the sprouting fern on the opposite wall to waver. It was no snooping lip-licking wolf, but a dark-green hat
that ducked down behind the un-cemented barrier that contoured the lane. Peggy smiled to herself and stepped onto the gravel that
divided Phineas' tidy garden. Best not to scare the little-being at this time -she mused as the little Witch waved back at her friend's
invite through the window and heard the agreement from her empty stomach.
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Over two mugs of hot coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs, Phineas repeated what he knew about the deaths in Puddledown and
answered the odd question from his guest. Someone had gone missing when the horse had been disfigured, but the retired cobbler
assured Peggy that John Turnipseed had merely moved a day earlier than his original plan to his new business on the far side of
Wheatland County.

Turnipseed was a Baker and after teaching his son how to emulate his patriarch, he'd waited until Garret Turnipseed was wed to the
girl of his dreams -and coincidentally Edmund Munday's daughter/ Then he had left to start a new branch of his wholesome ovened
-delights in a village called Swan Portcullis. A place Peggy had once ousted a very unpleasant Spriggan from.

Maybe this was a simple truth and the Witch peering out the window into the bright sunlight was merely fearing furry canines around
every corner, but believing the beast of Puddledown held an intellect far-higher than the usual rogue wolf, Peggy looked at her host
and told him he would like to speak to this Turnipseed-the-younger and ask him if he'd heard from his father recently.

But first -and meekly excusing herself from the table, the fabled Witch went in search of the out-house.