09-10-2022, 03:00 PM
If one could accuse the renown road called Calder's Way of any hesitancy, it would be when the sea-stone-surfaced highway reached
a location named Wide Baxter. This broad canyon sits in the centre of a long chain of high peaks known as the mountains of Camadorn
and was created by a passing glacier that disrupted the range that divided Thurston Gate and Cotton Mundeville.
Anyone attempting the two-day walk through Wide Baxter would be gambling with their lives that the deadly blizzards wouldn't instantly
arrive without any warning and freeze them to the ground in seconds. This unusual phenomena had happened many times and a few of
those who'd survived the sudden whiteouts had spoken of the speed and the strange wraith seen wandering through the raging blasts.
The hard-boiled gold miners and their wives of Thurston Gate had heard all the tales of the so-called Abominable Snowman crossing from
one part of the Camadorns to the other during the swirling storms, but of course these were just rantings of terrified greenhorns who didn't
understand the ways of the weather in Wide Baxter. Maybe this was why the ancient race that constructed Calder's Way decided to avoid
the dangerous two-league wide gorge by splitting its route to the east and west of the savage ravine.
The eastern detour would hug close to the sheer conifer-covered sides of the Camadorn mountains and pass through Billings, Deadwater
and finally turn northwards through the little village of Seahouses. Following the coast until clear of the steep snow-tipped crags, Calder's
Way would veer to the west and amble through rich farming land that benefited from the regular alpine run-offs, eventually arriving at the
mill town of Cotton Mundeville.
Any Midnight Mail Rider will tell you that the junction aiming west offered the sights and delights of Thurston Gate, a mining town where
gold is excavated from the Camadorn mountains. A particular function of this grass-roots community was to assist any headstrong traveller
of Wide Baxter had become a burden to a man now frowning at the cloud-scudding skies above his place of employment.
Herman Beans had once been one of those postmen on horseback, but now the shaggy-bearded sixty year-old was the custodian of the
tower who lit the beacon to guide those who were lucky enough to attain safe passage through Wide Baxter and feeling the temperature
suddenly drop, Herman set-off to do so again.
Ignoring the tall out-of-place lighthouse standing at the entrance to the tree-sparse gulch, such a deliverer of letters and parcels might
venture westwards and arrive at Tanners Holt, Midwych and then get around the mountains via the hamlet of Ravenglass. All these small
settlements had grown up in the shadow of the Camadorn mountains and all of them had accounts about shambling figures seen moving
up on the icy elevations.
Yet it seems it was only Thurston Gate that took advantage of its location and dug the granite crags for the precious metal.
Herman had ridden those western road countless times and stepping onto the first of the ninety steps up to the gallery where the unlit
lantern waited, he groaned at the oncoming exertion and wondered if his old Midnight Mail position was still open. "If wishes were horses,
beggars would ride" he murmured to himself and glanced again towards the stormy heavens of Thurston Gate.
.................................................................
The Werewolf of Cotton Mundeville was no more and thanks to the little woman hurrying across Wide Baxter, those who worked in the
textile mills of the fairly-large town could return to their homes at night without being ripped to pieces. As the late-Autumn light finally
slipped behind the tall snow-tipped peaks, the solitary figure in a large hat hastened her pace as she felt the a coldness suddenly race
down the barren glen.
Another night here in the canyon was not something the bare-footed wanderer desired and catching sight of that hairy brute watching her
last night, was certainly an urge to get out of this place named after the prospector who'd first found it. "Thank Herne fur' small mercies"
the half-Fae said to herself and clutching the brim of her hat, Peggy Powler gazed up at the faint glow in the descending darkness.
a location named Wide Baxter. This broad canyon sits in the centre of a long chain of high peaks known as the mountains of Camadorn
and was created by a passing glacier that disrupted the range that divided Thurston Gate and Cotton Mundeville.
Anyone attempting the two-day walk through Wide Baxter would be gambling with their lives that the deadly blizzards wouldn't instantly
arrive without any warning and freeze them to the ground in seconds. This unusual phenomena had happened many times and a few of
those who'd survived the sudden whiteouts had spoken of the speed and the strange wraith seen wandering through the raging blasts.
The hard-boiled gold miners and their wives of Thurston Gate had heard all the tales of the so-called Abominable Snowman crossing from
one part of the Camadorns to the other during the swirling storms, but of course these were just rantings of terrified greenhorns who didn't
understand the ways of the weather in Wide Baxter. Maybe this was why the ancient race that constructed Calder's Way decided to avoid
the dangerous two-league wide gorge by splitting its route to the east and west of the savage ravine.
The eastern detour would hug close to the sheer conifer-covered sides of the Camadorn mountains and pass through Billings, Deadwater
and finally turn northwards through the little village of Seahouses. Following the coast until clear of the steep snow-tipped crags, Calder's
Way would veer to the west and amble through rich farming land that benefited from the regular alpine run-offs, eventually arriving at the
mill town of Cotton Mundeville.
Any Midnight Mail Rider will tell you that the junction aiming west offered the sights and delights of Thurston Gate, a mining town where
gold is excavated from the Camadorn mountains. A particular function of this grass-roots community was to assist any headstrong traveller
of Wide Baxter had become a burden to a man now frowning at the cloud-scudding skies above his place of employment.
Herman Beans had once been one of those postmen on horseback, but now the shaggy-bearded sixty year-old was the custodian of the
tower who lit the beacon to guide those who were lucky enough to attain safe passage through Wide Baxter and feeling the temperature
suddenly drop, Herman set-off to do so again.
Ignoring the tall out-of-place lighthouse standing at the entrance to the tree-sparse gulch, such a deliverer of letters and parcels might
venture westwards and arrive at Tanners Holt, Midwych and then get around the mountains via the hamlet of Ravenglass. All these small
settlements had grown up in the shadow of the Camadorn mountains and all of them had accounts about shambling figures seen moving
up on the icy elevations.
Yet it seems it was only Thurston Gate that took advantage of its location and dug the granite crags for the precious metal.
Herman had ridden those western road countless times and stepping onto the first of the ninety steps up to the gallery where the unlit
lantern waited, he groaned at the oncoming exertion and wondered if his old Midnight Mail position was still open. "If wishes were horses,
beggars would ride" he murmured to himself and glanced again towards the stormy heavens of Thurston Gate.
.................................................................
The Werewolf of Cotton Mundeville was no more and thanks to the little woman hurrying across Wide Baxter, those who worked in the
textile mills of the fairly-large town could return to their homes at night without being ripped to pieces. As the late-Autumn light finally
slipped behind the tall snow-tipped peaks, the solitary figure in a large hat hastened her pace as she felt the a coldness suddenly race
down the barren glen.
Another night here in the canyon was not something the bare-footed wanderer desired and catching sight of that hairy brute watching her
last night, was certainly an urge to get out of this place named after the prospector who'd first found it. "Thank Herne fur' small mercies"
the half-Fae said to herself and clutching the brim of her hat, Peggy Powler gazed up at the faint glow in the descending darkness.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.