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Peggy Powler & The Unusual Issue On Murdigon
#21
A passing gull elected itself as Peggy Powler's morning-cockerel and with the smacking of her lips, the squinting sorceress
lifted the flap of her satchel and peered out a beautiful coastal vista. The sun was well up in the sky, but hadn't started on
warming the Isle of Murdigon just yet. A light sea-breeze gently blew the fog from Half-Fae's thinking as she wondered on
what the day ahead held for her.

It was a large growth of Hyperion grass that had served as the little wizard's bedchamber and the tall feather inflorescences
towering above the woman climbing from her satchel swayed like the carefree flags Peggy recalled from her childhood at
the Carnival. Moving her satchel far enough away to not be effected by her much-needed ablution and checking that nobody
was taking in a morning shore-side amble, the high screen of undulating grass doubled as a expedient latrine.

Moments later, Peggy dropped the strap of last night's cot over her shoulder and plonking her wide-brimmed hat on her head,
the Last Witch of Underhill surveyed the pastoral place she'd chosen to sleep  She'd chosen to stay out of the village and the
stunted woods due to both being involved in this unusual issue on Murdigon. The weather had required no cover and finding
the large knot of Hyperion stalks between the shadows and the openness of the ocean seemed to be a fair expression of her
objective deduction.

The similar-sized trees of Murdigon hadn't been brave enough to grow too close to the Great Sea and the narrow ribbon of
different salt-tolerant grasses between the woods and the tide-line had taken the opportunity to exploit their sandy safe-space.
Making her way back towards Camden Bight's dock, Peggy's bare feet enjoyed the feel of the lush turf as she headed down to
the shore to quickly wash herself.

Invigorated by the cold waters, she looked to her left and enjoying the raw freshness that her light douche had accomplished,
set off in that direction whilst pondered last night's revelations regarding the village of Camden Bight. To the contemplating
conjurer of spells making her way across the soft turf and sprinkles of Marigold, it seemed The Beams of King Stephen held
a currently unknown magic that -she guessed, held the ability to transport a person to another realm. If this wizardry retained
a different function, Indigo Dunth had never been told it and he did sound convincing -even in his imagined drunken state.

The mysterious ones who had brought such baffling bewitchment to the island had ensured secrecy was paramount and a
great deal of trust had been secured between the villagers and the nameless faction. This kind of unanimity would require a
steady flow of encouraging support and a gentle style of handling. But why would the need to replace those who decided to
leave the island of Murdigon be so crucial to the overall scheme...?

Peggy had strolled into many deserted camps and villages during her roving and accepted that sometimes -and for various
feasible reasons, communities just up-sticks and leave. Restoring the balance of occupants to Camden Bight shouldn't be
a concern if the whole inhabitants had agreed to the move. The ruminating Witch lingered on that thought as she caught a
whiff of wood-smoke and bloater-fish being kippered nearby. What if someone here had decided not to leave?
...................................................

Fishing trawlers rolled slowly beside the quayside and their sea-faring passengers were back to using the upright mooring
posts as pews to hum their shanties and repair their nets. A monstrous blubbershark's skull fastened to a boat's wheelhouse
glinted sunlight towards the yawning woman as she approached the seated mariners.

"Fair travels, gentlemen" Peggy chirped as she passed the four men-of-the-sea and didn't need to look over her shoulder as
her naked feet padded the large granite pavement. The low mumbling between the trawler-men told the smirking necromancer
all she needed to know and such admiration was always grand nutrition to a wandering loner, especially during her middle years.

The Ship Chandlery was closed as a cheerful Peggy stepped onto the cobbled street and absently glancing towards the large
-paned window of the quaint shop, she saw a bespectacled balding man adorned in a cloth apron staring back at the newcomer
to Byefleet Howe. For a moment, she thought she was looking at a mannequin on display, but the figure turned slowly away and
slipped back into the gloom of the fisherman-supplies store.

Continuing her journey, a fleeting thought caused the little Witch to ebb her pace as the word 'replacement' whispered beneath
her shaded head. Looking back at the emporium, Peggy realised a confidential chat with the disinterested seller of the canvas
and rope could possibly unearth some needed answers to what was going on in Byefleet Howe.

But since the aroma of smoked-fish had reminded the little Witch that food would be a welcoming friend on such a lovely morning,
her architects of decision-making had found a policy they could agree upon. As many know, hunger is a despot. Since replenishing
her canteen was also a need, Peggy aimed her little toes towards the hand-cranked water-pump that stood in front of Goddard's
Dry Goods Store. The merchant's brightly-painted establishment looked a promising place to acquire some reasonable fare.

Unknown to the bare-footed pedestrian in the large hat, the focus of the suggested palaver was monitoring her progress from the
shadows of his sombre premises and unlike the strange blue light from the night before, he never blinked.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#22
Goddard's Dry-Goods Store supported the classical character of most of these types of trading-outlets that Peggy Powler had
ever entered. Brooms in barrels waited beside a long counter stacked with rolls of brightly-coloured fabric, straw-lined baskets
of stone-hard cheeses, legs of netted cured ham and a glass display for the more-frivolous kinds of sellable items.

A small seductive porcelain Mermaid lounged in the mouth of a polished conch shell along with a silver snuff-box decorated with
a carving of a breaching Blubbershark. Two bottles of Sarson & Sarson Hair Restorer stood like sentries beside a fancy-looking
hairbrush and matching mirror, a sight that made the little Witch think of Bartholomew Drigg, a well-dressed carpetbagger from
another time in her life.

Perusing the many trinkets behind the glass, Peggy noticed the faint reflection of somebody behind her balanced on a ladder in
front of the many shelves that adorned the store's walls. Instead of turning to greet the presumed-Mr Goddard gauging his wares
or merely dusting, the solitary perspective bare-footed customer continued to monitor the stationary man high-up on the rungs of
the moveable stairway.

Usually, this genre of store-keepers would be so amenable that it bordered on cringing or at least, explain an apology for their
lack of haste to serve a busy patron of their establishment, but this one... this one seemed to be frozen in time and in deed.
Had Goddard not seen her entering his store...? Granted, the shop's door had been propped open by a knee-high wooden crate
of Overland Tea and so it was possible her unshod steps might go unheard, but Peggy knew that any person-to-person proximity
ususally brought an awareness almost at once.

Peggy watched the stationary mirrored figure waiting on the ladder and wondered what could be happening, this sort of awkward
incident customarily only occurred when the store-keeper was in another room. With that in-mind, the puzzled spellbinder arrived
at the answer to the odd situation, she would call for assistance in the conventional manner. "Er... Shop?!" she managed to bark
and felt her cheeks redden slightly with the embarrassment of acting as if she was alone and knowing that she was not.

Mr Goddard moved without a sound and descended the ladders without comment. Observing his reflection, Peggy noticed that
at no time did he look around to see who'd called out behind him. Walking slowly around behind the long counter, the patient
sorceress caught a glance at his full appearance and mentally agreed he fitted the average mould of a Dry-Goods retailer.
An inference that would return to bother the bantam charm-wrangler later.

Except... the usual enthusiasm swaddled around the good fortune of making a sale was absent -she noticed, as he listlessly
approached and preparing herself to covertly pick the brains of the seemingly disinterested Mr Goddard, Peggy offered her
best smile to the seemingly-souless figure staring vacantly at her.
...................................................

Refreshing her canteen from the hand-cranked water-pump, Peggy Powler decided there was a need to wait around to see if
any of Camden Bight's residents came to use the cast-iron siphon and chance a chin-wag with the dawdling poncho-wearing
woman. The recent encounter with the owner of Goddard's Dry-Goods Store had left her in a bit of a disorder and to validate
her queer conclusion, a natter with a local would certainly resolve her doubts on the Shopkeeper being what Peggy thought
he was.

Seeing the lack of impressions on his hands was bad enough, but noticing a line -comparable to a joined-hem running from
beneath his collar and disappearing into his hair, well that had been enough for the little woman seeking to purchase some
food. Splashing some water onto her hands and rubbing her bare elbows to cool her misgivings, Peggy glanced again at the
open doorway of the store and saw nobody standing there wondering why she'd ran out.
...................................................

Noon was over an hour away and nobody had yet come into view. The trawler-men had finished their mendings and were now
milling around on their respective vessels. Peggy had tarried at the pump and then eventually strolled up to the top of the main
road in the hopes that Alf Slater or even Indigo Dunth would appear to be drawn on the vacuum of Camden Bight.

The sun continued its act of shortening shadows and yet no shaded profiles on the cobblestones were of garrulous drunkards or
obnoxious tallow-renderers, only the little Witch seemed to exist in the silent seaside village. No curtains twitched in the cottages,
no dog woofed to be fed and none of the familiar sounds relating to a functioning settlement broke the quietness.

Turning to follow a rabbit trail back to the more satisfying picturesque surroundings of where she'd woken up this morning, Peggy
caught a slight movement ahead of her. It wasn't much and many would miss it, but to someone who knows the ways of the timid
in both the animal and human kingdoms, such subtle shifting in position can be often glimpsed.

The act wasn't much and very similar to the manner Woodwosen would sometimes watch humans perfoming daily chores.
These elusive forest-folk will remain hidden inside preferred foliage and if a breeze blows, they attempt to emulate any slight
sway or wobble such an eddy would cause. Woodwose -like the mousy stranger in the flourishing Myrtle bush, was also using
a cover much closer to the observed than most people think.

Beneath the oval-shaped leaves and bright-white blossom, a face peered out that gave the ambling Witch the idea that this silent
watcher wasn't afraid of her environment, only the inhabitants of it. Peggy believed the individual who'd sought refuge in the wild
shrubbery was a female. However, whoever was hunkered in the bush was not of the Fae-world as they would've recognised one
of their own by now. Idly gazing around at the milieu of stunted trees, she opted that it was concealed human woman.

Not wanting to scare the shadowed face, Peggy set off to amble into the shady woods and then held a finger to her lips as if she
wasn't sure of which way to go. Theatrically nodding to herself to give the impression a decision had been arrived at, the unshod
subject of the secretive monitoring turned to saunter around the perimeter of Camden Bight and coincidentally, pass the bush of
bright-pearly flowers.

"Do er' think they're watchin' us reet now?..." Peggy whispered calmly as she came to a dead-stop next to the Witch-high growth
of fragrant evergreen. There was no response, unless one included a delicate sound of body-adjustment beneath the tradtional
plant associated with sweethearts. Gazing upwards to peek through the canopy at the blue Summer sky, the little soreceress
played her biggest gamble since arriving on Mudigon and added "...Ah' know Ah' wouldn't want te' be replaced either, Lillian".

The gasp from the undergrowth was audible and drew a smile from beneath the large hat of the wearer. "Yer'may not tek' me
-word fur' it, but Ah'm from the mainland and Ah' think we need te' talk" Peggy suggested softly and stepped slowly away into
the shade of the woods. A moment later, a snap of of a twig behind her told the little Witch that she was being followed.
...................................................

Trust is fragile thing that can break the battle-lines of the most hardened of combat-weary veterans and buckle the faith of the
fiercest of believers. Those who swim in the mephitic mires of politics and governance use it as a tool and a weapon without
appreciating its true meaning. For Peggy Powler it was a precious candle flame that showed her the way.

And so it was with this ideal carefully being handled, that the bare-footed Fae-Witch began to gradually climb up a crab-apple
tree that resided in one of the rare glades on the island and wait for her frightened guest. The runtish bisque grass that endured
around the base of the sour-tasting Malus struggled to mimic their lush-green brethren near the shoreline. Sunlight brawled with
the overhead leafy baldachin and rarely caught sight of the yellowing turf below.

But for a tentative gathering of a solitary spellbinder and a shy someone who might know what was really happening on the Isle
of Murdigon, it was ideal. The small clearing was far enough away from Camden Bight or any track an average hiker would utilise
and had the asset of being encompassed by the usual bushes that proliferated on the the island. This meant that the apprehensive
outcast could have a clear view of the sorceress sitting on a lichen-baked branch.

A bird chirped its indignation of having unwanted company in its domain and after a minute or so, grew bored with the notion of
berating the intruders and went to dine on an unlucky caterpillar on a branch somewhere. Peggy waited until she was sure the
hiding woman was settled and then cooed from her perch "what can yer' tell me about the Beams of King Stephen?".

It was almost a whole minute before a voice huskily whispered "I can tell you it doesn't work properly..." and with the slightest of
leafy-movement, the dishevelled owner of the words cautiously stepped out from her verdurous concealment.
"...And I can tell you the Wool-pit isn't what they believe it is" Lillian Aldwych added.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#23
Without the need to hide her nakedness beneath her poncho to show her conviction of honesty, Peggy Powler climbed down
from her interim roost and examined the frightened fair-haired woman scanning the environs of their cloistered conference.
If asked later, the smaller person of this clandestine meeting would suggest that a younger Lillian Aldwych had been a pretty
refined girl before time, running a family and turning feral had eroded a lot of the handsomeness from her intelligent features.

Even in the torn and dirt-smudged dress that skirted the grass, Lillian carried a dignity that no duration of hard work or threats
to keep a secret could abrade and now, she'd held a similar tenet of Peggy's faith, be-it dented by past chicanery. "May... may
I ask whom I'm speaking with?" the grandmother of the Caldwell children requested and pushed some unruly strands of hair
from her face.

Peggy curtsied and in doing so, noted that Mrs Aldwych copied her greeting. "Forgive me, Ah'm Peggy Powler, the Last Witch
of Underhill..." she answered softly and took off her hat to offer a clear view of her own face. "...And yer'll be the woman of the
old fella Ah' met when Ah' first arrived here in Murdigon?" she supplemented convivially. Lillian absently nodded and breathing
heavily, went back to continuing her nervous vigil.

"Yes, sort of..." the ragged-woman agreed as she walked back to be closer to the leafy haven that had kept her safe for so long.
"...The echo-of-a-man you saw was Chester -my husband and though I now go by my maiden name, I assure you he is still in my
heart" she added and anxiously ironed the many wrinkles of her tattered attire with her hand.

Lillian wrestled with a sobbing-jag for a couple of seconds before continuing and watching this supposedly crazy woman -as Ma
Gurnard had reported, Peggy felt that rumour and uneducated gossip had painted this forlorn lady into something she certainly
wasn't.

"The horrendous story is complicated and Chester's love for me is the true reason for what you witnessed and my own damaged
sanity..." Lillian whispered. "... But his tragic situation means he is neither here on Murdigon nor in the bedeviled bailiwick of The
Wool-pit" she offered enigmatically and struggling to shore-up the mental dam that confined her ocean of tears, the little Witch
watched her body shudder in its internal war.

Closing the space between them, Peggy showed her puzzlement at the statement and noticed the woman's ability to discern the
Witch's confusion whilst not letting it distract from her surveillance and self-gathering. For a few seconds, Lillian stared out at the
same location and then deciding nobody had discovered their remote parley, went on with her address. "The beams are..." the
older straw-haired woman began and then searched herself for the correct descriptive word, but the wily sorceress had already
grabbed the gist of what she was wishing to say.

"Yer' mean they're buggered?" Peggy proposed with raised eyebrows and a look to show she was willing to hear another option
of her guess. Lillian performed something she hadn't done since this whole debacle had began an act we all take for granted.
The wild insane woman that was purported to piss in front of those who searched for her, who would scream like a banshee at
the midnight hour and lived like an animal on the outskirts of civility... smiled at the small shoeless woman in the grubby shawl.
"Yes indeed, that would be a fine descriptor" she replied and sighing deeply, decided to retain the unaccustomed grin.
...................................................

Over the next half-hour, Lillian Caldwell -nee Aldwych -an arcane surname that privately amused her listening companion,
related the wonderful -and yet disingenuous, scheme of a man called Ralph Godwin and the citizenry of Camden Bight.
This plan to stealthily relocate the entire population of the hamlet to a superior or 'a golden place' as Indigo Dunth would've
suggested, involved an immoral covertness from the former and simple rustic ignorance from the latter.

The repercussions of an empty useless community due to this mass-transfer would be off-set by replacing those who went to
the Wool-pit with people who resembled the original folk of the village, something Peggy had witnessed herself. Whether the
current Store-owner looked the same as the authentic Mr Goddard, she couldn't say. But if it were true, the little Witch would
willingly testify that Goddard-the-First must've been a stone-faced miserable bugger.

But there'd been a problem. The Beams of King Stephen -an appliance that Peggy really wanted to know more about, hadn't
functioned in the manner regularly boasted about by the well-dressed, florris-spending Ralph Godwin arriving in Camden Bight
on that cold wintery day over two years ago.

After softly seeding his guarded secret around the village and predominantly in The Horatio tavern, Godwin had finally asked for
a meeting with the influential people that ran the businesses in Camden Bight. At first, Godwin's proposal was balked at and he
was asked to take his asinine idea elsewhere. But this slippery eel knew how to read the room and pressed where necessary
and restrained his verve where division reared his head.

It took two weeks of exquisite subterfuge to convince the dominant luminaries of the hamlet to visit the clearing where Godwin
had set-up his so-called 'Beams of King Stephen' and Lillian admitted during her chronicle that seeing a person appear out of
thin-air was something that certainly effected her doubts to not vote for the scheme.

There were others from Godwin's realm who came through for a short time to assist in the prompting of the conversion. Strange
and wonderful objects were also displayed to show how their lives would be better in this surreal realm called The Wool-Pit and
the enticing was palpable with all that witnessed the exhibits.

As Peggy listened to the well-bred woman, she felt sad that those who had searched for her during this confusing and terrible
ordeal and accepted the assumption that Lillian had passed over into a different kingdom, that of the land of the mad.
She wasn't 'Away with the Fairies' -as Ma Gurnard had stated, the attentive Witch knew from Lillian's current behaviour that it
was a simple case of experiencing something beyond her understanding and reacting when it all went confusingly wrong.

And it was this 'wrong'-episode that Lillian Aldwych continued with next.
...................................................

The third family to go through were the Caldwells comprised of Martin Caldwell, his wife Nell, the two children called Mathew and
Eva respectively and Chester along with Lillian. The parents of the children stepped through holding Martin and Eva's hands and
with a smiling nod from Ralph Godwin, the grandfather and his elegant spouse shuffled towards the white line between the posts.

If Indigo Dunth attempted to describe what happened next, the characterization would be the same as Lillian's. The blue eyes of
the Beams -that constantly watched the activity in the clearing, went red with anger and flashed their rage just as Chester Caldwell
stepped over the channel of white dust.

Through gasps of nervous inhalation, Lillian depicted a scene where her blithe husband suddenly vanished, reappeared, became
multiple versions of himself and then finally shifted into a transparent ghost who wailed his anguish without sound. The Goddards
had gone through with no problem along with the Penroses who used to run the Ship Chandlery, but it seemed such destiny was
not for the couple who'd watched their descendants enter a world allegedly better than this one.

Lillian had screamed then -maybe like the banshee she was later accused of being and looked to Ralph Godwin for answers.
The humming from the Beams had stopped along with the flashing eyes and the man who had sold them this pathway to amrita
was yelling to no avail into a small box he held in his hand. Chaos reigned as the fretting family who were due to enter next, fled
back towards the village and still, Chester was silently calling for his wife to help him from weird magic that had consumed their
dreams and seemingly imprisoning Lillian's husband.

That was when she ran to him and wrapped her arms around the apparition that had done the same on their wedding night. The
affable grand-pop that helped to build his son's house and broke his leg trying show-off to his grand-kids when attempting to ride
Alf Slater's smelly mule. He was here and her grip wouldn't let him go.

Lillian had held him in her heart and hung on for dear life, but eventually the diaphanous man became nothing more than the
cold air of an awful evening and his wife was alone, except for the capricious cad who'd sold them a dud. What happened to
Godwin after that remained unknown as Lillian next turned to her life after Chester.
...................................................

Lillian offered Peggy her tear-filled eyes as she explained what she'd done next. Her deliberate exile into the woods and even
her possible self-banishment from coherence were easier sanctuaries to exist in than the reality that had stolen all she'd loved.
For months, she lived like an animal and drove herself to closer to lunacy by steering clear of human interaction. The stunted
trees became great listeners and more and more, Lillian withdrew from her world of common-sense judgment and practical
prudence.

Then one night as she was stealing potatoes from one of the garden allotments at the back of a Camden Bight cottage, she'd
overheard a conversation through an open window that reversed the winch she'd been allowing to lower her into the world of
the beast. Sidney Grimes was telling his uninterested wife that one of the visiting trawler-men had seen a ghost wandering
the grassy area away from the dock. Being a regular blow-in to Camden Bight, he'd recognised the aimlessly roaming spook
as Chester Caldwell.

Threatening his standing in The Horatio Inn, the fisherman had burst into the well-used watering-hole and told everyone of his
sighting and Grimes even recounted that the wide-eyed sea-angler had punched someone who'd accused him of being drunk.

Even in the mind-set of a trauma-laden bedlamite, this lick of gossip furnished air to a candle that was almost extinguished.
Somewhere inside of the emotionally-barren hermit, she found a purpose again and leaving Grimes' potatoes undisturbed,
Lillian spent the next year searching for her ethereal husband. 

The enthralled enchanter frowned at this point of the story and the teller noticed the Witch's furrowed brow. "After Ah'd seen
yer' man, Ah' was told that a couple of fellas' searched for thee alongside yer' husband" Peggy said with a tone that implied
legitimate confoundment. Mentioning it was the Pa and Jessie Gurnard who'd spent the night looking for the frantic woman
didn't seem relevant to the query.

"They were with Chester?..." Lillian asked with mild alarm at such an outlandish statement, "...they walked beside a ghost
and never knew?!" she added and now showed her own features of doubt. The little Witch shrugged and reaching into her
satchel, pulled two meat pies from its magical innards and handed one to the tattered and torn woman.

"Maybe he isn't a ghost..." Peggy suggested as she watched the ravenous woman devour the pastry, "Maybe he just didn't
get back from The Wool-pit properly" she said without any sentiment one way or the other. This comment stopped Lillian
in her tracks and she stared intently at the agent of the opinion. "You mean he's trapped?" the bedraggled grandmother
asked and the wary sorceress recognised her words were generating a hope that she may not be able to deliver on.

Nibbling her own fare and keeping her eyes on Lillian's reddened gaze, Peggy said "A smart bugger would want te' take
another look at those Beams" and her fellow-diner smiled like someone who'd glimpsed the exit to a ghastly labyrinth.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#24
Lillian Aldwych stared flabbergasted at the litte ass-exposing Witch as she crawled across the leaf-litter towards the thief that
had stolen her husband. The bright blue eyes of the Beams of King Stephen blinked once and give no impression that they'd
spotted the shuffling Fae-woman.

The clearing that Peggy Powler was advancing on had seen no traffic recently, the prone sorceress had carefully searched the
dried-dirt for footprints when she and the ragged woman had first arrived to investigate the otherworldly location. There was
nothing to indicate those of Camden Bight had used the veil to The Wool-Pit recently.

"Nice and easy" Peggy whispered to herself as she crept up to the perimeter where the scattered dead leaves were no more.
All was quiet and only the most observant of creatures would wonder what strange slithering predator was approaching the
open place of the woods. Maybe that's why a mouse lost its nerve and skittered across the open expanse between the two
strange posts and made a run for safety.

But reality doesn't stock main characters in its constant progress like the melodramatic fops often regarded on munificent
stage-shows one can attend in the bigger towns on the mainland. The mystical engine of the real world holds no favourites
and no smoky footlight illuminates a certain female with her exposed buttocks as the cardinal player on her own style of
platform.
 
As the little Witch guessed she must've disturbed the fleeing long-tailed critter, a large shadow suddenly darkened the soil
of the treeless glade and dropped heavily onto the squealing mammal. The true killer of the night extinguished the life of the
mouse and as an afterthought, gave a mocking glance towards the little poncho-wearing crawler that had failed to capture
her own supper.

So as the big nocturnal bird took to flight, Peggy grimaced at the fleeing owl and standing up in full view of the Beams, she
looked over at the gawking open-mouthed woman called Lillian. "Bugger it!" she mouthed and shrugged her acceptance of
what might happen next. 
...................................................

The furtive walk back to the place where Lillian had lost everything she held dear was long enough for the Last Witch of Underhill
to hear more commentary about the weird apparatus that Ralph Godwin had bragged was a special passageway to a better life.
"...I did notice he stood near the post close to the trail to that leads to old-man Tuttle's shack..." Lillian continued around a mouthful
of sunberries, "...that particular Beam seemed important in some way" she added and wiped the juice on fingers across the torn
remains of her long dark-blue gown.

As the sun ran for it's nightly swim in the Great Sea and the gloom unfurled its raiment of obscureness amongst the crooked trees,
the vengeful wife of the phantom called Chester recalled something that caught the ear of the little Witch struggling to keep up with
Lillian's purposeful stride.

"There was one thing that I never figured out ..." she said as they became aware they were approaching the point where they had
first met. "...I could never understand why Godwin ruled out using the Beams of King Stephen during daylight and even the visitors
from the The Wool-Pit came at night and left before the dawn arrived" she'd mused as the odd lantern-light from the homes around
Camden Bight twinkled through the branches of the stunted trees.

"Maybe sunlight is somethin' they divna' like over at The Wool-Pit?" Peggy returned between gasping to contend with the woman's
pace and pondered on the words she'd said. The sunset glowed from its seat on the watery horizon into the raked-glade where the
Beams of Stephen stood and drew long shadows close to where the wary pair were watching.

As ball of fire slowly lost its brilliance and the woods became the domain of the dark, the little Witch handed Lillian her hat and set
off to tackle the teaser of where her new-found friend's husband had gone
....................................................

Like a miniature statue, the poncho-wearing wanderer stood and waited to fight the evil lantern-eyes that protected the anomalous
doorway to The Wool-Pit. With shallow breaths, Peggy prepared herself to dive for cover if the watching beacons suddenly turned
scarlet with rage for her trespass. The two cobalt-blue eyes blinked once, just had they'd done on the spellbinder's first encounter
with them and went back to sleep.

"They're clockwork!" Peggy said loudly and marched over to the brother of the post she'd first examined and decided illumination
would help her figure out what these dumb-lumps of thingamajigs were. Under a flickering flame from her thumb, the scrutinising
sorceress was nervously joined by the woman who'd fell foul to their failure.

Peggy peered closer and saw the reason for Ralph Godwin's need to be stationed in the position Lillian had stated. The light from
her little digit glowed across the surface of the ivory-coloured inset of the sham pillar as the inquisitive magus caught sight of a faint
groove betrayed where a small hatch on the counterfeit post was situated. Glancing at the wide-eyed woman beside her, the daring
Witch stretched out her hand and pressed it.

With simultaneous intakes of air, Peggy and Lillian stared at the green and red pulsing lights that had been hiding within the post.
They were square like the dominoes found in taverns in most counties, but no tiles like these graced the beer-stained tables of
up and down the land. "Yer' bugger!" the wizard exclaimed and accepted her hat back from the woman leaning in for a closer look.
Lillian murmured back "I have to agree, Miss Powler, bugger-indeed".
....................................................

Nodding her confidence once more towards the trembling Lillian Aldwych, Peggy stepped back to where they'd first discovered
the throbbing lights. Pulling back the material of her dark-blue dress, Lillian stood a few inches away from the Calcite Spar line
where her husband had first disappeared.

"Now, Ah'll say again Ma'am, divna' move and certainly divna' step over the line..." Peggy warned and stared her meaning at the
nervous grandmother. The dark figure beside the pale boundary nodded back, but the little Witch noticed the courage Lillian had
shown to survive out her for so long was waning fast. "..And remember me-words, this isn't majick" the diminutive warlock added
confidently.

With a small prayer to Herne, Peggy pressed the green-glowing light and the queerest thing happened.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#25
For a moment, Chester Caldwell looked up from the gloaming in his mind and felt the slight shift in the air around him.
Was it his beloved Lillian coming to torment him again with her false visions or could it be that strange zephyr that blew
pictures of his past into his dreams? He never knew what to think these days, his head ached and the world he'd once
believed in had transmuted into this cracked creation that held no reasoning.

Even as his clothes had began to burn when he'd been rejected by the magical curtain to The Wool-Pit, his heart had felt the
loss of his dear wife as he knew she had also followed his fate. Somewhere out there in the abyss of absurdity, Lillian cowered
in her own pocket of delirium and the devils that had conjured this dismay, now tortured him with flimflam mirages of the woman
he loved.

The God of Inquisition whispered again regarding Chester's failing to join his family and misplace his wife. The menu of questions
unfurled into eternity and for every answer, the grandfather's sanity accepted another bruise for his deficiency as a man.

Where had he gone wrong...? What evil had he performed to be weighed so poorly and why was Lillian punished for his unknown
crime? Did she know he was still alive...? Could his pulse of life still be able to reach out and touch her own to comfort her sorrow?
Tugging up the dirty rag that hid his modesty, the scarecrow-of-a-man went back to the one thing he'd foiled them from taking.
His memories.
...................................................

She could see him, he'd lost weight and still sported the grimy underwear, but Lillian Aldwych could actually see him. He was there
right in front of her and if he would only turn around, maybe Chester could reach a hand out and ... "Stand still Missus Aldwych..."
Peggy Powler barked and quickly stepped over to be beside the frustrated woman in rags. "...Take it easy and breath slowly" the
little Witch advised and checking that her words had been heard, peered into the dark opaque bubble that was Chester Caldwell's
world.

Lillian suddenly flinched and for a moment, Peggy believed she was going to jump into the illusory hollow floating above the line
of Calcite Spar. "He's right in front of us, he's right there" she repeated and reached for the smaller woman's hand. Then out of
the blue, Lillian whispered "...and it's Missus Caldwell, I'm Lillian Caldwell again". Peggy nodded without taking her eyes of the
vision before them and replied in a hushed tone. "Aye well, whatever happens Missus Caldwell, just remember there's a plan...
there's always a plan".

Then recognising an object in the shadowy background she'd been looking for -just to the left of the almost naked man, the little
sorceress did something that left her gown-ripped companion speechless. Slowly stepping a few feet sideways, the Last Witch
of Underhill dived across the boundary of crushed crystal and disappeared.
...................................................

In Chester's swirling continuance of chaos, there was an anchor and it wasn't much, but it was his anchor. The paranormal visitations
had battered his mind and left furrows of craziness in his psyche, but like an embrace from his cherished wife, he'd hung on to it for
all he was worth.

It was a feeble lanyard bound with hope and a slender filament of prospect that his mind refused to let go of due to being what we
all really are. It is in all humans and has walked with us since the Great Herne called us from the sloughs of ignorance to abide with
him in the deep forests.

We cannot ignore its murmurs and we take great delight when we unbox it from it cage. Squatting like a grinning Bogle on the back
-breaking burden of Chester's anguish was revenge. A selfish need to punish those responsible for what had happened to his son
and his son's children, a thirst that only destruction can quench.

In his more-lucid moments, Chester would recall the landscape he'd glimpsed at The Wool-Pit in the moment he'd been judged
and found wanting by the enchanting veil that protected the strangely-lit kingdom. That other realm wasn't the Wonderland that
Godwin had promised and seeing the twilight sky and the demons who inhabited the horror of a world, Chester's vengeance
simmered in a plan to bring a cleansing blaze to the morass known as The Wool-Pit.
...................................................

Lillian Caldwell fulfilled a rumour that Ma Gurnard had truly believed because her husband had told her so. As the evening had
wrapped itself around the small clearing in the woods and bore witness to a little Fae vanishing into thin air, the other observer
to the marvel began to empty her bladder onto the dried earth beneath her dress.

However, that damp material had another duty to perform than just absorb Lillian Caldwell's urine, it was also the landing spot
of several people who fell through from the wraithlike egress that Peggy had leapt through only seconds before.

First came Milton Penrose and then his wife Beatrice, both breathing like the Old Scratch was hot on their heels. Next, Florence
Goddard tumbled to the ground and narrowly avoided being crushed by her husband Herman and the two Caldwell children.
Any dirt from the Penrose's contact with the ground was fleeting as they both rose as one and set-off towards their home, maybe
the Ship Chandlery needed to be opened early.

Forgetting the involuntary jettisoning of her body waste, Lillian rushed to her grandchildren and with thanks to the Gods, drew more
water in the form of jubilant tears. Mathew and Eva were already sobbing, but this was due to the shock of being shoved back through
the unnatural aperture into the cold night of a reality they'd thought they'd lost.
Now, holding their blubbering grandmother, the children's crying was also in the name of joy.

A grunt of pain introduced the falling bodies of Mathew and Nell Caldwell, who were quickly gathered-up to enlarge the huddled troop
of the Caldwell clan. Lillian's bawling continued as they all embraced each other. The trembling Goddards stood beside the far post and
hugged each other, their eyes never leaving the air they'd just passed through.

Lillian's head was nestled on the shoulder of her son and facing the same area the owners of the Dry Goods Store were staring
at as the final person to ever use the doorway to The Wool-Pit came through. Lifting her dirt-smudged face from her fall, Peggy
Powler bellowed two words towards the exuberant woman in the dark-blue gown. "Red light!".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#26
The only street that Camden Bight can boast seemed to be back to normal -if normal can include the four strange figures
standing in a single-file queue not far from where the full-sailed trawler boats bobbed on the waters of the Great Sea. These
were the Replacements, a quartet of mechanical puppets that had somehow lost their purpose due to a couple of possible
reasons.

Considering the diverse class-structure of Camden Bight, it seemed the residents from all walks of life were chatting merrily
with each other regardless of their individual social-standing. Florence Goddard was elaborating to Indigo Dunth about the
stationary mannequins damaging future-sales at her store and the landlord of The Horatio tavern was having an in-depth
conversation with Nell Caldwell about how they'd all been duped by the conniving scoundrel called Ralph Godwin.

Others blathered their annoyance, but since the one person who'd rescued the small village from the fate of The Wool-Pit had
requested The Replacements to be left unmolested, the crowd stayed on the cobblestones and didn't venture any closer to the
train of vacant clockwork effigies.

Peggy Powler -standing beside Martin Caldwell and his mother, watched the assembly and felt that -at least, part of her work had
been accomplished here on the Isle of Murdigon. But what concerned her now was the recovery of Chester Caldwell and how the
now-defunct Beams of King Stephen would effect such a half-prepared rescue.

Glancing over at the dishevelled grandmother in the torn dark-blue dress, the spellbinder saw that Lillian Caldwell seemed to be 
resisting the distraction of the jovial throng and her inner-turmoil was obvious to those who know how to see it. Somewhere out
there in the ethereal, her husband wallowed in an unbalance of lunacy. How long had Chester left before he finally swallowed the
toxin to be part of the unsoundness?

The motionless figures at the dock held no interest for Peggy, she'd seen similar ones touted around in Carnivals and by travelling
entertainment troupes. An internal wheel moved a cog and a metal spring brought everything to life. Even the strange groove on the
imposter of Mr Goddard was explainable as merely cast-marks made during the moulding of the mock-skin.

The weary warlock was about to dismiss thinking about the four Replacements, when she reconsidered the possible reasons for
their fixed-staring at the sea-wall of the Ship Chandlery Store. Why there...? What fascinated these mindless clockwork toys that
no longer held an agenda?

"What do you think makes them work?" Martin Caldwell asked and his question was posed to the woman who'd saved almost his
entire family. The little Witch peered up at the young man and shrugged her shoulders, it wasn't important how they worked, what
bothered her was why they were stood where they were.

Yawning away her lack of sleep, Peggy drew strength from the morning scenery as she ruminated on the final part of her scheme.
The band of Replacements hadn't initially figured into her plan to hopefully pluck Chester Caldwell from his pocket of madness and
forever rid the Isle of Murdigon of an invasion from The Wool-Pit, but their organised position hinted of something more meaningful
than just broken-down dolls.

"Iffn'' yer' excuse me, Ah just want te' see how the Penroses are settlin' back in" Peggy said and waddled off towards the last retailer
on the road. The forlorn look on Lillian's face was obvious and so the sorceress stopped and asked the exhausted grandmother to
lean closer with a move of her hand. "Yer' might think this is all over, but gettin' yer' fella back is the next thing on me-list..." Peggy
whispered and showed a kindly smile of comfort. "...No bugger gets left behind on my watch" she added with a knowing wink and
saw Lillian's eyes fill with tears.
...................................................

The display in the large front-window of The Ship Chandlery was now being rearranged by Beatrice Penrose and seeing the sign
on the door announcing it was open, Peggy guessed Milton Penrose was also moving items around in the attempt to resettle back
into the nest they'd built.

The little bell tinkled as the Last Witch of Underhill stepped inside and surveyed the sea-faring commodities for shipping vessels
and crews. Varieties of rope hung from the walls alongside sheets of sail-cloth and other sundries that are needed for a voyage on
the Great Sea. Glancing towards the wall that the Replacements found so fascinating, Peggy observed a set of large glass-cases
perched on ascending oak-shelves that contained gifts that passing sailors and trawler-men had left -presumably, in gratitude for
the Goddard's professional service.

An eight foot-long stuffed Carter's Sawfish stared down at the bantam Witch with the same glazed-look as the four mute mannequins
outside. Beside it, waited a frozen-in-time scampering Southland's Stoat boasting the much-cherished fur on its back. But the most
interesting flaunt on the decorated wall was the glass-fronted casket displaying a massive uncut chunk of off-white quartz.

Milton looked up from his counting of side-sister hooks and making sure his comb-over wasn't out of place, gave his recent saviour
a grin that was at-odds with his usual serious demeanour. The stand-in shop-keepers had also held no interest for the busy couple,
they'd found them motionless near the Chandlery's front door and just pushed them out of their premises.

"Here's the wonderful woman we owe our lives to, Beattie" the balding proprietor said and wiping his hands on his apron, hurried
around from the tackle-filled counter. The dowdy woman kneeling in the window challenged her husband for the widest-smile award
and hastily clambered out from her nautical exhibit. "Will you be needing a cup of tea, Miss Powler?" Beatrice asked as she rubbed
any dust from the display onto an already-smudged pinny.

Allowing her mind to browse her memories of Myrddin's teachings, Peggy politely declined the offer of a brew and kept her gaze
set towards the lump of Calcite Spar. Somewhere in the old magician's words was a tale that had a bearing on the crushed crystal
up at the clearing and the nugget resting in the dusty container. What was it Myrddin had said?
...................................................

Whilst Peggy is going through her recollections of her time with the wise wizard, how the exhibit that held the sorceress' appeal had
come into Milton Goddard's possession may be interesting to some.
...................................................

Around ten years ago, Captain Amos Bartlett set out on his ship -The Albatross, on a voyage that would test his very sanity and
drive his crew to the edge of mutiny. Originally from Swan Portcullis, the veteran windjammer had sailed The Great Sea many
times and searched in vain to find the boundary of the water where the sun hides at night.

Ferocious sea-serpents and green-water beasts that would wet the beds of many a dreaming landlubber were a regular prospect
through Captain Bartlett's telescope, but the sight of unknown lands and the where the world ended, always evaded him. Thrice,
the indomitable skipper believed a vague far-off elevation in the waves was the goal he sought and yet every time, it was either a
giant Steller's Sea-Cow or the bloated remains of an extremely large Blubbershark.

On this mission to search for a marvel to ease his self-absorbed spirit, Bartlett had headed north towards the great ice-flows that
can crush a ship like matchwood. And it seemed for a time, such a swan-song was looming for the Captain and his freezing men.
The Albatross had been caught by the pack-ice and was being dragged along towards a slow frozen certain death, the ship's bevy
now looked to their leader for a way out or at least, mea culpa for his insane choice of direction.

When after six days of waiting for the hand of doom to nudge the surrounding sheer mountains of featureless white and bring an
end to the abject misery of his refrigerated men, Captain Bartlett spied through his eye-glass a sight he first took as a sign that
the numbing temperature had finally frosted his mind. A ray of light shone from a hole in the high wall of ice and seemed to beam
a signal of hope as well as warmth.

From his position on the icicle-adorned bridge, he saw dripping water around the edge of the pocket and giving thanks to the
Gods who serve the sea, announced to his hands that salvation may lie just ahead. After a day of scaling the sheer precipice,
the white-bearded men arrived at the thawing maw where the bright light was residing and examined the source of the warm
lambency.

It was a crystal, a faceted alabaster-hued object dwelling in a place no rock or mineral should've been. What despair and dolor
had accompanied the six men who made the climb, melted in the glow of the mysterious miracle in the hollowed-out grotto.

However, it was Captain Bartlett who saw the magic and how it was being performed. Daylight was being tunnelled through a
small fissure in the back-wall of the ice-crypt and hitting the crystal, became magnified into a beam of heat that -luckily for the
crew of The Albatross, created a breach for its escape. This power of incandescence was what the grinning commander assured
his men was also their means to freedom from their current ensnarement.

Using lumber and metal from the dwindling stores and rigging not needed for their scheme, the sailors set about building a brazier
that would create enough light from its flames that the coveted chunk of mineral would render their route of release into mere slush.
When two years later, they reached land, they all agreed the many-faced crystal should be encased and displayed somewhere the
tale never relates.

But what is known that one of the remaining midshipmen was a man called Penrose and he had a brother who live on the island
of Murdigon. The rest, they say is history.
...................................................

"Alf Slater and Martin Caldwell... can yer' come here please!" the pint-sized thaumaturge shouted loudly from the Chandlery
doorway and for a moment, the chattering dropped as the large unshaven man and the son of Lillian Caldwell trotted over to
where the caller waited. Indigo Dunth watched as the two men nodded as if being instructed with serious information and the
drunkard's eye didn't fail to see the handing over of a gold numma coin.

It was glaringly evident now to the rum-pot that the little woman was the actual Peggy Powler that the visiting Tars in the tavern
had spoken of and not a fellow imbiber. Somewhere in his ale-damaged brain, Indigo wondered how much he'd contributed to
the volte-face of Camden Bight's early decision to leave for The Wool-Pit and whether such input warranted a similar payment.
Maybe some cash could be captured if the famous necromancer was pressed?

Indigo's face of cunning confidence quickly changed when the woman barked his name and peering over towards the Chandlery,
the boozer saw a come-hither finger demanding his approach. "Yer' like the smell of money me-lad, don't yer?..." Peggy growled
as he approached the mean-looking woman standing beside the two larger men than himself. "...Whey, Ah' have a job fur' yer te'
earn such a scent" she added as he arrived in the shade of the doorway.
...................................................

Lillian Caldwell watched as her son walked briskly back up the road without acknowledging his own mother or even his wife and
his children. The Tallow-renderer was next and along with the unsavoury souse often seen staggering around the hamlet, strode
silently together towards the unpaved lane that would lead to where Slater kept his mule and cart.

The scene was so strange that the weary matriarch failed to spot the face grinning up at her from under her wide-brimmed hat.
"How are yer' copin'?" Peggy asked easily and her features told Lillian that the Witch genuinely meant it. With another glance
towards her departing son, Lillian looked back at the smiling sorceress and replied that she was fairing well.

"It seems one of your schemes is underway..." the lady who was once feral stated "...Will this include myself?". Peggy patted the
woman's hand and nodded. "Aye, yer' be accompanying the tallow-man and his help to the community of Byefleet Howe, where
Ah' have a task fur' yer' to perform" she informed Lillian enigmatically.
...................................................

With a distraught Milton and Beatrice Penrose watching as the hunk of Calcite Spar was loaded onto Alf Slater's cart, the driver,
the drunk and the once forest-roaming female set off for the place the Gurnard's called home and where an unusual water-drawing
statue awaited with outstretched arms. On another track of intrigue, Martin Caldwell walked with purpose and a request towards a
village called The Narrows and where a lighthouse towered above all those who abided there.

For Peggy Powler, now the lump of crystalline mineral that had been causing some type of blockage had been removed, the quartet
of would-be Replacements had began to walk towards the path that would take them towards their point of exit back to The Wool-Pit.

The little Witch had guessed the Calcite Spar had been a bearing on their static-state and now their journey would be to the original
location where Peggy first came into contact with a semi-nude old toothless man called Chester Caldwell. She wasn't certain of her
speculation, but something about that meeting was important, just as important as the positioning of the Angel-statue called Adjef.

The poor soul was trapped in a pocket of -what Peggy believed, was a magnetic-style oblivion brought on by the damaged Beams
of King Stephen and would only be viable here in this reality for small amounts of time. Maybe a pattern of appearances existed and
that was what she was gambling on.

Following the queue of mechanical-people, she hoped the Rhododendron bush where she'd first encountered Chester Caldwell
held a secret to be unveiled and finish this unusual issue of Murdigon.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#27
Thank you so much for your stories. It does my jaded, 'read-too-many-formula-books' soul to be lost in the story. I have no idea what is coming next other than I hope the folks get rescued. 

...and I get lots of practice using the online thesaurus. Thaumaturge??? Palaver??? Dolor??? 

The last one I figured out because I know some Spanish. But those other ones?  tinylaughing
#28
(02-15-2022, 01:15 PM)ABNARTY Wrote: Thank you so much for your stories...
minusculethumbsup
...................................................


During her trek towards the Gurnard's locale, Peggy Powler wondered if the longer route from Byefleet Howe back to Camden Bight
for Alf Slater to sell his wares to old-man Tuttle was really worth it. Was a couple of nummas and a jabber with a half-baked hermit
something beneficial enough to endure the extra couple of hours of bumping along on the unruly track behind a flatulent mule?

Adjusting the satchel-strap on her shoulder the Last Witch of Underhill concluded that money held strange bedroom-eyes that could
make the most disciplined of humans behave peculiarly. But was it the possessiveness of gold that made those who sought these
riches the cause of their lust or was money merely the lubricant to ease the journey to power? In the world of the Fae, the coin was
nothing more than a tolerable materialism of trust between two strangers and the power -real power, appeared when such trinkets
were no longer needed to certificate another's credence.

Leaving the subjects of extra mileage and the appeal of avarice, the shorter walk to Byefleet Howe was just fine for the woman in the
large hat following the four Replacements. They never fluctuated in their sequence, one behind the other and all of them travelled at
the same pace. Even when Peggy needed to use the back of a tree to relieve herself, she was confident that just up ahead on the
bumpy trail, the quaternary puppet of Herman Goddard's head would be seen bobbing along towards the goal. A destination that
hopefully was an area near a certain Rhododendron bush of Peggy's first encounter with what was happening on the island.
...................................................

A long-shadowed Martin Caldwell waited impatiently for the bedraggled fellow sitting on the stoop of his little shack to ponder on the
request he'd been sent to The Narrows with and accepting he wouldn't be invited into the shade from the afternoon sun, decided to
perform some analysis of what he and his family had been through for himself.

He'd initially accepted that for some reason, his parents had refused to enter the doorway to The Wool-pit possibly due to their fear
of the unknown. But when discovering what horrors lay on the other side of the Beams of King Stephen, the son of Chester and Lillian
Caldwell rapidly came to realise that wisdom via experience was a commodity usually only sold to the old.

How he'd managed to survive the demands of the creatures that dwelled beneath that eternally dark sky and keep his family from
being separated was still a puzzle to the lad who'd never consorted with those deemed more masculine in the lower classes. Martin
knew his upbringing had been easier than the men who dealt with the perils of the Great Sea or those who sought income from selling
their respective wares, but to be thrust into a world where drudgery and labour had been assigned to you based solely on where you
came from, well it was an eye-opener, to say the least.

Then out of the blue came a blessing in the shape of a bare-footed woman in a big hat and gathering the exiled folks of Camden Bight,
she returned us through a portal only she knew of. For the Witch called Peggy Powler, it had only took a moment, but for Martin and the
others, the time at The Wool-Pit seemed to be an eternity.

"So yer' say this lassie wants me te' aim yon light te' the other end of Murdigon?" the lighthouse custodian asked as he gazed down into
the unlit chamber of his pipe and lured his younger visitor back from his wool-gathering. Mangus Marle took out his penknife and began
scraping out his briar's bowl. He knew of Martin's parentage and was old enough to know who Peggy Powler is, but didn't want to let the
kid know of either.

"Yes Sir..." Martin replied "...she told me to ask the the handsome chap who steers the pharos to perform such an arduous task exactly
at dusk". Mangus kept his eyes on his task of cleaning and focused on not revealing a grin. Even though he'd spent most of his life on
the island, the seventy year-old had visited the mainland enough and spoken to clever fellas than himself to know you didn't mess around
with a request from the Powler woman.

Knocking his pipe against the arm of his rocking-chair, the old man rose and looking directly into Chester Caldwell's son's eyes. "Then
me-lad, let's get the balefire ready..." Mangus said "...Yer' back is stronger than me-own and humpin' a barrel of Cullett oil up there isn't
one of me favourite things" and drew a smile from the serious-looking youngster with his good-humoured wink.
...................................................

"Don't worry Ma'am, when candle-lit comes, I can assure you that me-man will feel the lash of me-tongue for his own loose gob" the little
round woman in the headscarf attested to Lillian Caldwell. Ma Gurnard had at first been guarded when she'd spotted the ragged female
in the blue gown walking beside Slater's cart alongside some stranger she presumed was also from down Camden way.

But after a few minutes of blather with the tired soul, the hardened mother of the two lads helping to haul something from the Tallow-man's
buggy, knew she'd taken the bait of cliquish gossip and was now just fish-head saying sorry. Pa Gurnard grunted under the weight of the
milky-coloured crystal and said nothing, he'll be lucky to get supper tonight -he thought.

"I thank you for your sympathy, Mrs Gurnard and for the task your men are undertaking..." Lillian answered and peered towards the big
man and his sons assisting Alf Slater positioning the Calcite Spar into the arms of Adjef. Indigo Dunth elected himself as the manager
of the correctly situating the crystal. This also meant he didn't need to the leave the seat of the cart. "...I just my own man can be saved"
she added and looked towards the little trail leading away into the woods.
...................................................

The sun was going down as four automatons and their poncho-wearing guardian reached a riotous growth of Rhododendron bush.
The human-moulded dolls stopped as one and stood facing the direction Peggy would go to find John Potter's boat, but it was the
dark shadows beneath the evergreen shrub that held the little Witch's interest.

There near the trunk of the bush was a small clump of floating sparks that undulated together in their own type of waltz. Peggy grinned
in the gloom and ignoring that her bare-behind was on full view to the silent clockwork clones, she watched with fascination as the tiny
spluttering mites grew in intensity. "Aye yer, bugger..." the kneeling necromancer hissed with glee, "...Tonight, Chester Caldwell will see
the light and come home".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#29
Although Martin Caldwell counted eighty-two of them, Mangus Marle assured the father-of-two carrying the hogshead of
Cullett oil on his shoulder that the lighthouse actually contained eighty-three steps to reach the great beacon. Catching
his breath at the peak of the spiralling stairway, the old man resisted to tell -the son of the fine-haired beauty he'd once
asked out for a-walking, that his arithmetic included the step of the tower's front door.

With a grunt of relief, Martin placed the cask of fuel beside the metal tray where the pyre would be ignited and marvelled
at the contraption in front of him. "Yer' in for a real treat me-boy as the best sunsets in all of Sandingham County are the
ones from this height" Mangus wheezed as he fished for a wick-lighter from a small wooden box fixed to one of the legs
that supported the flower-like device.

Protected from the elements by small lead-lined windows, a large shiny metal bowl sat in the centre of the cramped room.
In the middle of this basin, a tube protruded where a wick was to be inserted. The very act that the old man in the wrinkled
bib-and-braces was performing during Martin's scrutiny of the apparatus.

Hinged to the sides of the porringer, two curved sheets of mirror sat encased in a highly-polished brass 'petals' that -when
erected vertically, became the lenses that Mangus would relate to the interested young man were known as Fresnels. These
reflectors were set in such a way that they not only intensified a light-source one directed to them, they echoed the radiation
to a faceted piece of glass clutched in a claw-carved metal clamp between the pair of Fresnel lenses. From here, a blazing
ray of light fired out for leagues into the darkness of the Great Sea.

Except tonight, the lighthouse had another mission and for Martin Caldwell, his current assignment was to fill that bowl with
the contents of the barrel he'd just hauled up. For the old man titled Marle, his role was supervisor for this evening and this
wouldn't be the first time he'd delegated the labour to someone in better physical-shape than himself.
...................................................

Peggy Powler finished binding the twine to the base of the Rhododendron bush and slowly unfurling the string from the small
horseshoe, manoeuvred her way back out from under the foliage. She'd been right all along, whoever this Godwin fellow was,
had failed to contain the strange magic from his Beams of King Stephen and it had seeped into the soil of the island.

This sneaky brigand would have no knowledge of what powers a Rhododendron held, the type of bush that defies the cold
and flowers its blood-red hearted blooms when all else sleeps. This shrub had drawn the weird doorway's magical juices
like a lightning-rod to this point on the atoll and became an appealing site for Chester's manifestations. Hence, the erratic
action of the sparks that had developed into spinning spheres that flew in a vertical circular motion that was almost as wide
as the little Witch's hat.

It was this ring of shifting lights Peggy estimated were the ingredients that would conjure the rudimentary corridor where the
waiting Replacements would return to The Wool-Pit and the passageway that Chester Caldwell was currently stuck in. Blue
-white orbs danced in the air just ahead of the motionless representations of four of the residents of Camden Bight and with
the assistance of a small spell, the Last Witch of Underhill held out the tethered curved metal of equine footwear.

The light had almost gone from the shrouded space and watching the floating horseshoe drift slowly towards the rotating balls
of throbbing phosphorescence, Peggy breathed in deeply as she prepared herself for any fleeting opportunity to grab for the
man incarcerated in a cell of confusion. The blank-faced sculptures waited and so did the little sorceress, but it was the one
wearing the poncho who leapt in alarm when the sudden question came. "Can we help Ma'am?" asked Pa Gurnard 

The sky was almost vacant of daylight, as the five Murdigons stepped awkwardly into the confined glade and scared Peggy
enough to excuse herself for a moment. Lillian Caldwell looked at Jessie Gurnard and Indigo Dunth looked up at the big man
in the homemade dungarees. But it was Samuel Gurnard who suggested why she was squatting behind a tree.
...................................................

"What's yer' hurry..." Mangus Marle chortled as he watched the son of Lillian Caldwell pacing back and forth across the lantern's
gallery. "...Miss Powler said dusk was the moment we send the light towards Byefleet Howe and the sun hasn't gone over yet"
he added and went back to stoking his pipe.

Martin flicked back the fringe of hair, an act he'd always done when frustrated with something. "Yes but won't our elevation make
a difference?" he asked with a tone of exasperation and glanced towards the gloom looming on the far-end of the island.

Mangus creased his brow and showed his muddle and grunted "our what?". Martin stepped closer to the diagonal astragals
of the windows and sighed his annoyance. "Our height, man... we'll see the sun disappear later than those at Byefleet Howe"
he hissed and heard the older lighthouse keeper moan at his aching bones as he rose to the realisation.
...................................................

The spinning circle of lights were merely a blur now and the diameter had increased enough that someone of Peggy's size
could enter. But the little Witch had warned the newcomers to the shadowed dell that its magic will only be at its maximum
when the doorway is sufficient in girth to allow the Replacements through.

"Tis' a glamour beyond my thinkin', I tell thee" Pa Gurnard whispered to the Camden woman beside him and felt the need to
draw an invisible rood across his chest. Indigo Dunth saw the gesture and copied it, there was devilry going on here and maybe
even he'd be saved as he believed Herne enjoyed the taste of mead too.

The revolving light-show continued to illuminate the faces of all there, but only captivated five of them. The Replacements looked
on with the same lassitude as they'd always had and the little woman in the hat watched with an entirely different focus on the orbs
of effulgence.

Then it happened.
Suddenly, the doll-people began to move and Peggy Powler pitched her scheme with better haste. The aperture within the spinning
globes snapped open and ignoring the unified gasp from behind her, the sorceress tossed her hat to one side and leaned in through
the shimmering rupture. The replica of Beatrice Penrose nudged past Peggy as she entered the void and staggering to keep her feet,
Indigo ran to help steady the Witch's stance. "Take care, Miss Powler..." the sober drunkard shouted as air began to be sucked into the
hole in mid-air,"...yer' haven't paid me yet!".

Samuel and Jessie ran forward then as the male of the Ship Chandlery bundled by the little necromancer and grasped the rarely-washed
jacket of the drinker from Camden Bight. "Dig in, Sam" Jessie advised his younger brother and drove a boot-heel into the lumpy ground.
Crossing himself again, their father stepped warily behind his two boys and crouching slightly, grabbed both of them by the waist.

Peggy stared into an abyss and -as she mused later, the cheeky bugger stared back. But as the blackness faded, she saw the stars and
moons that decorated a dirty-red sky that could only wish for a day of sunlight. Sucking in a lungful of the rushing air, the little Witch
noticed shapes moving around in the shadows and recognised the apollyons who dwelt in the loathsome realm of The Wool-Pit.

"Are you the vanguard of the temptress they call Lillian?" a voice croaked from Peggy's right-hand side and there stood on the ash that was
once soil, stood Chester Caldwell. Nearing the semi-torso of the strange vision before him, the old man pulled at the back of the rag that
hid his nakedness and offered a smile of the fated forgotten.  Florence Goddard strode past the pair and her husband came through with
the same indifference that he'd offered Peggy back at the Dry Goods Store.

Chester nodded a greeting as if this was an everyday occurrence and then brought his attention back to the little woman hanging out of
the puzzling nowhere. "If you're a good sort, a slice of bread might cheer this gloom, don't you think?" he commented encouragingly with
the air of someone sitting on a beach searching through a picnic basket.

In another situation, Peggy would have consoled the poor cuckoo and maybe even shed a tear, but at that moment all she could offer was
"Come here, yer' bugger!" and grabbed Chester by his scrawny arm. Grunting in her exertions, the struggling spellbinder caught sight over
the wriggling man's shoulder of a change in the scenery. The monsters of The Wool-Pit had seen her.
...................................................

Mangus Marle rubbed his eyes and peered out into the night, "You've got better eyesight than me me-lad, can yer' see where the light
is supposed to shine?". Martin Caldwell pulled on the crank-handle as instructed until the chunk of reflective glass faced in the surmised
direction. "You're the damned lighthouse keeper, you must have some idea" he replied with agitation. Mangus adjusted his braces and
went back to locating the point where Byefleet Howe waited in the blackness.
...................................................

Ma Gurnard shook her head and wondered if Tawny Codswell was pulling her waggler, if she couldn't see that the Angel statue had always
been designed to hold the Calcite Spar, then her eyes were as bad as her cooking. "Yer' can't tell me that yer' think this is all just haphazard
and yon crystal just happens te' fit, do yer?" The rotund woman in the dark-green headscarf peered towards the gossiper of Byefleet looking
smug beneath the shadowed figure of Adjef and decided to prove her wrong.

A minute later, Ma Gurnard reappeared from her house with a lantern to assist in shutting the big mouth of the arms-folded busybody, once
and for all.
...................................................

"Pull me out!" Peggy screamed as a horde of the ugly demons raced towards the miniature invader and her squirming captive, the murk
of the dull-red sky mercifully hid their twisted features. Indigo Dunth's purchase on the Witch's poncho slipped a little, but the need for
his rightful numma reminded him to hold the line. "Pull boys" the would-be drunk screeched as he avoided glancing at Peggy's displayed
hind-quarters.

Lillian ran to be beside him and stared into the hole into a world she'd once been denied entry to and saw what was left of her husband.
Filthy and forlorn, Chester writhed in his craziness and at that precise moment, she loved him more than ever. "Get your backside out of
that place now!" Lillian snapped and grabbed the gaunt shoulder of the cause of that devotion.
Moments later, Chester's smiling dirt-smeared face poked out of the doorway and meekly croaked "Yes my dear".

Breathing hard, Peggy fell backwards and snatched at the taut twine that held the charm from disappearing into the void. The plan to bring
light into The Wool-Pit had failed and and now all could be done was to close the aperture.
...................................................

"There!" Martin barked and grabbed the flickering candle from Mangus and thrust it towards the waiting wick. The older man shuffled over
to the cranking mechanism and honed the coming-beam towards their target. This would be a night to remember, he thought and watched
the dazzling ray streak out across the canopy of Murdigon's woodland towards a faint glow in the dark.
...................................................

What happened next was only partly seen by the bickering ladies beneath the water-drawing statue as the blazing beam glanced off the
special mineral, caused Ma Gurnard and Tawny Codswell to fall to the ground and then shoot away into the trees. Holding their hands to
shield their eyes from the vivid effulgence, the pair of fishwives were totally silent during the lucent incident.

Pa Gurnard's cap sailed into the hole as he heaved his two lads and their burdens from the devilish orifice he'd be racking his brains to
explain about to his wife later, the velocity that the brightness was almost powerful enough to take him out of his boots. "Heave Mister
Gurnard" Lillian shouted as the large ray of light poured into the receding gouge in the middle of the air and sobbed as Peggy, Indigo
and her husband fell panting to the ground.
Murmuring a few unknown words, the horseshoe fell on the Witch's lap, the lighthouse's radiance dulled and the dark woods were silent
again.
...................................................

Mangus Marle was alone again with his task as Martin Caldwell kissed the old man's forehead and fled from the tower. Carefully lowering
the precious Fresnels and dowsing the flamed-wick, Mangus wondered if he'd one day have this evening's unusual incident explained to
him.
...................................................

It was over.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#30
Epilogue

There isn't much to say about the events after the doorway to The Wool-Pit was closed, Peggy Powler was exalted for
her bravery with Pa Gurnard almost accidently dislocating the little Witch's shoulder when he patted his congratulations
and Chester Caldwell was assisted back to Camden Bight on foot as it was discovered Alf Slater had fled due to being
paid up-front.

Ma Gurnard made a larger-than-usual apple pie and packed two hefty slices for Peggy to take with her on her way back
to the mainland and after easing Indigo Dunth's nervousness by handing over a gold numma piece, the respective groups
and individuals went on with their lives.

There now, all neatly packed away and no hard-feelings, huh? "Excuse me?" I hear you ask, "no elucidation to what the good
people of Murdigon drew from this secretive scheme that went awry? No postscript on what happened to Lillian Caldwell as
she began to put her life back together again? Hell... not even a footnote regarding the trauma the Caldwell kids and the adults
endured before they were inelegantly shoved back into the world they'd left to start over?!"

Okey-dokey, hitch up yer' pants and make sure yer' feet are dry!
...................................................

Peggy Powler had heard the rude joke before, but considering her up-beat mood after a couple of hours of sleep and a
nice bacon sandwich washed down with two mugs of coffee from the eternally-grateful proprietors of the Ship Chandlery,
the little bare-footed sorceress mustered a healthy cackle of mirth at the punch-line. It seems that for those who go down
to the sea in ships never tire of gags about lewd and promiscuous women who frequent taverns of disrepute with a cucumber.

Leaving the chuckling trawler-men enjoying the sunshine and mending their nets, Peggy went to thank the Penroses again
for their fine victuals and the donation of the Calcite Spar to the arms of the statue back in Byefleet Howe. It was only as she
was leaving the doorway of the supply-shop, that she caught sight of Lillian Caldwell coming out of the Goddard's Dry Goods
Store (that's Milton and Flo to you and me).

The bantam Witch hurried across the cobbled-road and caught up with the fair-haired heroine as she was about to turn into the
lane that led to the Caldwell residence. "How are yer' family doin'?..." Peggy asked as she caught her breath. Today here on
the island was her last before she took John Potter's boat back to the mainland and there was some things to tie-up.

"...Ah' hope they're gettin' over what they went through?" the short-winded spellbinder appended and removed her hat to show
her sincerity. Lillian smiled at the small brave woman and wondered what nightmares Peggy had seen during her wanderings.
Adjusting her basket of groceries, she silently agreed that such a vocation was beyond her own mettle.

"Chester is slowly coming around and the children are adjusting to what they went through..." Lillian said and offered a smile of
someone who only knows to just carry on, keep pressing forward and look for the life they once held. "...That awful ordeal in The
Wool-Pit has scarred them and their mother, but Martin seems to have moved on from what happened" she added and Peggy
felt a mental flinch from the woman, as if she wanted to depart the conversation and be on her way.

It wasn't the class-difference or a belief that Lillian was associating Peggy with a negative occurrence in her life. It was simply
who Lillian Aldwych was and who Lillian Caldwell is. To the Last Witch of Underhill, it was obvious who her son took after.

"Aye well, it takes time, they say..." Peggy said softly with a nod "...and iff'n yer' excuse me, Ah've got te' be goin', they also say
that tide waits fur' no man or woman!" This brought a grin from both of them. The sun shone down on the pair and for a moment,
nothing needed to be said, but humans have this overwhelming need to ruin such consequential junctures. "You take care Peggy
Powler and thank you for bringing Chester and myself back" Lillian whispered and held her hand out to finalise the farewell.
Peggy reached up, shook it and left.
...................................................

Whoever spoke the quotes about trauma taking time to diminish and the other thing about the rise and fall of the sea due to the
pull of the moon may have also sarcastically quipped the one about putting lipstick on a pig. However, for the well-dressed fellow
toddling along the top of the road, such a phrase wouldn't be applicable. Peggy had to get really close to the ambling chap before
she realised who he actually was.

"Fair travels, Mister Dunth" she said as she crossed his path to begin a short trek towards the glade where the damaged Beams
of King Stephen resided. Indigo peered out from under his brand-new hat and nodded as if to an unknown polite passer-by.
With a second glance, his jaunty demeanour faded and a slight look of discomfiture took flight across his face. "Oh... er, and fair
elements to you Miss Powler" Indigo replied nervously.

The earlier moment of silence that Lillian Caldwell had ruined now remained untouched by both peering parties on the cusp where
the cobbled-road meets the rough one and maybe there's a symbolic meaning there, I don't know. But with a nod from Indigo and
a return salute from Peggy, the smiling odd-couple went on their separate ways.
...................................................

Maybe it was guilt from leaving the noble group he'd been assigned to when they'd taken the Calcite crystal to Byefleet Howe and
then hightailing it back to Camden Bight like a coward. Or maybe it was because Alf Slater realised the perils that the Beams of
King Stephen still held for a community he admired or maybe he figured there might be some florris to be gained by having his
farting mule haul the posts from their moorings and selling what he found there.

But whatever his motives, Peggy stood in astonishment as she witnessed the bulky man grunting with exertion as he and his four
-legged gas-donor pulled the second column out of the dirt and drag it clear of its hole. Red, green and blue tentacles hung from
inside the twisted tube as it bumped away from the clearing. Alf peered over at the woman he'd abandoned last night and waited
for the certain rebuke of his act of leaving Byefleet Howe.

"What do yer' think they're made of?" Peggy asked as she carefully climbed over the piles of soil Slater had dug out with his spade
and scrutinised the coloured-threads. They looked like copper wrapped in some sort of strange sheathing an their colours seemed
relevant. Alf lumbered over and brought his familiar cloud of body-odour with him. "I dunno', looks like roots of some kind" he replied
and the crouching Witch looking up from his assumption noticed he crossed himself without thinking.

"Whatever it is, Ah' think it'll look better at the bottom of the sea" Alf muttered and went back to prepare his self-determined task
of drowning the anomalies his village once had faith in. Peggy wished him well and received the customary nod from the big man.
His mule gave no sign of farewell from either-end of its body and the thankful bare-footed visitor to the clearing left to say goodbye
to the Gurnards.
...................................................

Mid-afternoon had arrived quickly, but Peggy didn't mind. Ma Gurnard produced large wax-packages of apple pie, whilst her fussing
husband asked if she wanted help loading her boat. Standing beneath the statue of Adjef and her glistening burden, Pa Gurnard
mentioned that they'd been thinking -or to be more precise, his wife told him it might be a good idea for a site to be found between
Byefleet Howe and Camden Bight where the Angel of Light could be enjoyed by both villages.

Peggy reckoned that it was a grand idea and suggested a location near the pool of Moosa, although she did say Samuel should have
the last word of that idea. A comment, the sorceress had put forth due to the boy's absence. "Well, our Sam is down by yer' boat and
I think he's took a bit of a shine to yer'" Ma Gurnard stated as she approached with her delectable delivery. Peggy playfully wondered
if the lad's older brother held such fondness, but of course, only thought it.

Embracing the round straight-talking woman and shaking the huge hand of her man, the little visitor to the agrarian community left
before nosy Tawny Codswell or her kindling-carrying spouse could appear and ask about her feet.
...................................................

John Potter's vessel was still there on the quiet sandy-shore, along with Samuel Gurnard sitting in it. The boy was gazing out towards
the mainland and the calm waters between. Peggy stood for a few moments before ruining the serene perspective, an act she wished
she could avoid. The sun was still racing to meet its perpetually fleeing pale lover and time seemed to be encouraging the chase.

"What lays beyond that strait isn't the sparkling bauble yer' imagine it te' be, Samuel..." the little Witch cooed as she stepped onto the
warm granules off the little beach and placed her gifts into the boat. "...But when yer' of the age te' venture there, Ah'm sure me-words
will be forgotten and yer'll learn fur' yer'self".

Samuel swiftly jumped out of the skiff and ran to be in her arms, the front of Peggy's poncho darkened with the youngster's tears.
"Ah' know son, Ah' know" she whispered as she stroked his tousled hair and calmed his melancholy. The youngest of the Gurnard's
gathered himself and stepped back from the woman who'd saved his life, his Pa would be proud -the smiling necromancer thought
as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

"I... I wish your travels to be fair, Miss Powler and I hope if yer' in the area again, come and visit us" Samuel formally stated and for
his mature valediction, received a pat on his trembling shoulder. With that, Peggy began to turn towards the boat and caught herself
as a memory fluttered and flapped beneath her large hat.

"Ah' have a favour te' ask and it must be kept between me and yer'self" she said softly towards the miserable teenager and waited
for his response. Samuel nodded and Peggy aped the act as she walked to the shore's edge. "Gadda... Gadda?" the little Witch
called out into the stretch of water and watched for the underwater-man to poke his head out from the surface.

"Yes my-daughter?" the fish-eyed water-dweller replied from his sitting position under a over-hanging bush and once again, made
Peggy's bladder twitch with surprise. The Merman had been enjoying the sun's warmth in the shallows near the beach and the
jolted enchanter wondered how much eaves-dropping is also provided by such a hidden location.

Without kneeling to bring herself on a similar level, Peggy explained Samuel's charity and Gadda's need to adhere to her words.
"Yon tail of yers' was not nibbled by any Kelpie, nor a sea-serpent with wickedness on its mind. Yer sufferin from fin-rot, Gadda and
this lad has the cure te' yer' ailment".

Peggy stepped over to where Samuel was ogling at the weirdest-looking fish he'd ever seen and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Now... hear me-words..." the stern-faced spell-worker continued, "... one morning out of every five, yer'll come here and find some
berries te' fix yer' ragged rudder". With raised eyebrows, Peggy awaited her patient's reply. Gadda opened his mouth to recall a
time when his tail had been admired by the females of his species, but decided this wouldn't be the appropriate moment due to
the women's stance and steely features. So he nodded once and made some bubbles in the water.

"Moosa's favourites" Peggy whispered to Samuel and receiving a similar gesture as Gadda's -minus the froth, the pair pushed the
rowboat off the Isle of Murdigon. The old fish-man plucked the mooring-rope from the vessel's bow and waited for its passenger to
embark.

"Stay safe, young un" the Last Witch of Underhill advised the boy standing on the shore as Gadda pulled the creaking skiff away
from its place of berth and raised her hand in farewell.
...................................................

John Potter looked worse-for-wear to the approaching lamia as he sat lop-sided on the neglected steps that led to the Knucker-less
meadows of Pucklewatch. Although a week with his sister should've allowed enough time to expel the copious amounts of ale he'd
undoubtedly consumed on Plough Monday, Peggy reckoned he still looked like shi..."Should Ah' have waited until the morrow yer'
dawdlin' bugger?" John good-naturedly bellowed and interrupted the musings of the little mariner steering the man's craft into the
rocky shore.

Gadda had slipped away as Peggy had suggested when she'd spotted the lone figure waiting and with an assurance he'd take
his remedy, the Merman's frazzled appendage waved goodbye.

Peggy accepted Potter's hug with relish. Even though she'd hardly been alone on Murdigon, it felt good to be back in a territory she
knew her feet would appreciate. The embrace was strong along with the smell of ale from his clothes, but still it was enjoyable.
"Yer' a sight fur' sore eyes" the little Witch whispered as she stepped back from the release of the man who lived alone on an island.
John Potter sighed and agreed with "Aye".
...................................................

The country lane that led towards Pucklewatch was laced with a lark trilling a eventide melody that Peggy Powler found comforting.
The blather she'd had with John Potter as he'd prepared his voyage back to his home was more interesting than she'd let on to the
tall man with the unquenchable thirst.

During his time at the village's celebrations, John had remarked on a queer sight of a stone-faced woman who never smiled at his
jokes and was accompanied by an annoying fellow with the gift of the tongue. Well maybe Peggy's uncouth associate used a less
manner of explanation.

Potter had climbed into his skiff and eventually answered his friend's query as he grasped the pair of dry oars with puzzlement at their
condition. The distraction required the little Witch to ask again and his response made the hairs on the back of her neck tingle.
"He was a gob-shite, Peggy and Ah' think his name was Godwort or somethin' like that" Potter called across the water and wondered
what was going on under the shade of that wide-brimmed hat.

"Fair elements, me-lass and get yer'self a pair of knickers, fur' Herne's sake!" he boomed as he slipped into the cold mist that had
rose from the early-evening's change in temperature. Peggy waved her goodbye and with  smile of menace on her lips, turned to
find a place to make a camp and get a good night's sleep.

She was back on her journey and the big moon was watching. Ahead were lantern-lit windows peeking through the trees, but tonight,
the Last Witch of Underhill had a scheme to plot and drive the final nail home to bury the unusual issue of Murdigon.

The End.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe. 
#31
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