A brooding Father Theodore Martin grudgingly handed two metal goblets of cold water over to his pair of unwanted guests
and prepared his statement regarding the strange deaths in Willowsgate and his dubiousness of having one of the lowborn
superstitious kind look into the murders. Just having this Powler woman sitting here on the recently-purchased benches of
the nave -he believed, was not only disrespectful of the Lord's house, but could even tarnish the confidence of those who
worshipped here if news got out that he was actually entertaining the prudence of someone who still clung to the old ways.
The chagrined priest straightened his smock whilst silently conjured with the idea of washing that particular part of the pew
when the couple left. Arthur Thurgood toted nondescript features on his face as he waited for the clergyman's rendition, but
Father Martin knew that beneath that lank hair of the scruffy barefooted heathen sitting beside him, an unpleasant vein of
cogitation swam in black waters of paganistic maliciousness. Keeping his smouldering gaze firmly on Arthur Thurgood, the
piqued priest related what he knew about the killings and hopefully, rendered an outline of how adhering to his faith would
bring about a positive outcome.
"There is -we all know, an evil still running amok in the land..." Father Martin began, "...but beasts that our gracious Lord
gave us to dwell in the forests often portray such heinous acts that we consider as evil, but in fact are nothing more than
their natural way of living. But there are times when man will deliberately dip his hands into the diverse pools of sinfulness
and wallow in a depravity often endorsed by so-called faiths of those we inherited this world from".
With an impassive glance towards Peggy Powler, he continued. "I believe that a simple animal of the field and woodland
has been sullied by its instinctive hunger-lust during the fallow season and took to attacking these two poor unfortunates.
However, when the Lord delivers our summer, I dare postulate such abhorrent deeds will vanish and the good people of
Willowsgate can once again return to our worship and mode of alimentation that we all enjoy".
With that, Father Martin breathed out slowly and surveyed his two-person audience for any signs of influence. He knew
words delivered with great ardor and with the correct amount of self-possession, could douse the fears of a congregation
and create a parental-style of trust between a deficient-believer and his church.
Arthur Thurgood nodded and was about to say something when the little head-shaking Witch placed the untouched cup
of water on the seat, discreetly dropped to the herringbone tiles of the nave and prepared to leave. "Ah thank yer' fur' the
drink, Mister Martin, but yer' divna' ken what yer' talkin' about..." Peggy said without looking up at the puffed-up balding
preacher.
Ignoring the dried drips of wine on his shoes that had informed her of his private imbibing, the bantam-sized necromancer
stepped out onto the centre aisle and sullenly ambled to where she believed the atmosphere was less pretentious. "...Ah' can
tell thee fella, out there is a beastie that disna' fall into yer' convenient nooks of simple animals and yer' can be sure nay
amount of yer' prayin' or grape-watter will sate this fiend's hunger" she called as she approached the door and fished a
large floppy hat from her shoulder-borne satchel.
Father Martin feigned a gasp and spat the words he'd been wanting to say since setting eyes on the unpolished wench.
He enjoyed the way it raced from his tongue and if any of his adherents had ceded to such a craving, he'd have called a
sin. "Heathen Witch!" and the words echoed in the empty hall, the crass disbelieving visitor had been named, the harlot
of transgress was branded for all to see. However, Father Martin's limelight suddenly dulled when Arthur Thurgood stood
up and turned towards where the priest's assumed-nemesis waited. "I'll get the door, Peggy" he said and swiftly left the
bench and the misanthropic shepherd of Willowsgate's flock.
.................................................................
"It isn't going too well, is it?" Arthur said despondently as he eyed the irked necromancer amble over to the corner of the
church. With the pair leaving the recent inflamed temperature inside the house of worship, it seemed the late-morning
was attempting to emulate the fevered altercation by warming up the field that doubled as a cemetery. With a lonesome
robin warbling its forlorn aria, Peggy scanned the elm and elderberry bush-lined perimeter until her eyes landed upon a
single carved piece of timber sunk into the ground near the end of the chapel's property.
Agnes Campion had been laid to rest in what the Last Witch of Underhill would consider to be Potter's Corner, a place
where those who serve the more-powerful are interred separately from their pecunious employers. Slowly shaking her
head, Peggy decided that the best fashion of getting away from this association of difference was to run the Wulpos
to ground as quickly as possible and get back on the sea-cobbled highway she knew well.
"The Cutler kid... where was he found?" she asked the tolerant man waiting on the damp path to his church and was
surprised when his calloused finger pointed towards the grave of the dead milkmaid. "Judge Stoddard's orchard is just
beyond those bushes" Arthur replied and countered the spell-binder's mild nonplus when he saw her walk towards him
instead of the direction he had indicated.
"Yer' a good man, Arthur Thurgood , but bein' here wiv' me could unsettle yer' standing in Willowsgate..." Peggy said
softly. "...Maybe a canny fella would think of his family at this time and let me crack-on wiv'out yer help? Remember,
you live here and Ah'll be on me-way whe..." But before the pint-sized theurgist could finish her sympathetic warning,
the Arthur suddenly set-off on a trajectory he'd early pointed to. "There's a gap in the bushes just this way and if we're
quick, we might catch the Judge during his morning constitutional" he said eagerly over his shoulder.
"Yer a bugger, Arthur Thurgood..." the grinning wizard said under her breath, "...but the reet-sort of bugger" and hurried
to catch up with one of her kind.
and prepared his statement regarding the strange deaths in Willowsgate and his dubiousness of having one of the lowborn
superstitious kind look into the murders. Just having this Powler woman sitting here on the recently-purchased benches of
the nave -he believed, was not only disrespectful of the Lord's house, but could even tarnish the confidence of those who
worshipped here if news got out that he was actually entertaining the prudence of someone who still clung to the old ways.
The chagrined priest straightened his smock whilst silently conjured with the idea of washing that particular part of the pew
when the couple left. Arthur Thurgood toted nondescript features on his face as he waited for the clergyman's rendition, but
Father Martin knew that beneath that lank hair of the scruffy barefooted heathen sitting beside him, an unpleasant vein of
cogitation swam in black waters of paganistic maliciousness. Keeping his smouldering gaze firmly on Arthur Thurgood, the
piqued priest related what he knew about the killings and hopefully, rendered an outline of how adhering to his faith would
bring about a positive outcome.
"There is -we all know, an evil still running amok in the land..." Father Martin began, "...but beasts that our gracious Lord
gave us to dwell in the forests often portray such heinous acts that we consider as evil, but in fact are nothing more than
their natural way of living. But there are times when man will deliberately dip his hands into the diverse pools of sinfulness
and wallow in a depravity often endorsed by so-called faiths of those we inherited this world from".
With an impassive glance towards Peggy Powler, he continued. "I believe that a simple animal of the field and woodland
has been sullied by its instinctive hunger-lust during the fallow season and took to attacking these two poor unfortunates.
However, when the Lord delivers our summer, I dare postulate such abhorrent deeds will vanish and the good people of
Willowsgate can once again return to our worship and mode of alimentation that we all enjoy".
With that, Father Martin breathed out slowly and surveyed his two-person audience for any signs of influence. He knew
words delivered with great ardor and with the correct amount of self-possession, could douse the fears of a congregation
and create a parental-style of trust between a deficient-believer and his church.
Arthur Thurgood nodded and was about to say something when the little head-shaking Witch placed the untouched cup
of water on the seat, discreetly dropped to the herringbone tiles of the nave and prepared to leave. "Ah thank yer' fur' the
drink, Mister Martin, but yer' divna' ken what yer' talkin' about..." Peggy said without looking up at the puffed-up balding
preacher.
Ignoring the dried drips of wine on his shoes that had informed her of his private imbibing, the bantam-sized necromancer
stepped out onto the centre aisle and sullenly ambled to where she believed the atmosphere was less pretentious. "...Ah' can
tell thee fella, out there is a beastie that disna' fall into yer' convenient nooks of simple animals and yer' can be sure nay
amount of yer' prayin' or grape-watter will sate this fiend's hunger" she called as she approached the door and fished a
large floppy hat from her shoulder-borne satchel.
Father Martin feigned a gasp and spat the words he'd been wanting to say since setting eyes on the unpolished wench.
He enjoyed the way it raced from his tongue and if any of his adherents had ceded to such a craving, he'd have called a
sin. "Heathen Witch!" and the words echoed in the empty hall, the crass disbelieving visitor had been named, the harlot
of transgress was branded for all to see. However, Father Martin's limelight suddenly dulled when Arthur Thurgood stood
up and turned towards where the priest's assumed-nemesis waited. "I'll get the door, Peggy" he said and swiftly left the
bench and the misanthropic shepherd of Willowsgate's flock.
.................................................................
"It isn't going too well, is it?" Arthur said despondently as he eyed the irked necromancer amble over to the corner of the
church. With the pair leaving the recent inflamed temperature inside the house of worship, it seemed the late-morning
was attempting to emulate the fevered altercation by warming up the field that doubled as a cemetery. With a lonesome
robin warbling its forlorn aria, Peggy scanned the elm and elderberry bush-lined perimeter until her eyes landed upon a
single carved piece of timber sunk into the ground near the end of the chapel's property.
Agnes Campion had been laid to rest in what the Last Witch of Underhill would consider to be Potter's Corner, a place
where those who serve the more-powerful are interred separately from their pecunious employers. Slowly shaking her
head, Peggy decided that the best fashion of getting away from this association of difference was to run the Wulpos
to ground as quickly as possible and get back on the sea-cobbled highway she knew well.
"The Cutler kid... where was he found?" she asked the tolerant man waiting on the damp path to his church and was
surprised when his calloused finger pointed towards the grave of the dead milkmaid. "Judge Stoddard's orchard is just
beyond those bushes" Arthur replied and countered the spell-binder's mild nonplus when he saw her walk towards him
instead of the direction he had indicated.
"Yer' a good man, Arthur Thurgood , but bein' here wiv' me could unsettle yer' standing in Willowsgate..." Peggy said
softly. "...Maybe a canny fella would think of his family at this time and let me crack-on wiv'out yer help? Remember,
you live here and Ah'll be on me-way whe..." But before the pint-sized theurgist could finish her sympathetic warning,
the Arthur suddenly set-off on a trajectory he'd early pointed to. "There's a gap in the bushes just this way and if we're
quick, we might catch the Judge during his morning constitutional" he said eagerly over his shoulder.
"Yer a bugger, Arthur Thurgood..." the grinning wizard said under her breath, "...but the reet-sort of bugger" and hurried
to catch up with one of her kind.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.