The little high-ceiling room Father Martin used for the taking of his meals and changing into ceremonial vestments was
quiet as Peggy Powler and Arthur Thurgood carefully crept inside. Blandly carved wainscoting covered the lower-part of
the walls until disrupted by the door the wary pair were peeking from and entrance to the rest of the church.
Arthur had never been in here before and felt a little ashamed, just as he did when he was ten years-old and watched
a group of girls skinny-dipping in Trantor Pond back at Bootle Mills. Lewd was the word that he caught himself thinking
as he and the Last Witch of Underhill stood in the silence and surveyed their surroundings. "It'll be a container..." Peggy
whispered and returned the earlier fright the retired sawmill owner had delivered when they'd met outside. "...Somethin'
wiv' bits of blue dust in it" she added and slinked over to where a large leather-bound chest rested beside the Thurgood
-donated oak wooden door that led into the chancel.
There were three chasuble's neatly folded in the unlocked trunk and recognising them, Peggy's eye tarried a while and
then looked down at her own poncho. "Nah" she said confidently and not due any temptation of exchanging her own
single item of clothing for the richly-embroidered sleeveless garments, just a simple comment on who's devotional
attire she believed was better.
A well-worn cassock for Father Martin to wear when visiting his parishioners lay beside something that look like a
shoulder-covering or all-around bib and it took the snooping sorceress a few moments before recalling it was called
an amiss. Three books were stuffed down at one end of the Witch-size casket and with a careful hand, she plucked
the one bound in a dark goatskin laced with smudges of soil.
Peggy glanced at its first few pages and sniffed the faint odour of decayed offal before returning to re-read its title.
With a narrowing of her eyes, she also viewed the author, 'The Worship of Sun-Lizards & Other Gods By Whitby
Kipper'. Scowling now at what she'd believed at happened to the snooty clergyman, she saw on the inside of the
cover that this foul opus of Demons was dedicated to someone who'd spawned Willowsgate's problem so long ago.
Francis Wulpos.
Arthur had followed Peggy's cue and nervously approached a tall ebony-coloured cabinet with sprawling brass hinges
across it's daunting doors. Two handles of the same metal dared him to discover what may lay inside and glancing
at the woman leaning slightly over the open trunk, he thought it better to focus on his task rather than the reveal of
the backs of Peggy's upper-thighs. There was no haunting creak of the doors open, nor a loud click as the handles
ceded to Arthur's demands, just a slight waft of confined air announcing a jailbreak.
There were four shelves with the top one lined with unopened bottles of -what Arthur believed, was the Communion
wine. Two of the corks looked like they'd been tampered with and small dried stains of deep crimson tarnished the
hand-crafted labels advertising they were bought in Gaynestown. The next shelf held a number of stacked books he
recognised at once from he and his family's visits to the church. They were regular-looking song missals with gusto
hymns of reverence inside.
The third ledge was empty and just as Arthur's eyes moved down to examine the bottom mantle -where a bizarre
filth-coated fleece bodice or robe lay, he spied something waiting in the shadows beneath the second shelf. It was
a jar, one like Elsa uses when making preserves with their cook. That thought required his attention to scramble to
more hearty times, so he reluctantly pushed it away and peered at the glass tun. Initially, Arthur saw only dirt, but
as he leaned in closer, faltering sparkles of azure called from the grime and seemed to promise enchantment if
only the beholder loosened the vessel's twine-bound top.
Whether Arthur would've unleashed the esoteric power-unit that controlled the Wulpos' host, we'll never know as
the glimpse of something slumped up against the inside of the jar made him recoil from his survey and brought
Peggy's attention too. It was a dried liver, all mottled with bruised lumps, deflated veins and mummified pipes
of gristle. The Witch standing beside him, patted his arm with one hand whilst reaching for the jar with the other.
"Yer' a treasure, Mister Thurgood" she breathed softly, stuffing the grotesque cruet into her satchel and turning
to approach the area of the alter, she heard her wide-eyed companion reply "call me Arthur".
.................................................................
Some may argue that Father Theodore Martin was there in the reserved place for himself and the few residents
of Willowsgate he'd cajoled into forming a choir. But others with further reflection could postulate that only the
priest's crouching twisted and lacerated naked body was actually in the chancel. For Peggy Powler, it was the
latter, but she was more concerned with what was waiting inside the gashed pastor. "Oh bugger it" the canny
conjurer murmured and prepared herself for the showdown.
quiet as Peggy Powler and Arthur Thurgood carefully crept inside. Blandly carved wainscoting covered the lower-part of
the walls until disrupted by the door the wary pair were peeking from and entrance to the rest of the church.
Arthur had never been in here before and felt a little ashamed, just as he did when he was ten years-old and watched
a group of girls skinny-dipping in Trantor Pond back at Bootle Mills. Lewd was the word that he caught himself thinking
as he and the Last Witch of Underhill stood in the silence and surveyed their surroundings. "It'll be a container..." Peggy
whispered and returned the earlier fright the retired sawmill owner had delivered when they'd met outside. "...Somethin'
wiv' bits of blue dust in it" she added and slinked over to where a large leather-bound chest rested beside the Thurgood
-donated oak wooden door that led into the chancel.
There were three chasuble's neatly folded in the unlocked trunk and recognising them, Peggy's eye tarried a while and
then looked down at her own poncho. "Nah" she said confidently and not due any temptation of exchanging her own
single item of clothing for the richly-embroidered sleeveless garments, just a simple comment on who's devotional
attire she believed was better.
A well-worn cassock for Father Martin to wear when visiting his parishioners lay beside something that look like a
shoulder-covering or all-around bib and it took the snooping sorceress a few moments before recalling it was called
an amiss. Three books were stuffed down at one end of the Witch-size casket and with a careful hand, she plucked
the one bound in a dark goatskin laced with smudges of soil.
Peggy glanced at its first few pages and sniffed the faint odour of decayed offal before returning to re-read its title.
With a narrowing of her eyes, she also viewed the author, 'The Worship of Sun-Lizards & Other Gods By Whitby
Kipper'. Scowling now at what she'd believed at happened to the snooty clergyman, she saw on the inside of the
cover that this foul opus of Demons was dedicated to someone who'd spawned Willowsgate's problem so long ago.
Francis Wulpos.
Arthur had followed Peggy's cue and nervously approached a tall ebony-coloured cabinet with sprawling brass hinges
across it's daunting doors. Two handles of the same metal dared him to discover what may lay inside and glancing
at the woman leaning slightly over the open trunk, he thought it better to focus on his task rather than the reveal of
the backs of Peggy's upper-thighs. There was no haunting creak of the doors open, nor a loud click as the handles
ceded to Arthur's demands, just a slight waft of confined air announcing a jailbreak.
There were four shelves with the top one lined with unopened bottles of -what Arthur believed, was the Communion
wine. Two of the corks looked like they'd been tampered with and small dried stains of deep crimson tarnished the
hand-crafted labels advertising they were bought in Gaynestown. The next shelf held a number of stacked books he
recognised at once from he and his family's visits to the church. They were regular-looking song missals with gusto
hymns of reverence inside.
The third ledge was empty and just as Arthur's eyes moved down to examine the bottom mantle -where a bizarre
filth-coated fleece bodice or robe lay, he spied something waiting in the shadows beneath the second shelf. It was
a jar, one like Elsa uses when making preserves with their cook. That thought required his attention to scramble to
more hearty times, so he reluctantly pushed it away and peered at the glass tun. Initially, Arthur saw only dirt, but
as he leaned in closer, faltering sparkles of azure called from the grime and seemed to promise enchantment if
only the beholder loosened the vessel's twine-bound top.
Whether Arthur would've unleashed the esoteric power-unit that controlled the Wulpos' host, we'll never know as
the glimpse of something slumped up against the inside of the jar made him recoil from his survey and brought
Peggy's attention too. It was a dried liver, all mottled with bruised lumps, deflated veins and mummified pipes
of gristle. The Witch standing beside him, patted his arm with one hand whilst reaching for the jar with the other.
"Yer' a treasure, Mister Thurgood" she breathed softly, stuffing the grotesque cruet into her satchel and turning
to approach the area of the alter, she heard her wide-eyed companion reply "call me Arthur".
.................................................................
Some may argue that Father Theodore Martin was there in the reserved place for himself and the few residents
of Willowsgate he'd cajoled into forming a choir. But others with further reflection could postulate that only the
priest's crouching twisted and lacerated naked body was actually in the chancel. For Peggy Powler, it was the
latter, but she was more concerned with what was waiting inside the gashed pastor. "Oh bugger it" the canny
conjurer murmured and prepared herself for the showdown.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.