The overnight snow seemed to have been reluctant to visit this part of the forest and standing here beside the mythical
place where my ancestors were supposed to have originated from, I mockingly wondered if all the weird supplements
of my grandfather's annual story had some merit. Zipping my waterproof jacket up fully, I would have to admit that a
coldness had -at least, made an effort to give the overgrown dell a feel of maleficent ambience.
I reckon I'd been ten years-old when I first heard the tale of old Hetty, an alleged soothsayer who foretold the success
of a small boy and how his future would benefit mankind. A great yarn, full of scary moments and a creepy woman who
lived in a well. A classic -some would say, that my Grandfather would deliver such a mouth-watering folktale with relish
at a time of year where the old meets the new. For myself, it was obvious -even back then, that the old man had carved
the uncanny narrative to hint that such service could be connected to my destiny too, if I embraced its meaning.
Surveying the the tangles of blackberry bushes, twisting bellbinds and moss-covered boulders, my mind creeps back to
those Christmas afternoons before the big feast when the toothless father-of-my-father would render his version of how
we came to be. I can remember him now and the scene of of his telling is so formulaic that it sometimes makes me
wonder if I have performed the same act as that long-dead man had and contorted reality to make my memory more
conducive to a listener, I too would be viewed as an off-the-wall character.
Not that I've ever gave the legend any utterance to anyone until now.
There he'd hold sway, hunched over in his armchair beside a blazing fire, the ninety-year-old would stare balefully at
the little lad at his feet and administering dollops of wide-eyed boggle of transcendent magic and boorish intimation
of organised-powers that exist beyond some mysterious veil.
As the faint sonance of clattering pots and pans performed in the busy kitchen and my parents chirped small worries
about gravy density to each other, a grizzled old man who could fart with the best of them would whisper idioms of
astoundment to his grandchild and a with hope that a special kind of baton would be passed across time once more.
The bones of the family lore had been simple as all tales should be. A coarse-speaking crone had visited one of my
predecessors and for the price of a meal, forecast his future before disappearing into a hole in the ground. Now at
that very location, I must confess that it was a grand supernumerary of dark innuendo that all good yarns need when
told to a child swimming in make-believe and certainly matched the disorderly herbage of where I currently stood.
I'm getting towards half-a-century old now and maybe this is that imaginary crossroad where I cry out for my time
back and mourn the years of my youth or just trudge onwards to more thinning of my pate and accepting the alarm
bells in my joints. Midlife crisis...? If standing alone amongst punky-smelling verdure and snaking vines that wish to
snag an invader of their suppressed haven is an indicator, then yes... that would rationally explain why I'm here.
But quickly on the heels of this ascetic reflection, I mentally stumble on by reminding myself that my current bearing
stems simply from my Grandfather's story and whether the cold afternoon finds me staring down into the darkness of
a borehole and realising that the past should just remain there and the future is more important, then maybe I can hold
a branding-iron to sear the truth onto my Grandfather's words or cauterise the mark he'd made and move on.
Now standing before the decaying watering-hole where Wicked Hetty supposedly departed from the boy of the story,
a more-melodramatic person than myself may pose I was awaiting such a verdict.
..........................................
"Yer' shouldn't be buggerin' about here me-lad, it's a dangerous place..." the woman said as she adjusted a bundle
of sticks beneath her arm. "...Ah've heard some say it's a haunted address too" she added and pulled the hood of her
coat down to allow a full examination. Resisting the need to choke on my alarm, I gathered myself as I surveyed the
middle-aged stranger and kindling-gathering interloper of my Parzival-like pilgrimage.
"Er... yes, yes-indeed. I was just interested in the old well here" I mumbled without any real cerebration of logic. I was
still dealing with being startled from my poetic reflection of my past and being dragged back into reality can certainly
knock any wool-gatherer from his beam.
"It certainly looks perilous" I suggested and glanced back to the stygian ruined abode of one of my memories. As the
chilly Christmas morning treacled on, the quietness of the woods joined me in noticing the woman seemed more
interested in her burden than myself and so I timidly began to scan her poise and face as I waited by the well.
I'd guess she was in her late-forties, but I've never been one for decent hunches when it comes to a woman's age.
All men are aware of this minefield regardless of any possible amour or edible fare on the table, it's merely some
unspoken advice handed down from the days of living in caves.
The stranger's hair was charcoal and thankfully free of the dyes to keep it that way commonly found these days.
Via my fleeting and abashed gander, I saw that she carried a face not unappealing and I would wager from the
set of her mouth, the lady could tarry in a jape and take full advantage of such badinage for her own merriment.
Maybe the very warning she'd offered was such a prank, but I couldn't be sure.
Of course, her proletarian accent was not of my social-standing and I'm embarrassed to say this. My family were
wealthy enough to send me for a high-quality education where comportment of one's speech and pronunciation
are paramount in getting on in life. One hopes a listener doesn't misunderstand my words, I'm merely expressing
that a good schooling coaches a better crusade for self-prosperity in all walks of life.
But now beneath a winter sky and surrounded by dreary boscage, this fairly-handsome stick-collector seemed to
speak in the manner that my Grandfather would appreciate, the common tongue of the benighted, the enunciate
of the vulgar and a pairing I would never have guessed at.
"Yer not frum' 'round here..." the woman offered as her focus left the gathered faggot and returned to newly-found
catechumen amongst the weeds. "...Tis' an odd day te' be rootin' 'round in such an impotent place and nay muddle
fur' sure. Bad place this, some say... full 'a things best left unearthed, others tell" she muttered and I believe her last
remark was to herself more than me.
During her cryptic opinion-venting, I delegated my viewing to eyeing the forlorn shrubbery that waited either side of
this miserable magistrate of my visit and raven-haired trespasser of my reminiscing introspection. Yet, it seemed
my outsider position needed more dubiousness dumped onto it.
"Ah' would a' thought a fella, a gent like yer'sell would be home under a tree and enjoyin' the livery of today? Ah hear
it telled' that some give gifts to discharge their jubilation for the day" she added and suddenly gazed squarely towards
me like an unsure predator coming to an accord with their needs.
However, with the need to counter her overt plebeian power-grab, I confidently responded that I was here because of
personal reasons and that I should really be on my way during this time of festive celebration. I believed -at the time,
my tone of cavalier articulation was commanding enough that my own type of cautioning struck home. I would also
propose that insults -no matter how poorly veiled, are becoming far-too common these days.
Although, I never told her this.
It was at this moment, the atmosphere that bound us in this strange encounter took on an air that -once more, the
old man who's seed was my father, would have cackled at and shown his lack of dentures. I'm not one for reading
fiction and even though my present predicament would equal anything Poe or Lovecraft could've dredged from their
dark innards, I attempted to cling onto the reality I knew to be trusted... the one that now spurned me in my hour of
of need. The hour of Hetty the Hag.
..........................................
The old Witch chuckled as the aromatic herbage around me began to writhe and shrivel, the sombre light of this cold
end of December changed and some might suggest, became a time before pollution. The poor weather was gone and
now a bright sun shone down into the small clearing where a grinning raggedy scarecrow watched as the small boy in
an oversized windcheater ogled at the magical world he'd been dragged down into.
I cannot swear to it, but the background sounds that I was accustomed to in my life altered too, the familiar low murmur
of modern-day living seemed to fall away to a fresher -less busy accent. The air felt sweeter on my lips and the aromas
told of wild flowers feeling the breeze of a Summer's day and nodding in confidence that time would never be the Judas
we all know it to be.
All this from a devolved terror-stricken adult grasping at the oversized pants he'd darkened in fear. I had passed through
that supposedly-translucent curtain that my elder had spoken of and now in child-form, had become part of an epilogue
to the folklore of rural Underhill.
"Yer' took yer' bloody time te' come back te' me, me-lad..." the skinny harridan scolded "...the defrayal fur' yer good times
didn't include forgettin' ol' Hetty, thee knows". My terrified mind raced across the account from my Grandfather and for a
moment, a smeared plate of hardened cheese swam past my lens of anamnesis. Oh, it was so long ago... was I correct?
Hetty's un-toothed maw widened and prompted me that I may be accurate. But the abhorrent mare's words confirmed it
-even though it took me a second to translate her shabby version. "Aye, old rat... a begrudged repast fur' a grand payment
that would bring pelotage te' a young fella's future" she growled as her red-rimmed eyes scanned the man who'd now been
reduced down to a frightened boy again. I had misplaced the knowledge that she could read minds.
"There'll be looking for me..." I blurted "...I am a man of means and importance, you're going to get into troub..." but my
admonishment was curtailed when the rawboned crone stepped forwards and grabbed the artificial fabric of my too-big
coat. "Divna' threaten me wiv' yer piss-poor dither, if thee kens the bargain, then thee kens the contract in its absolute"
Hetty hissed into my blanched face.
Every word stank of expired care and poisonous menace, the damaged woman in rags hinted at something beyond an
old man's dispensing of a lightweight fairy-tale told in round, pear shaped tones. It smacked of lost imperative particulars.
What deal had been made in that long-ago farmyard and what unwanted details had been dropped from the legend?
With my collar released, I felt her bundle of claws pretentiously pat the top of my head and I'd swear I felt scurrying lice
exploring a new home. The Hag stood erect and with the rays of the sun threatening to shine through her bedraggled
attire, I mentally prayed that the redeemer born on this day would release me from this nightmare.
Allowing her anger to leave her craggy features, the scrawny horror before me planted her hands on her bulimic hips
and confidently cooed the words that assured my stained jeans would fall foul to a more-substantial blemishing.
"It's time me-lad, yer've grown up and the pact must now be bound... it's time yer' took me as yer wife".
The End?
place where my ancestors were supposed to have originated from, I mockingly wondered if all the weird supplements
of my grandfather's annual story had some merit. Zipping my waterproof jacket up fully, I would have to admit that a
coldness had -at least, made an effort to give the overgrown dell a feel of maleficent ambience.
I reckon I'd been ten years-old when I first heard the tale of old Hetty, an alleged soothsayer who foretold the success
of a small boy and how his future would benefit mankind. A great yarn, full of scary moments and a creepy woman who
lived in a well. A classic -some would say, that my Grandfather would deliver such a mouth-watering folktale with relish
at a time of year where the old meets the new. For myself, it was obvious -even back then, that the old man had carved
the uncanny narrative to hint that such service could be connected to my destiny too, if I embraced its meaning.
Surveying the the tangles of blackberry bushes, twisting bellbinds and moss-covered boulders, my mind creeps back to
those Christmas afternoons before the big feast when the toothless father-of-my-father would render his version of how
we came to be. I can remember him now and the scene of of his telling is so formulaic that it sometimes makes me
wonder if I have performed the same act as that long-dead man had and contorted reality to make my memory more
conducive to a listener, I too would be viewed as an off-the-wall character.
Not that I've ever gave the legend any utterance to anyone until now.
There he'd hold sway, hunched over in his armchair beside a blazing fire, the ninety-year-old would stare balefully at
the little lad at his feet and administering dollops of wide-eyed boggle of transcendent magic and boorish intimation
of organised-powers that exist beyond some mysterious veil.
As the faint sonance of clattering pots and pans performed in the busy kitchen and my parents chirped small worries
about gravy density to each other, a grizzled old man who could fart with the best of them would whisper idioms of
astoundment to his grandchild and a with hope that a special kind of baton would be passed across time once more.
The bones of the family lore had been simple as all tales should be. A coarse-speaking crone had visited one of my
predecessors and for the price of a meal, forecast his future before disappearing into a hole in the ground. Now at
that very location, I must confess that it was a grand supernumerary of dark innuendo that all good yarns need when
told to a child swimming in make-believe and certainly matched the disorderly herbage of where I currently stood.
I'm getting towards half-a-century old now and maybe this is that imaginary crossroad where I cry out for my time
back and mourn the years of my youth or just trudge onwards to more thinning of my pate and accepting the alarm
bells in my joints. Midlife crisis...? If standing alone amongst punky-smelling verdure and snaking vines that wish to
snag an invader of their suppressed haven is an indicator, then yes... that would rationally explain why I'm here.
But quickly on the heels of this ascetic reflection, I mentally stumble on by reminding myself that my current bearing
stems simply from my Grandfather's story and whether the cold afternoon finds me staring down into the darkness of
a borehole and realising that the past should just remain there and the future is more important, then maybe I can hold
a branding-iron to sear the truth onto my Grandfather's words or cauterise the mark he'd made and move on.
Now standing before the decaying watering-hole where Wicked Hetty supposedly departed from the boy of the story,
a more-melodramatic person than myself may pose I was awaiting such a verdict.
..........................................
"Yer' shouldn't be buggerin' about here me-lad, it's a dangerous place..." the woman said as she adjusted a bundle
of sticks beneath her arm. "...Ah've heard some say it's a haunted address too" she added and pulled the hood of her
coat down to allow a full examination. Resisting the need to choke on my alarm, I gathered myself as I surveyed the
middle-aged stranger and kindling-gathering interloper of my Parzival-like pilgrimage.
"Er... yes, yes-indeed. I was just interested in the old well here" I mumbled without any real cerebration of logic. I was
still dealing with being startled from my poetic reflection of my past and being dragged back into reality can certainly
knock any wool-gatherer from his beam.
"It certainly looks perilous" I suggested and glanced back to the stygian ruined abode of one of my memories. As the
chilly Christmas morning treacled on, the quietness of the woods joined me in noticing the woman seemed more
interested in her burden than myself and so I timidly began to scan her poise and face as I waited by the well.
I'd guess she was in her late-forties, but I've never been one for decent hunches when it comes to a woman's age.
All men are aware of this minefield regardless of any possible amour or edible fare on the table, it's merely some
unspoken advice handed down from the days of living in caves.
The stranger's hair was charcoal and thankfully free of the dyes to keep it that way commonly found these days.
Via my fleeting and abashed gander, I saw that she carried a face not unappealing and I would wager from the
set of her mouth, the lady could tarry in a jape and take full advantage of such badinage for her own merriment.
Maybe the very warning she'd offered was such a prank, but I couldn't be sure.
Of course, her proletarian accent was not of my social-standing and I'm embarrassed to say this. My family were
wealthy enough to send me for a high-quality education where comportment of one's speech and pronunciation
are paramount in getting on in life. One hopes a listener doesn't misunderstand my words, I'm merely expressing
that a good schooling coaches a better crusade for self-prosperity in all walks of life.
But now beneath a winter sky and surrounded by dreary boscage, this fairly-handsome stick-collector seemed to
speak in the manner that my Grandfather would appreciate, the common tongue of the benighted, the enunciate
of the vulgar and a pairing I would never have guessed at.
"Yer not frum' 'round here..." the woman offered as her focus left the gathered faggot and returned to newly-found
catechumen amongst the weeds. "...Tis' an odd day te' be rootin' 'round in such an impotent place and nay muddle
fur' sure. Bad place this, some say... full 'a things best left unearthed, others tell" she muttered and I believe her last
remark was to herself more than me.
During her cryptic opinion-venting, I delegated my viewing to eyeing the forlorn shrubbery that waited either side of
this miserable magistrate of my visit and raven-haired trespasser of my reminiscing introspection. Yet, it seemed
my outsider position needed more dubiousness dumped onto it.
"Ah' would a' thought a fella, a gent like yer'sell would be home under a tree and enjoyin' the livery of today? Ah hear
it telled' that some give gifts to discharge their jubilation for the day" she added and suddenly gazed squarely towards
me like an unsure predator coming to an accord with their needs.
However, with the need to counter her overt plebeian power-grab, I confidently responded that I was here because of
personal reasons and that I should really be on my way during this time of festive celebration. I believed -at the time,
my tone of cavalier articulation was commanding enough that my own type of cautioning struck home. I would also
propose that insults -no matter how poorly veiled, are becoming far-too common these days.
Although, I never told her this.
It was at this moment, the atmosphere that bound us in this strange encounter took on an air that -once more, the
old man who's seed was my father, would have cackled at and shown his lack of dentures. I'm not one for reading
fiction and even though my present predicament would equal anything Poe or Lovecraft could've dredged from their
dark innards, I attempted to cling onto the reality I knew to be trusted... the one that now spurned me in my hour of
of need. The hour of Hetty the Hag.
..........................................
The old Witch chuckled as the aromatic herbage around me began to writhe and shrivel, the sombre light of this cold
end of December changed and some might suggest, became a time before pollution. The poor weather was gone and
now a bright sun shone down into the small clearing where a grinning raggedy scarecrow watched as the small boy in
an oversized windcheater ogled at the magical world he'd been dragged down into.
I cannot swear to it, but the background sounds that I was accustomed to in my life altered too, the familiar low murmur
of modern-day living seemed to fall away to a fresher -less busy accent. The air felt sweeter on my lips and the aromas
told of wild flowers feeling the breeze of a Summer's day and nodding in confidence that time would never be the Judas
we all know it to be.
All this from a devolved terror-stricken adult grasping at the oversized pants he'd darkened in fear. I had passed through
that supposedly-translucent curtain that my elder had spoken of and now in child-form, had become part of an epilogue
to the folklore of rural Underhill.
"Yer' took yer' bloody time te' come back te' me, me-lad..." the skinny harridan scolded "...the defrayal fur' yer good times
didn't include forgettin' ol' Hetty, thee knows". My terrified mind raced across the account from my Grandfather and for a
moment, a smeared plate of hardened cheese swam past my lens of anamnesis. Oh, it was so long ago... was I correct?
Hetty's un-toothed maw widened and prompted me that I may be accurate. But the abhorrent mare's words confirmed it
-even though it took me a second to translate her shabby version. "Aye, old rat... a begrudged repast fur' a grand payment
that would bring pelotage te' a young fella's future" she growled as her red-rimmed eyes scanned the man who'd now been
reduced down to a frightened boy again. I had misplaced the knowledge that she could read minds.
"There'll be looking for me..." I blurted "...I am a man of means and importance, you're going to get into troub..." but my
admonishment was curtailed when the rawboned crone stepped forwards and grabbed the artificial fabric of my too-big
coat. "Divna' threaten me wiv' yer piss-poor dither, if thee kens the bargain, then thee kens the contract in its absolute"
Hetty hissed into my blanched face.
Every word stank of expired care and poisonous menace, the damaged woman in rags hinted at something beyond an
old man's dispensing of a lightweight fairy-tale told in round, pear shaped tones. It smacked of lost imperative particulars.
What deal had been made in that long-ago farmyard and what unwanted details had been dropped from the legend?
With my collar released, I felt her bundle of claws pretentiously pat the top of my head and I'd swear I felt scurrying lice
exploring a new home. The Hag stood erect and with the rays of the sun threatening to shine through her bedraggled
attire, I mentally prayed that the redeemer born on this day would release me from this nightmare.
Allowing her anger to leave her craggy features, the scrawny horror before me planted her hands on her bulimic hips
and confidently cooed the words that assured my stained jeans would fall foul to a more-substantial blemishing.
"It's time me-lad, yer've grown up and the pact must now be bound... it's time yer' took me as yer wife".
The End?
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.
