The Hoot-owl blinked its indignation at the strange scruffy object dangling from his favourite roost and ruffled his feathers
in vexation. The road made a fine capture-point with its light-coloured surface and with his preferred cuisine sporting dark
fur, the stunted bough was an grand station to see rabbits crossing Calder's Way and now someone or something had
commandeered his ideal perch.
Even though the night bird may have been approximately the same size as the contents of the object, the ruffled hunter
would never have the fortitude to request the snoring occupant to decamp and allow certain nocturnal practices to return
to normal out here in the boondocks.
Whatever further reverie the disconcerted binocular bird may have conjured with we'll never know as a sudden movement
in the harebell-filled meadow behind the weathered signpost proclaiming Underhill being two leagues away caused the
feathered predator to take to its silent flight. One often finds that supper moves in mysterious ways.
.................................................................
The small smoky campfire crackled in the cool morning air as Peggy Powler sipped at a hot mug of chicory coffee and
considered what lay ahead. The yawning Witch loved this time of day and last night's slumber was much needed after
such a long journey. Underhill was not too-far away and she guessed that by nightfall, her nostalgia for the old place of
some of her younger years her would undoubtedly tumble in and bring an ache to her smiling mouth.
Peggy felt the calling for ablutions and waddling over to a large elm, she squatted as she wondered if old Hetty would
still be there. 'The Hag O' The Well' she'd been loosely baptised by those who would never dare to say it to her face, due
to some questionable episode in her past, but the little spellbinder couldn't recall a day when she'd seen the raggedy-old
woman anywhere near the village's water-hole.
Hetty was her aunt on her father's side -although his background was as vague as the woman who'd shown her how to
speak to toads and command inanimate to levitate. It had been some relief to Myrddin the Great Wizard when he'd
arrived in Underhill and found a teenager who'd embraced the old ways and was willing to further her education in the
art of majick. Peggy had never mentioned it anyone, but she also believed Hetty and the famous Magician had been
more than mere acquaintances in the past too. Myrddin had stayed over one night at Hetty's small home and it had
only two beds. Peggy had slept in one of them and her arithmetic was fine for her age.
Madame Powler -even in her rare moments of sobriety, had never fully disclosed the ambiguous man who'd she'd met
before coming to the Carnival. He was from Fae heritage and had stayed long enough for Peggy's mother to have some
confederacy with his relatives, but beyond that, the girl who'd loved her time with the Carnie-folk had nothing to connect
herself to her father.
With the fire extinguished and her meagre requirements to bivouac packed away in her mysterious satchel, the convivial
conjurer of bewitchment left her musings cooling with the result of her bladder evacuation, climbed carefully over the wall
of Calder's Way and set her shoeless feet towards a place she'd learned to call home.
.................................................................
If an intrepid reader of this tale ever decides to take the unpaved path off to the right where a large glacier-dropped boulder
prohibits Calder's Way's dry-stone barrier continuance, one may be forgiven to assume they were trekking towards a rarely
-used fruit-picking area. Immense raspberry bushes resided along that backwater trail that offer plump drupe all year round
and diffused among this fertile shrubbery, pomegranate trees dangle their juicy pericarps at a convenient height for anyone
passing.
Peering through this entanglement of this eternal harvest, there's a grass-bound hill where certain myths abound that will
only distract the same reader from the journey we're currently taking together and so we'll move along with the offering that
such legends may get an airing later.
Just a few strides from this natural orchard, a sentry of ancient oaks and elms line the way to a broken-down village where
the residents are a paradox of the earlier compassionate verdure. The shutters on the windows of the ten dilapidated abodes
are always closed and a passing traveller would be lucky to find a door even partially open. Underhill is -and has never been,
a place for visitors.
Peggy breathed in the faint aroma of woodsmoke from the chimneys as it failed once more to rise above the higher ground
that gave the hamlet its name. Squinting in the afternoon sun past the boulder-walled well that her aunt was alleged to have
come from, she looked towards the last of the ramshackle cottages. A large clay effigy of the last night's visitor to the Witch's
roost squatted vigilantly on an ivy-covered ledge next to the unvarnished door of Hetty's home.
The sculpture had an interesting trick to it when anyone -although that was a rare act, visited the old woman's residence, as
it's head would turn but only when the caller wasn't looking. A young Peggy had spent many a day attempting to catch the
terra-cotta owl in its prying and never succeeded once.
"Aye, there be a bugger me-nose would still recognise even if'n it had a washer-woman's claes-pin stuck on it..." a voice
croaked just as Peggy raised her hand to tap on the peeling door. "...Get yer' bare-backside in here and tek' a cup o' tea
wiv' the only agnate of the famous Witch from around these Herne-forsaken parts" the ancient utterance demanded and
the blemished door slowly opened on its own accord.
Sitting in an unlit room some used to call the parlour, a time-worn venerable geriatric sat on a wooden chair that must have
been hewn from a tree that is now a fossil and the occupant of that hoary piece of furniture turned her head to scrutinise the
nearest thing she had to a daughter. "Me-old heart is poundin' te' see my best lassie..." Hetty of The Well cooed softly and
pointed towards a chair that had also seen better days. "...Come on in and set awhile".
in vexation. The road made a fine capture-point with its light-coloured surface and with his preferred cuisine sporting dark
fur, the stunted bough was an grand station to see rabbits crossing Calder's Way and now someone or something had
commandeered his ideal perch.
Even though the night bird may have been approximately the same size as the contents of the object, the ruffled hunter
would never have the fortitude to request the snoring occupant to decamp and allow certain nocturnal practices to return
to normal out here in the boondocks.
Whatever further reverie the disconcerted binocular bird may have conjured with we'll never know as a sudden movement
in the harebell-filled meadow behind the weathered signpost proclaiming Underhill being two leagues away caused the
feathered predator to take to its silent flight. One often finds that supper moves in mysterious ways.
.................................................................
The small smoky campfire crackled in the cool morning air as Peggy Powler sipped at a hot mug of chicory coffee and
considered what lay ahead. The yawning Witch loved this time of day and last night's slumber was much needed after
such a long journey. Underhill was not too-far away and she guessed that by nightfall, her nostalgia for the old place of
some of her younger years her would undoubtedly tumble in and bring an ache to her smiling mouth.
Peggy felt the calling for ablutions and waddling over to a large elm, she squatted as she wondered if old Hetty would
still be there. 'The Hag O' The Well' she'd been loosely baptised by those who would never dare to say it to her face, due
to some questionable episode in her past, but the little spellbinder couldn't recall a day when she'd seen the raggedy-old
woman anywhere near the village's water-hole.
Hetty was her aunt on her father's side -although his background was as vague as the woman who'd shown her how to
speak to toads and command inanimate to levitate. It had been some relief to Myrddin the Great Wizard when he'd
arrived in Underhill and found a teenager who'd embraced the old ways and was willing to further her education in the
art of majick. Peggy had never mentioned it anyone, but she also believed Hetty and the famous Magician had been
more than mere acquaintances in the past too. Myrddin had stayed over one night at Hetty's small home and it had
only two beds. Peggy had slept in one of them and her arithmetic was fine for her age.
Madame Powler -even in her rare moments of sobriety, had never fully disclosed the ambiguous man who'd she'd met
before coming to the Carnival. He was from Fae heritage and had stayed long enough for Peggy's mother to have some
confederacy with his relatives, but beyond that, the girl who'd loved her time with the Carnie-folk had nothing to connect
herself to her father.
With the fire extinguished and her meagre requirements to bivouac packed away in her mysterious satchel, the convivial
conjurer of bewitchment left her musings cooling with the result of her bladder evacuation, climbed carefully over the wall
of Calder's Way and set her shoeless feet towards a place she'd learned to call home.
.................................................................
If an intrepid reader of this tale ever decides to take the unpaved path off to the right where a large glacier-dropped boulder
prohibits Calder's Way's dry-stone barrier continuance, one may be forgiven to assume they were trekking towards a rarely
-used fruit-picking area. Immense raspberry bushes resided along that backwater trail that offer plump drupe all year round
and diffused among this fertile shrubbery, pomegranate trees dangle their juicy pericarps at a convenient height for anyone
passing.
Peering through this entanglement of this eternal harvest, there's a grass-bound hill where certain myths abound that will
only distract the same reader from the journey we're currently taking together and so we'll move along with the offering that
such legends may get an airing later.
Just a few strides from this natural orchard, a sentry of ancient oaks and elms line the way to a broken-down village where
the residents are a paradox of the earlier compassionate verdure. The shutters on the windows of the ten dilapidated abodes
are always closed and a passing traveller would be lucky to find a door even partially open. Underhill is -and has never been,
a place for visitors.
Peggy breathed in the faint aroma of woodsmoke from the chimneys as it failed once more to rise above the higher ground
that gave the hamlet its name. Squinting in the afternoon sun past the boulder-walled well that her aunt was alleged to have
come from, she looked towards the last of the ramshackle cottages. A large clay effigy of the last night's visitor to the Witch's
roost squatted vigilantly on an ivy-covered ledge next to the unvarnished door of Hetty's home.
The sculpture had an interesting trick to it when anyone -although that was a rare act, visited the old woman's residence, as
it's head would turn but only when the caller wasn't looking. A young Peggy had spent many a day attempting to catch the
terra-cotta owl in its prying and never succeeded once.
"Aye, there be a bugger me-nose would still recognise even if'n it had a washer-woman's claes-pin stuck on it..." a voice
croaked just as Peggy raised her hand to tap on the peeling door. "...Get yer' bare-backside in here and tek' a cup o' tea
wiv' the only agnate of the famous Witch from around these Herne-forsaken parts" the ancient utterance demanded and
the blemished door slowly opened on its own accord.
Sitting in an unlit room some used to call the parlour, a time-worn venerable geriatric sat on a wooden chair that must have
been hewn from a tree that is now a fossil and the occupant of that hoary piece of furniture turned her head to scrutinise the
nearest thing she had to a daughter. "Me-old heart is poundin' te' see my best lassie..." Hetty of The Well cooed softly and
pointed towards a chair that had also seen better days. "...Come on in and set awhile".
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.