If time is a pugilist, Peggy Powler had to reluctantly admit to herself that the old woman sitting across from her looked
like she'd ducked only few of its boundless punches. Hetty's Halloween smile remained on her aunt's well-lined face as
her blood-shot eyes soaked in the sight of Madame Powler's only issue. "De' yer' knaa pet...? yer' a sight fur' these old
glimmers" Hetty rasped and suddenly broke into a wracking cough.
Peggy leaned close and placed a caring hand on the harridan's shoulder, she could feel the muscles writhe and coil
beneath the threadbare remains of the frock Hetty always wore. "You tek' yer' time Ma'am" the little Witch murmured
as she recalled her aunt's previous bouts of convulsions. Many winters ago, an almost twelve year-old Peggy had spent
two days and nights nursing the old woman through a severe stint of the hacking fits.
The young girl believed her mother's explanation that Hetty had once fought a dragon in its lair and its sulphurous breath
that had almost destroyed the woman's lungs. However, during the early hours of the second night and when Peggy was
almost unglued from lack of sleep, her father's sister had imparted between coughs that she'd once laid with Old Scratch
himself and it was his supernatural ardor had left her this way. Now caressing Hetty's flinching and rippling spine, Peggy
wondered if the old reprobate had provided the true reason for her seizures.
"Eeh yer' bugger..." Hetty wheezed "...that night wiv' the Devil has certainly knocked me-fettle" and managed a sly wink
towards the worried Witch beside her. Peggy remained quiet as she watched her aunt slowly sit upright and catch her
breath, to the necromancer reaching for a cup of tea, she looked like a poor scarecrow brought in from the fields. "Tek'
a sip" Peggy whispered and avoided Hetty using her own trembling claw-like hands.
The afternoon would sluggishly move forward before the old Hag had the strength to take a walk outside and during the
the amble, she mentioned she had a tale to tell her only kin. Peggy Powler had returned to Underhill for sentimental
reasons, but it seemed her Fates had other ideas.
.................................................................
"Yer'll be noticing Martha Crowther's hoose is all boarded-up?" Hetty asked as she closed her eyelids and allowed the
warm sunlight try its healing qualities on the withered woman leaning on the gatepost. Peggy frowned her puzzlement
as she recalled how the inhabitants of Underhill rarely crossed their respective thresholds before the darkness came.
During her first few days of her six-summers stay with her aunt, the teenage theurgist believed the people behind the
closed doors of the disheveled homes were Vampires. It was only when she spotted fresh feed in the Crowther's pig
enclosure one morning did she realise Old Hetty's explanation made sense. "Yer' mean the cottage wiv' the dead rose
bushes around the door?" Peggy replied and looked back towards the village.
Martha Crowther lived her husband in the structure near the hill and from her recollections, the young Peggy who had
watched the strange nocturnal movements of her aunt's community, could state categorically that Jacob Crowther was
a Vampire. For a stripling now coming to terms with not travelling from village to town and having a free range to wander
the Carnival's many wonders, the lurching shadow Peggy had witnessed through the cracked-window of Hetty's cramped
home would certainly qualify as a creature of the night. Unknown to the musing spell-worker was that Jacob had popped
his clogs sometime last winter and his wife had up-and-left not long after.
"Aye, thee knaws' bad ju-ju has come te' Underhill..." Hetty whispered as she absorbed an amount of vitamin D with
great relish. the old woman's closed eyes showed Peggy there was an enjoyment in her partaking. "...Some said its
old man Kessler the rich land-owner wantin' te' buy up the place, but Ol' Hetty knaws' who's after me-hyem".
Peggy noticed her aunt had spoken in the past tense about her fellow-Underhillians and she wondered if Hetty was
actually the only resident left in the broken-down thorp. Scanning the cottages again, she believed she may be correct.
The name Kessler was familiar to the diminutive sorceress and it took some time before she could locate the time she'd
first heard it.
The surrounding trees became a canvas for Peggy where recall painted images of her past and as Hetty stretched her
back in relief, it came. The ruddy face of an aristocrat appeared and a faint recollection of horse manure accompanied
the memory, the recapture even brought a small smile to Peggy's lips. It was during her escapade at the Summertide
and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race and
"Nay, Ah' divna' think Baron Kessler would dare te' dabble where a Powler is concerned..." Peggy offered, "...from the
short dealin' Ah' had wiv' him, he seemed a canny fella" she appended and any benevolent thoughts she had of the
aged dignitary fled her mind as she saw the last of her family suddenly fall unconcious to the hard-pack earth.
.................................................................
There are many times when Peggy's faithful canvas satchel always supplied the exact item she needed and a particular
moment and this time there was no exception. A wax-dripping candle assisted the little Witch as she administered a
spoonful of dark elixir from a cork-stopped bottle found at the bottom of her tote to the murmuring virago shivering under
two large moth-eaten blankets and a long heavy coat that once belonged to Herne-knows-who. Sweat poured from Hetty's
pores and left tracks down her unwashed brow and cheeks, her skin was hot to the touch.
Placing the glass container she'd taken from a carpetbagger called Bartholomew Drigg long ago on a battered and gouged
dresser next to the bed, Peggy watched the battle going on behind the close eyelids of her favourite aunt. The medicine
might help the ancient crone in her conflict with her blight and the midget magician thanked Herne that she'd taken the
time during her travels to concoct appropriate cabalistic potions. For genuine wandering Witches, lonely campfires can
rival the best physician's workshop and often bring far better remedies.
"Are yer' there me-lass?" Hetty hissed softly and brought a dirt-smudged hand from beneath the rarely-washed comforter.
Peggy leaned close to the creased face of the perspiring twice-centenarian and soothed the old woman with tones of
assurance. "Sleep Aunt Hetty, rest yer' bones and let the nostrum do its work" she breathed and held the fragile bundle
of bones tipped with snagged talons. "Naw, Ah' knaw yer' mean well, but-but Ah' got te' tell thee aboot Underhill" Hetty
spluttered and Peggy could see another bout of coughing attempting to wrestle its way to the surface.
"There's nay bugger left cos' of...." the eyes of the old woman that had once supposedly lived in a well rolled back down
from the dark haven of her head and for a waft of candle's flame, time stood still. "...It's livin' in the hill, Peggy... the thing
that's been killin' them, it's in the..." and Hetty's warning slid away with her as she dove into the deep blank hibernation
of the sick.
The cracked pane Peggy had once watched old-man Crowther come out of his house and steal away into the darkness
during her young years, became a witness again to the little Witch's surveillance as the sun slowly dropped behind the
tor that gave Underhill its name. Whatever it was that supposedly was emptying the village of its occupants, Peggy
realised the last of her own was also the last on its menu.
like she'd ducked only few of its boundless punches. Hetty's Halloween smile remained on her aunt's well-lined face as
her blood-shot eyes soaked in the sight of Madame Powler's only issue. "De' yer' knaa pet...? yer' a sight fur' these old
glimmers" Hetty rasped and suddenly broke into a wracking cough.
Peggy leaned close and placed a caring hand on the harridan's shoulder, she could feel the muscles writhe and coil
beneath the threadbare remains of the frock Hetty always wore. "You tek' yer' time Ma'am" the little Witch murmured
as she recalled her aunt's previous bouts of convulsions. Many winters ago, an almost twelve year-old Peggy had spent
two days and nights nursing the old woman through a severe stint of the hacking fits.
The young girl believed her mother's explanation that Hetty had once fought a dragon in its lair and its sulphurous breath
that had almost destroyed the woman's lungs. However, during the early hours of the second night and when Peggy was
almost unglued from lack of sleep, her father's sister had imparted between coughs that she'd once laid with Old Scratch
himself and it was his supernatural ardor had left her this way. Now caressing Hetty's flinching and rippling spine, Peggy
wondered if the old reprobate had provided the true reason for her seizures.
"Eeh yer' bugger..." Hetty wheezed "...that night wiv' the Devil has certainly knocked me-fettle" and managed a sly wink
towards the worried Witch beside her. Peggy remained quiet as she watched her aunt slowly sit upright and catch her
breath, to the necromancer reaching for a cup of tea, she looked like a poor scarecrow brought in from the fields. "Tek'
a sip" Peggy whispered and avoided Hetty using her own trembling claw-like hands.
The afternoon would sluggishly move forward before the old Hag had the strength to take a walk outside and during the
the amble, she mentioned she had a tale to tell her only kin. Peggy Powler had returned to Underhill for sentimental
reasons, but it seemed her Fates had other ideas.
.................................................................
"Yer'll be noticing Martha Crowther's hoose is all boarded-up?" Hetty asked as she closed her eyelids and allowed the
warm sunlight try its healing qualities on the withered woman leaning on the gatepost. Peggy frowned her puzzlement
as she recalled how the inhabitants of Underhill rarely crossed their respective thresholds before the darkness came.
During her first few days of her six-summers stay with her aunt, the teenage theurgist believed the people behind the
closed doors of the disheveled homes were Vampires. It was only when she spotted fresh feed in the Crowther's pig
enclosure one morning did she realise Old Hetty's explanation made sense. "Yer' mean the cottage wiv' the dead rose
bushes around the door?" Peggy replied and looked back towards the village.
Martha Crowther lived her husband in the structure near the hill and from her recollections, the young Peggy who had
watched the strange nocturnal movements of her aunt's community, could state categorically that Jacob Crowther was
a Vampire. For a stripling now coming to terms with not travelling from village to town and having a free range to wander
the Carnival's many wonders, the lurching shadow Peggy had witnessed through the cracked-window of Hetty's cramped
home would certainly qualify as a creature of the night. Unknown to the musing spell-worker was that Jacob had popped
his clogs sometime last winter and his wife had up-and-left not long after.
"Aye, thee knaws' bad ju-ju has come te' Underhill..." Hetty whispered as she absorbed an amount of vitamin D with
great relish. the old woman's closed eyes showed Peggy there was an enjoyment in her partaking. "...Some said its
old man Kessler the rich land-owner wantin' te' buy up the place, but Ol' Hetty knaws' who's after me-hyem".
Peggy noticed her aunt had spoken in the past tense about her fellow-Underhillians and she wondered if Hetty was
actually the only resident left in the broken-down thorp. Scanning the cottages again, she believed she may be correct.
The name Kessler was familiar to the diminutive sorceress and it took some time before she could locate the time she'd
first heard it.
The surrounding trees became a canvas for Peggy where recall painted images of her past and as Hetty stretched her
back in relief, it came. The ruddy face of an aristocrat appeared and a faint recollection of horse manure accompanied
the memory, the recapture even brought a small smile to Peggy's lips. It was during her escapade at the Summertide
and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race and
"Nay, Ah' divna' think Baron Kessler would dare te' dabble where a Powler is concerned..." Peggy offered, "...from the
short dealin' Ah' had wiv' him, he seemed a canny fella" she appended and any benevolent thoughts she had of the
aged dignitary fled her mind as she saw the last of her family suddenly fall unconcious to the hard-pack earth.
.................................................................
There are many times when Peggy's faithful canvas satchel always supplied the exact item she needed and a particular
moment and this time there was no exception. A wax-dripping candle assisted the little Witch as she administered a
spoonful of dark elixir from a cork-stopped bottle found at the bottom of her tote to the murmuring virago shivering under
two large moth-eaten blankets and a long heavy coat that once belonged to Herne-knows-who. Sweat poured from Hetty's
pores and left tracks down her unwashed brow and cheeks, her skin was hot to the touch.
Placing the glass container she'd taken from a carpetbagger called Bartholomew Drigg long ago on a battered and gouged
dresser next to the bed, Peggy watched the battle going on behind the close eyelids of her favourite aunt. The medicine
might help the ancient crone in her conflict with her blight and the midget magician thanked Herne that she'd taken the
time during her travels to concoct appropriate cabalistic potions. For genuine wandering Witches, lonely campfires can
rival the best physician's workshop and often bring far better remedies.
"Are yer' there me-lass?" Hetty hissed softly and brought a dirt-smudged hand from beneath the rarely-washed comforter.
Peggy leaned close to the creased face of the perspiring twice-centenarian and soothed the old woman with tones of
assurance. "Sleep Aunt Hetty, rest yer' bones and let the nostrum do its work" she breathed and held the fragile bundle
of bones tipped with snagged talons. "Naw, Ah' knaw yer' mean well, but-but Ah' got te' tell thee aboot Underhill" Hetty
spluttered and Peggy could see another bout of coughing attempting to wrestle its way to the surface.
"There's nay bugger left cos' of...." the eyes of the old woman that had once supposedly lived in a well rolled back down
from the dark haven of her head and for a waft of candle's flame, time stood still. "...It's livin' in the hill, Peggy... the thing
that's been killin' them, it's in the..." and Hetty's warning slid away with her as she dove into the deep blank hibernation
of the sick.
The cracked pane Peggy had once watched old-man Crowther come out of his house and steal away into the darkness
during her young years, became a witness again to the little Witch's surveillance as the sun slowly dropped behind the
tor that gave Underhill its name. Whatever it was that supposedly was emptying the village of its occupants, Peggy
realised the last of her own was also the last on its menu.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.