At some point between the old moon sliding behind the tall columns of trees that lined the entrance to Underhill and the
sun peeking above the meadows beyond the woodland that surrounds the desolate village, a small bare-footed figure
searched the remainder of the empty cottages due to a nagging question. Peggy Powler had awoken from her dreams
of phantasmal shapes shuffling about in circle of bewildered migrate and giving off an air of accepted despondency.
Looking above the ring of skulking pale-faced apparitions, columns of smoke wove their own spirals of motion from
chimneys the gaping thaumaturge knew should be cold from use. With a puzzled frown brooding under the brim of
her hat, Peggy's attention returned to the congregation of gauzy bodies and the possible reason of their walk.
From time to time, the little Witch would catch sight of her auntie Hetty among the shambling throng and call out to
her. The ancient soporific woman in the drab smock would occasionally glance towards Peggy's alert and yet keep
pace within the wheel of moving ghostly figures. Just as Peggy was about to give up and deem her kin lost to the
jostling troop, Hetty's insipid features changed on her next passing and a scrawny arm pointed out past where her
neice was situated, turning to follow the directing, Peggy's eyes opened and the illusion was gone.
Lifting the flap of her satchel, dark contours of dust-kitties, mouse-droppings and something that resembled a single
shoe met the weary woman's eyes as she stared blankly under Hetty's bed. The night was still here and crawling
out from her makeshift cot, Peggy rose to check on the old woman who'd collapsed the day before. A well-creased
face spoke of a journey through time and a life of hard mettle to pass through that duration. Even though Hetty's
eyes were closed, the barefooted nurse believed her aunt's relaxed appearance and thankfully cooler skin hinted of
a humour she'd enjoyed during her own private odyssey.
Grasping the big hat that this sleeping woman had given her on the day she'd left with Myrddin to sharpen her skills
of majick, Peggy leaned close and kissed the old woman's wrinkled forehead, the seasoned battle-axe had been there
for her when she was alone and had brought her own type of sorcery to the teenager's attention. "Get yer' rest Ma'am"
she hushed and went to revive the fire downstairs.
.................................................................
If Peggy's dream had been a visual field guide on what to do when confronted with only partial facts, then the best way
to progress would be to follow the cryptic instructions. After finishing with her house-to-house search, the little magician
contemplated her next move. There were no hobbling Underhillians to walk in a circle for her and no face-drawn aunt to
mark off the rotation of her neighbours, but closing her eyes, Peggy imagined the scene she'd witnessed during her time
of dormancy.
A fish-white arm pointed out from the passing crowd and in her hypothetical trance, the little half-Fae under a brighter
illumination than her dream, turned in the direction the anemic limb was indicating. Opening her eyes into the shade
of her wide-brimmed hat and ignoring the nagging itch to ask why she could smell woodsmoke, Peggy peered at the
boulder-bound structure that had assisted in creating a perception of Hetty in the eyes of some. The Well.
.................................................................
The half-filled floating wooden bucket attached to the rope stared sightlessly up at a woman's face staring back and if
such a container could speak, one might hope it would strongly advise not to perform what the owner of that prying
visage was thinking. Still, such neglect for what others thought may be a trait Peggy acquired from her father's side
as -just like Hetty had been accused of many seasons ago, the sorceress threw her bare leg over the wall of the well
and began to descend.
Abrasive hemp and the lack of underwear can be a debate for another time as Peggy carefully shinnied down the rope
into the gloom of the bore and ignored the soreness of her inner-thighs. The occasional sound of splashed water told
her she was nearing the bottom of the well and if nothing presented itself to persuade otherwise, a climb back towards
the light wasn't something the lip-nibbling spellbinder was looking forward to.
There was some moss on the damp stonework and to take her mind off her chafed hocks, Peggy took stock at how in
a place where the most basic of survival resided, very little grew. However, such deliberation of continuity in a harsh
environment faded away when the swaying Witch caught sight of a hole in the well's wall. It wasn't a poorly cemented
hunk of rock that had come dislodged during a deluge or the work of time on a porous mineral. It was deliberate, it was
crafted... it was a tunnel.
The clay owl standing guard at the door of its sleeping owner didn't hear the words and if any of the ghosts Peggy had
envisioned during her dream had perchance to near the dark pit in the centre of Underhill, they may've picked up the
faint comment. "Whey, bugger me" was the echoing annotation from the bottom of Hetty's alleged place of origin.
sun peeking above the meadows beyond the woodland that surrounds the desolate village, a small bare-footed figure
searched the remainder of the empty cottages due to a nagging question. Peggy Powler had awoken from her dreams
of phantasmal shapes shuffling about in circle of bewildered migrate and giving off an air of accepted despondency.
Looking above the ring of skulking pale-faced apparitions, columns of smoke wove their own spirals of motion from
chimneys the gaping thaumaturge knew should be cold from use. With a puzzled frown brooding under the brim of
her hat, Peggy's attention returned to the congregation of gauzy bodies and the possible reason of their walk.
From time to time, the little Witch would catch sight of her auntie Hetty among the shambling throng and call out to
her. The ancient soporific woman in the drab smock would occasionally glance towards Peggy's alert and yet keep
pace within the wheel of moving ghostly figures. Just as Peggy was about to give up and deem her kin lost to the
jostling troop, Hetty's insipid features changed on her next passing and a scrawny arm pointed out past where her
neice was situated, turning to follow the directing, Peggy's eyes opened and the illusion was gone.
Lifting the flap of her satchel, dark contours of dust-kitties, mouse-droppings and something that resembled a single
shoe met the weary woman's eyes as she stared blankly under Hetty's bed. The night was still here and crawling
out from her makeshift cot, Peggy rose to check on the old woman who'd collapsed the day before. A well-creased
face spoke of a journey through time and a life of hard mettle to pass through that duration. Even though Hetty's
eyes were closed, the barefooted nurse believed her aunt's relaxed appearance and thankfully cooler skin hinted of
a humour she'd enjoyed during her own private odyssey.
Grasping the big hat that this sleeping woman had given her on the day she'd left with Myrddin to sharpen her skills
of majick, Peggy leaned close and kissed the old woman's wrinkled forehead, the seasoned battle-axe had been there
for her when she was alone and had brought her own type of sorcery to the teenager's attention. "Get yer' rest Ma'am"
she hushed and went to revive the fire downstairs.
.................................................................
If Peggy's dream had been a visual field guide on what to do when confronted with only partial facts, then the best way
to progress would be to follow the cryptic instructions. After finishing with her house-to-house search, the little magician
contemplated her next move. There were no hobbling Underhillians to walk in a circle for her and no face-drawn aunt to
mark off the rotation of her neighbours, but closing her eyes, Peggy imagined the scene she'd witnessed during her time
of dormancy.
A fish-white arm pointed out from the passing crowd and in her hypothetical trance, the little half-Fae under a brighter
illumination than her dream, turned in the direction the anemic limb was indicating. Opening her eyes into the shade
of her wide-brimmed hat and ignoring the nagging itch to ask why she could smell woodsmoke, Peggy peered at the
boulder-bound structure that had assisted in creating a perception of Hetty in the eyes of some. The Well.
.................................................................
The half-filled floating wooden bucket attached to the rope stared sightlessly up at a woman's face staring back and if
such a container could speak, one might hope it would strongly advise not to perform what the owner of that prying
visage was thinking. Still, such neglect for what others thought may be a trait Peggy acquired from her father's side
as -just like Hetty had been accused of many seasons ago, the sorceress threw her bare leg over the wall of the well
and began to descend.
Abrasive hemp and the lack of underwear can be a debate for another time as Peggy carefully shinnied down the rope
into the gloom of the bore and ignored the soreness of her inner-thighs. The occasional sound of splashed water told
her she was nearing the bottom of the well and if nothing presented itself to persuade otherwise, a climb back towards
the light wasn't something the lip-nibbling spellbinder was looking forward to.
There was some moss on the damp stonework and to take her mind off her chafed hocks, Peggy took stock at how in
a place where the most basic of survival resided, very little grew. However, such deliberation of continuity in a harsh
environment faded away when the swaying Witch caught sight of a hole in the well's wall. It wasn't a poorly cemented
hunk of rock that had come dislodged during a deluge or the work of time on a porous mineral. It was deliberate, it was
crafted... it was a tunnel.
The clay owl standing guard at the door of its sleeping owner didn't hear the words and if any of the ghosts Peggy had
envisioned during her dream had perchance to near the dark pit in the centre of Underhill, they may've picked up the
faint comment. "Whey, bugger me" was the echoing annotation from the bottom of Hetty's alleged place of origin.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.