It took some time, but with the mother of invention being on hand to assist the ascents, all of the doleful denizens of
Underhill finally blinked in the late-afternoon sun as they huddled around the pit of their potential grave. Peggy Powler
stifled her irritation at the zombie-like assemblage that neither offered enthusiasm or physical assistance in her strength
-sapping task of saving them and her entranced aunt from the dark cavern of the Questing Beast.
With the pulley-wheel under the influence of one her spells, the little Witch felt some relief that the logistics of rescuing
Underhill's had somewhat been eased as she lashed the last of the Glatisant's hostages to the well's rope and wearily
monkey-climbed up to the surface for the final time.
Hetty was slumped with her back against the stone wall of the watering-hole with her porcelain owl in her closed fingers.
After ushering the despondent and blank-faced Milton Lavender to stand beside his wife, Peggy felt it necessary to check
on her unconscious aunt laid beside the damp artery she'd once climbed out so long ago. Brushing her thin mane of white
hair from her face, she noticed for the first time that Hetty had a birthmark. With the hand-moulded effigy looking on, the
little Witch peered close to small half-moon-like blemish just behind the old woman's right ear and wondered why she'd
never seen it before.
Getting to her feet, the exhausted augurer remembered that the large hat now residing her satchel was a gift from Hetty
when Peggy had left with Myrddin the Great Wizard. The old woman who winked at the renown magician had been fond
of wearing the wide-brimmed headwear in and outside of her home. "Makes sense" the sorceress sighed as she gazed
down at the unblinking hoot-maker in Hetty's hands and genially frowned at it.
It wasn't really a time for levity, but Peggy took some amusement from noticing that every time one of the Underhillians
was stood upright after being brought out of the chasm, the pot owl's head had moved from the last time she'd glanced
at it. Maybe it was a small -but welcomed, diversion from offering the cheerless band of men and women her cyclical
looks of brickbat during her labour.
In most narratives of this type, liberated people tend to give their gratitude to their rescuers and often go forth to begin to
build a better life for themselves. The handful of lugubrious hillbillies of the village below the hill merely waited until their
full number was above ground and then silently shuffled back to their respective damaged homes without looking back
or at each other. Peggy kneeled beside the unconscious woman in the semi-see-through frock and watched the exodus.
"Nay a thank yer' nor kiss me-arse" she whispered to the stoic bird in Hetty's dirt-smudged grip.
.................................................................
Epilogue.
The days of late-summer listlessly plodded on in Underhill and with them, the slow nocturnal restoration of the abandoned
cottages. A collapsed roof would change to a framework of wooden beams and then bundles of dried straw would be seen
piled beside doors reset on their hinges. Some of these bales had yellowing leaves decorating them and to those who live
in the country, it was reminder to get a roof above their heads before Autumn arrived.
Peggy nursed her somnolent aunt and spent some of her time under the fading warmth of the sun tending the garden she'd
once looked after with a younger aunt who offered rare prudence about men and majick to a nubile teenager with a great
power within her and a life of vanquishing evil ahead of her.
During these times of weeding and watering, the little sorceress humming amongst the ripe vegetables also contemplated
the little she knew of recent events and what possible answers awaited when Hetty finally came back from the realm of the
Sandman.
The legend of Hetty arising from the well took on a different flavour now the creature that some fancy-sounding literary types
had titled the Questing Beast had been discovered and slain. So from what realm had her aunt come from and what kinship
did she have with that headless chimera in the cavern? Hetty had mentioned the word 'brother' during her sobbing and after
beheading the cunning monster, if one took this tearful comment to its logical conclusion, had Peggy witnessed the death
of her own father?
She was half-human from her mother's linegae and from what Madam Powler had told the small child of the Carnival, her
father had been a passing Fae of undisclosed origin and unsaid abilities. The drunken Fortune Teller of the many marquees
in the travelling show had never once divulged any hint of her male parent being a dragon-like creature as much as alluding
to a what specific type of supernatural being her father was. Once more, the answers to these worrisome puzzlers awaited
with the opening of the old eyelids of the woman asleep in the cottage with a clay owl beside its door.
.................................................................
"...So that's yer' sammiches' all sorted, lass, and Ah've put an apple Ah' pinched from Rugosa's orchard in yer' sashel' just
in case yer' get abit peckish-like on Calder's Way" Hetty explained again. The shabby parlour seemed a lot brighter today
regardless of the dullness of the Autumn outside and the small necromancer standing beside the rickety table believed the
warm illumination wasn't just from the blazing fire in the hearth.
Her aunt seemed rejuvenated after her long slumber that broke on the same day the weather turned and after much fussing
over her and plenty of home-made soup ladled -forcibly at times, into Hetty's petulant mouth, the grouchy old bugger had
finally announced loudly that she was weary of smelling the well-used piss-pot stashed beneath her bed and would utilise
the outhouse for her ablutions from now on. This -of course, meant she would be up-and-about as normal and for her niece,
a reason to secretly smile again at her waggish blather.
The questions Peggy had been hesitant to ask the recovering crone had waited until the day before she told Hetty that the
time had come to be on her way again and it was over supper, the smaller of the bare-footed spell-workers had related her
concerns about what had been said in the shadows beneath Underhill.
"Divna' scratch at yer' fears me-girl, thee's nay monster wrapped in a bonnie lass' skin..." Hetty had replied jocularly after
taking a clay pipe down from its place on the gnarled oak mantlepiece above the fire. Two empty plates sat on one the
pair of carved boulders on either side of the glowing hearth and it was the other one that the old woman struck a lucifer
on to ignite her tobacco with.
"...Yer Da' was nay Glatisant and my brother was nay slimy critture' that lost its noggin te' Old Skinner there" she added
and nodded her wispy-haired head backwards to indicate the crescent-shaped weapon hanging on the wall behind them
that also mirrored the hair-covered bloom of the teller. Peggy absently wondered if the earthen owl was leaning towards
the door right now, but resisted the urge to sneak to the window to see.
Tobacco smoke attempted to unite with the grey fog of the fire and be wedded in the sooty chimney somewhere above
as Hetty stared into the flames and designed her story of where Peggy's heritage originated. Time could be a friend that
would aid in burying the past, but it seemed to take an uncanny delight on digging up the corpses of forgotten quondam
and clarion their uncharnelled quarry.
For the woman seeking such knowledge, the familiar aroma of the pipe tickled at memories of when life was simpler
with her favourite aunt and monsters roamed only in late-night tales and later-night dreams. "Aye, it's time thee were
told, lass" Hetty croaked said as if answering the dour ghosts of a hidden past that now waited beside the stone ingle
for one of their own to know the truth. "It began..."
.................................................................
Brown leaves twirled across the sea-stone cobbles of Calder's Way as a red-cheeked Peggy Powler turned into the chilly
weather and towards Scramwood Thewles a hamlet two days away and distance far enough for the little leaning warlock
to process what had been revealed about who she was and where she'd come from.
With a hefty tug of her flapping hat to stop the heavy breeze from snatching it away, Peggy reluctantly set her naked feet
away from a tired old woman who'd lived most of her life next to a grassy tor with a story to tell and taking that first step,
she left a beloved aunt and a village called Underhill.
It had been a yarn that had left the poncho-wearing sorceress struggling to sleep last night and Hetty's harrowing account
of Peggy's lineage still brought a shiver to the solitary figure ambling down the famous highway for travellers. Her Father
had got out, escaped a strange world beyond this one and in his own peregrination, fleetingly fell in love with a woman
who was cursed to know what others were thinking.
Who he was and whether her brother was still of this land, Hetty would not say, but during her ramblings amongst the
overgrown annals of bygone times, she had let one thing slip. Peggy Powler's father and his sister were so-much alike
that they held the same birthmark. But of course, Hetty wouldn't say where this certain-shaped brand resided.
Adjusting the strap of her satchel and brushing away a clinging oak leaf from her poncho, the Last Witch of Underhill
headed towards Scramwood Thewles with a look of someone who saw a long winding road ahead of her and it didn't
fully involve Calder's Way.
The End.
Underhill finally blinked in the late-afternoon sun as they huddled around the pit of their potential grave. Peggy Powler
stifled her irritation at the zombie-like assemblage that neither offered enthusiasm or physical assistance in her strength
-sapping task of saving them and her entranced aunt from the dark cavern of the Questing Beast.
With the pulley-wheel under the influence of one her spells, the little Witch felt some relief that the logistics of rescuing
Underhill's had somewhat been eased as she lashed the last of the Glatisant's hostages to the well's rope and wearily
monkey-climbed up to the surface for the final time.
Hetty was slumped with her back against the stone wall of the watering-hole with her porcelain owl in her closed fingers.
After ushering the despondent and blank-faced Milton Lavender to stand beside his wife, Peggy felt it necessary to check
on her unconscious aunt laid beside the damp artery she'd once climbed out so long ago. Brushing her thin mane of white
hair from her face, she noticed for the first time that Hetty had a birthmark. With the hand-moulded effigy looking on, the
little Witch peered close to small half-moon-like blemish just behind the old woman's right ear and wondered why she'd
never seen it before.
Getting to her feet, the exhausted augurer remembered that the large hat now residing her satchel was a gift from Hetty
when Peggy had left with Myrddin the Great Wizard. The old woman who winked at the renown magician had been fond
of wearing the wide-brimmed headwear in and outside of her home. "Makes sense" the sorceress sighed as she gazed
down at the unblinking hoot-maker in Hetty's hands and genially frowned at it.
It wasn't really a time for levity, but Peggy took some amusement from noticing that every time one of the Underhillians
was stood upright after being brought out of the chasm, the pot owl's head had moved from the last time she'd glanced
at it. Maybe it was a small -but welcomed, diversion from offering the cheerless band of men and women her cyclical
looks of brickbat during her labour.
In most narratives of this type, liberated people tend to give their gratitude to their rescuers and often go forth to begin to
build a better life for themselves. The handful of lugubrious hillbillies of the village below the hill merely waited until their
full number was above ground and then silently shuffled back to their respective damaged homes without looking back
or at each other. Peggy kneeled beside the unconscious woman in the semi-see-through frock and watched the exodus.
"Nay a thank yer' nor kiss me-arse" she whispered to the stoic bird in Hetty's dirt-smudged grip.
.................................................................
Epilogue.
The days of late-summer listlessly plodded on in Underhill and with them, the slow nocturnal restoration of the abandoned
cottages. A collapsed roof would change to a framework of wooden beams and then bundles of dried straw would be seen
piled beside doors reset on their hinges. Some of these bales had yellowing leaves decorating them and to those who live
in the country, it was reminder to get a roof above their heads before Autumn arrived.
Peggy nursed her somnolent aunt and spent some of her time under the fading warmth of the sun tending the garden she'd
once looked after with a younger aunt who offered rare prudence about men and majick to a nubile teenager with a great
power within her and a life of vanquishing evil ahead of her.
During these times of weeding and watering, the little sorceress humming amongst the ripe vegetables also contemplated
the little she knew of recent events and what possible answers awaited when Hetty finally came back from the realm of the
Sandman.
The legend of Hetty arising from the well took on a different flavour now the creature that some fancy-sounding literary types
had titled the Questing Beast had been discovered and slain. So from what realm had her aunt come from and what kinship
did she have with that headless chimera in the cavern? Hetty had mentioned the word 'brother' during her sobbing and after
beheading the cunning monster, if one took this tearful comment to its logical conclusion, had Peggy witnessed the death
of her own father?
She was half-human from her mother's linegae and from what Madam Powler had told the small child of the Carnival, her
father had been a passing Fae of undisclosed origin and unsaid abilities. The drunken Fortune Teller of the many marquees
in the travelling show had never once divulged any hint of her male parent being a dragon-like creature as much as alluding
to a what specific type of supernatural being her father was. Once more, the answers to these worrisome puzzlers awaited
with the opening of the old eyelids of the woman asleep in the cottage with a clay owl beside its door.
.................................................................
"...So that's yer' sammiches' all sorted, lass, and Ah've put an apple Ah' pinched from Rugosa's orchard in yer' sashel' just
in case yer' get abit peckish-like on Calder's Way" Hetty explained again. The shabby parlour seemed a lot brighter today
regardless of the dullness of the Autumn outside and the small necromancer standing beside the rickety table believed the
warm illumination wasn't just from the blazing fire in the hearth.
Her aunt seemed rejuvenated after her long slumber that broke on the same day the weather turned and after much fussing
over her and plenty of home-made soup ladled -forcibly at times, into Hetty's petulant mouth, the grouchy old bugger had
finally announced loudly that she was weary of smelling the well-used piss-pot stashed beneath her bed and would utilise
the outhouse for her ablutions from now on. This -of course, meant she would be up-and-about as normal and for her niece,
a reason to secretly smile again at her waggish blather.
The questions Peggy had been hesitant to ask the recovering crone had waited until the day before she told Hetty that the
time had come to be on her way again and it was over supper, the smaller of the bare-footed spell-workers had related her
concerns about what had been said in the shadows beneath Underhill.
"Divna' scratch at yer' fears me-girl, thee's nay monster wrapped in a bonnie lass' skin..." Hetty had replied jocularly after
taking a clay pipe down from its place on the gnarled oak mantlepiece above the fire. Two empty plates sat on one the
pair of carved boulders on either side of the glowing hearth and it was the other one that the old woman struck a lucifer
on to ignite her tobacco with.
"...Yer Da' was nay Glatisant and my brother was nay slimy critture' that lost its noggin te' Old Skinner there" she added
and nodded her wispy-haired head backwards to indicate the crescent-shaped weapon hanging on the wall behind them
that also mirrored the hair-covered bloom of the teller. Peggy absently wondered if the earthen owl was leaning towards
the door right now, but resisted the urge to sneak to the window to see.
Tobacco smoke attempted to unite with the grey fog of the fire and be wedded in the sooty chimney somewhere above
as Hetty stared into the flames and designed her story of where Peggy's heritage originated. Time could be a friend that
would aid in burying the past, but it seemed to take an uncanny delight on digging up the corpses of forgotten quondam
and clarion their uncharnelled quarry.
For the woman seeking such knowledge, the familiar aroma of the pipe tickled at memories of when life was simpler
with her favourite aunt and monsters roamed only in late-night tales and later-night dreams. "Aye, it's time thee were
told, lass" Hetty croaked said as if answering the dour ghosts of a hidden past that now waited beside the stone ingle
for one of their own to know the truth. "It began..."
.................................................................
Brown leaves twirled across the sea-stone cobbles of Calder's Way as a red-cheeked Peggy Powler turned into the chilly
weather and towards Scramwood Thewles a hamlet two days away and distance far enough for the little leaning warlock
to process what had been revealed about who she was and where she'd come from.
With a hefty tug of her flapping hat to stop the heavy breeze from snatching it away, Peggy reluctantly set her naked feet
away from a tired old woman who'd lived most of her life next to a grassy tor with a story to tell and taking that first step,
she left a beloved aunt and a village called Underhill.
It had been a yarn that had left the poncho-wearing sorceress struggling to sleep last night and Hetty's harrowing account
of Peggy's lineage still brought a shiver to the solitary figure ambling down the famous highway for travellers. Her Father
had got out, escaped a strange world beyond this one and in his own peregrination, fleetingly fell in love with a woman
who was cursed to know what others were thinking.
Who he was and whether her brother was still of this land, Hetty would not say, but during her ramblings amongst the
overgrown annals of bygone times, she had let one thing slip. Peggy Powler's father and his sister were so-much alike
that they held the same birthmark. But of course, Hetty wouldn't say where this certain-shaped brand resided.
Adjusting the strap of her satchel and brushing away a clinging oak leaf from her poncho, the Last Witch of Underhill
headed towards Scramwood Thewles with a look of someone who saw a long winding road ahead of her and it didn't
fully involve Calder's Way.
The End.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.