3.02.01 - Clucking and Wailing
Occasionally, during the excavation of ancient hearth sites, burnt stones are found in discarded crock-pots, usually made of very lightly fired earthenware or even a basket waterproofed with clay. In such circumstances, it is not beyond the wit of certain archaeologists to smile and announce, "Ha! Stone Soup, they must have been starved out of their minds." The true explanation, as they know full well, is that if you want to boil water, but don't have properly fireproof cookware, the answer is a very hot stone placed in the container you do have. Either a neat, intelligent and very ancient use of resources or the workings of pure magic, depending on your mind-set.
In a fairly remote village such as Little Mardlingham, there are people who will happily believe either explanation. Unfortunately, there are also people, particularly among the denizens of Maggie's Stewe, who while knowing the truth, will include a few dangerous herbs, add an incantation and stir up all sorts of trouble. The Rev. Cedric W.Jimpson is no stranger to this:
“I predict,” says the Vicar, who is visiting The Big House, and who we catch in the act of flipping up the tail of his coat to warm his posterior before the marble temple of the Morning-Room fireplace, “That there will be a wailing in the hen-coops.”
“Do hens wail?” asks Rosamunda, pouring best Darjeeling from an elegant floral teapot, recently acquired from the Spode factories of Stoke-on-Trent, into a matching gilt edged bone-china cup.
“These ones do,” says her brother, nodding his thanks as he takes the cup and dares a first sip, “The clucking old hens in the domiciles of Little Mardlingham.”
“Ah - Those hens,” says Rosamunda, sitting back in her elegant chair. A floral upholstered extravagance with gilt edging, not dissimilar in decorative design to the tea-service, “Do then they cluck as well as wail?”
“Their opposition is most vocal,” says the Vicar, “They predict awful consequences if the Mark-Stone is moved.”
“But it's already been moved!” protests Rosamunda, “What awful consequence has there been?”
“What awful state does Sir Marcus now inhabit?” says the Vicar, “Sitting in his study staring out at the river.”
“He will soon recover,” says Rosamunda, “The events at the Mill were an affront to his dignity.”
“The old biddies of the village claim cause and effect,” says the Vicar, “Ancient spirits disturbed and wreaking havoc.”
“By havoc, you mean prancing Pratts and a spilled bag of flour?” grins Rosamunda.
“By havoc, they mean Sir Marcus being led back to the Hall as pallid as a ghost,” says the Vicar, “They mean fire-spitting Hell-cats flung into rivers, and the magical way the stone returned to its seat.”
“Floured, not pallid,” says Rosamunda, “And we all know that the Pratts replaced the stone. However, they may be right about Miss Roberts.”
“The truth does not enter the picture,” says the Vicar, “When the artists' brushes are dipped in henbane.”
“Surely, Brother,” smiles Rosamunda, “You are above belief in such witchcraft?”
“Of course,” says her brother, “But it's not my belief that counts.”
“As far as the stone is concerned,” says Rosamunda, “Cousin Greg has it in hand. There's to be a meeting of the Parish Council and an official order drawn up for its relocation.”
“All well and good,” says the Vicar, “But I also hear that, come the full moon, a coven is to meet at Maggie's Stewe.”
— to be continued —
Please comment if you need translations.
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