Flowering Fern: The third book of The Folk of the Twill series

By Margarita Tezla

Ferns are magical! Only Mandragora, that mystical relation of our humble potato, could rival their mystical reputation. But while most people can live their entire lives without even getting a glimpse of the infamous mandrake, ferns are as commonplace as they are mysterious. According to folklore, Fern seed makes you invisible! So does that mean, ferns can actually have flowers?
In the FLOWERING FERN, the third book of The Folk of the Twill, Jack, the hemp farmer, continues his adventures in the vicinity of Haytown and on the Twill. Yet again, we meet old friends and form new acquaintances, visit familiar places and explore new territories. And also undergo some truly powerful and awesome experiences.
The Folk of the Twill books series are for nature-lovers and rainbow-chasers, tree-huggers and hemp enthusiasts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781471688454

Book preview

Flowering Fern

Book Three of the Folk of the Twill trilogy

Amrita Tezla

Also by Amrita Tezla

The Folk of the Twill

Between Two Worlds

The Dance of Life

Lyrizo

Copyright © 2022 by Amrita Tezla

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

ISBN 978-1-4716-8845-4

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual events, persons or places is coincidental.

Artwork and Calligraphy by Amrita Tezla

Digital Graphics: Richard Starbuck

To my Divine Majestic Lion

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Arlen Wolf, Rachėle Howard, Alec Taylor, Richard Z Starbuck, Joe (Yetti) Towler, Marcus Podilchuk, Shanti Jane Rees, Jude Steele, Stuart Wood, and all the lovely people, who came to the readings and whose faces lit up at the mention of the Twill.

I send my deepest gratitude to my beloved parents. Ardent lovers of nature, literature and all things beautiful, they had always encouraged my creative pursuits and, by example, had taught me to create with love; and that was also how I had discovered the magical world around us.

The Vale of Twill – North

The Vale of Twill – South

North from Haytown

Chapter 1: Mysterious Happenings

There it is again! Jack opened his eyes and sat bolt upright in his bed. A strange noise was drifting in through the open windows. He had just been awakened from his dream; and although it was a special dream – a dream in which the White Hart had returned, he did not mind being roused this time. He simply had to find out about this sound – What was it? and where was it coming from? The digital clock on the mantelpiece was displaying seven minutes past seven. He leapt out of bed, in three full strides crossed the room, and stuck his head out of the west-facing window.

Jack had heard similar sounds two days previously, at exactly six in the morning, but he did not rise immediately, having presumed that it was one of his friends coming back from an all-night party and had had his stereo full on in his car. Jack had expected him to beep the horn or ring the bell, but none of that had followed!

While Jack was trying to squeeze the last moments of comfort in his bed – he waited for the toom-toom of the rhythm to begin, but instead... it just faded away. By the time, he had decided to look out of the window, there was no-one in the yard, nor were there any cars on the drive, and that was very odd.

The drive looped around the outbuildings and then continued for half  a mile, or so, towards the North Bay Road, and a large part of it was visible from that very window. Unpaved and generously pitted with potholes, which he had made with his tractor, it was virtually impossible to go along it with any decent speed. If someone had come in a car – They had simply vanished!

The only plausible explanation had to be that someone with a portable CD player had hid amongst the tall hemp plants to play a practical joke. But who would do something like that, even as a prank? And now it was happening again, and this time, Jack was determined to catch the culprit, responsible for those mysterious sounds.

As he reached the window, the noise did not fade away; and Jack looked up and down the track, but still could see no-one; and the most peculiar thing was that it did not seem to be coming from some place in particular, but from everywhere, as if some gigantic invisible speakers were suspended in mid air! A few seconds later, it began getting fainter and soon could not be heard at all. Perplexed, Jack sat on the bed for some time; then he picked up the remote control and switched the TV on – and stared!

The usual Morning Coffee with Amanda and Phil had just started and they both sat at the news desk. Behind the desk, there was an image of a crop formation – Shaped like a flower, it was surrounded by fractal-like ferny leaves and fiddleheads. Jack turned the sound on and heard Amanda say excitedly,

‘This has just come in! This indentation in the crop has appeared early this morning in a field of immature barley, outside Winterbourne Haystock. It is unusual to see this phenomenon this far west, but then the field is called the Wizard’s Plot, so perhaps some unusual forces are at play here. I, for one, would like to believe that.’

She smiled meaningfully and continued,

‘Everyone loves a mystery, and I think, later on today, I’ll go there with the kids, for a close-up investigation.’

Suddenly, she winced, having received a sharp kick on her shins. Her husband – for it was a husband and wife team – interjected:

‘You know how much I dislike being at variance with you, my dear, but really!’ He shook his head. ‘You and your fanciful ideas!’ He looked at her – she was still wincing. ‘What is the matter, my dear? Have you caught your foot in the cross-bars, yet again? Well, that settles it: Any walks today are out of the question – After work, you have to rest and nurse the injury. Besides, the kids have to study for their exams. As for the trampled wheat, what do you think you’d find there? Little green men? Martians?’ He emitted a jovial guffaw and went on,

‘No dear, no such thing! I’m afraid, there’s no mystery there whatsoever. I’ve been told, the explanation is as mundane to us, as it is bothersome to the farmers. In short, whoever is responsible for the damage to the crop, must be connected to the water board, and it is to do with the unusually dry weather conditions we’ve been having for the last month, or so.

‘The message was not difficult to decipher: Its flower shape is there simply to remind us to water our gardens; but, although there’s no hosepipe ban in operation, yet, do it sparingly! And now let me help you to the couch – Our coffee is waiting.’ He smiled indulgently; and her smile, returned through her clenched teeth, said: You just wait!’

Jack switched the TV off and got to wondering: ‘Winterbourne Haystock! That’s less than three miles eastwards from here! And what they did not mention, this location is also known for the only other stone circle in this immediate area – the Dancing Maids. What is going on? And has this appearance of a crop circle got anything to do with the unearthly sounds?’

Jack lifted his eyes to the silver arrow on the shelf, in the niche. A scroll with four red tassels, dripping from its corners, was suspended beneath it; and next to them, a halberd was leaning over.

‘Clay would probably know,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll ask him, next time he comes. But now I simply have to go to Winterbourne Haystock, and see for myself that flower-shaped crop circle.’

It was a bright and clear morning. The sky was brilliant blue, apart from a light spattering of little fluffy clouds, hanging low above the horizon. Jack had been to the Dancing Maids stone circle before and more than once, and had known the area quite well. The best way to get there, was to take a short cut through the Appling farm, so he drove northward along his hemp fields, and upon reaching the Pipers Lane, turned right.

The lane was wide enough for one vehicle only, and Jack had to reverse, at one point, and pull into a lay by, to let a car pass – It was Mrs. Appling with her teenage daughter, heading in the opposite direction. They waved to Jack and he waved back, and then went on, until, at the end of the lane, he had arrived at the gate – It was open and he drove through. In the farmyard, a few speckled hens were busily scratching in the dust, a couple of white geese paddled in a large puddle and a rainbow-feathered cockerel had flown up onto a straw bale and greeted him with a raucous cock-a-doodle-doo.

Jack got out of the truck, and next moment, Joseph and Diarmuid Appling appeared from behind an old tractor. Joseph greeted him with a wink and a broad smile, seen through his white candy-floss beard, but Diarmuid looked a bit gloomy. From a short explanation that had followed, Jack had found out that Diarmuid had also been planning on visiting the newly-arrived formation. He would have gone already, but was prevented from doing so, by an unforeseen transport problem. Mrs. Appling’s car had become afflicted with ailing brakes and had to be taken to a garage; and in the mean time, Diarmuid had to provide an alternative method for their daughter’s conveyance to school.

Jack, at once, had suggested going together in his truck, so Diarmuid climbed into the cabin, Joseph opened the five-bar gate, and they were off, heading in the direction of the Dancing Maids stone circle.

The narrow winding country lane, through which the truck was weaving, at first, resembled a leafy verdant corridor – the tree boughs, having merged overhead, splashed dappled sunlight around, in a mesmerising play of light and shadow. The tall shrubs in the hedges, flanked thickly the high banks, completely obscuring from view the fields beyond. But then the green tunnel came to an end and the land had evened out, allowing more distant vistas to be seen. Light breeze was blowing from the south-west; and the barley, to the both sides of the road, looked like wispy waves, undulating in the sea of green.

Jack cast his mind back to the last time he had studied the Ordinance Survey map of that area. There was a stream flowing from the north and forming a U-shaped bend around a plot of around seven acres. The other side of the field was curtained off by a stand of white birches. On the map, no name was indicated, only a number, but Jack had always thought how magical the lie of the land was in that specific place. And now he made the connection between the enchanting landscape and the mysterious name he had heard on TV that morning. Next, they saw a drone hovering above one of the fields.

‘This must be it!’ said Jack, in a slightly hushed voice.

‘Aye,’ said Diarmuid, ‘That be the Wizard’s Plot.’

At the first lay-by, they parked; and, after rounding a corner, saw a number of cars and a van. Although the shape of the agroglyph was not discernible from the lane, its location was indicated by a number of people already in the field; and, leaning against a gatepost, stood the bewildered farmer, giving an interview. Diarmuid, who had evidently known the old man, after raising his hand in a greeting, had continued towards the crop formation; while Jack lingered on, by the gate.

‘Odds wenderekins! There be a quiz for ye! Aye, a proper head-scratcher, an’ all!’ said the farmer, and in confirmation scratched his head, topped with a shock of grey hair. ‘I passed ’ere at cockaleert – and it weren’t ’ere! Then, not one hour later, I look out of the window and see one of them balls of light flying around and coming this ’ere way. So I came ’ere to look – an’ ’ere ’tis!’

A man with a pair of dowsing rods joined them.

‘Well, the formation is definitely genuine,’ he confirmed.

The Haytown Gazette reporter responded with:

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘Our group has been studying the phenomenon for many years now; and, after having seen hundreds of formations and having taken thousands of samples and photographs, we have compiled an extensive database. We know how to distinguish genuine from hoax – and in this case, it’s clear to see: Firstly, there’s the intricate way the layers are woven; and then, the stalks are unbroken. Make no mistake, no boards were used here – that’s for sure. The plants are still green and very fragile, but there’s no evidence of anything mechanical having trampled over them. As for any alterations in the structure of plants themselves, or the soil, we have to wait and see what the analysis shows.’

He gave a nod in the direction of the crop circle, where his colleagues were taking samples from the swirly centre. Diarmuid was there, as well, mooching about and exchanging words with them, now and then.

The reporter went to join them, while Jack stayed with the farmer, who kept on muttering, ‘Well I never! There be a mystery for ye! A flower! Never had that afore. Mind ye, when I was a lad – that was in  the war time – we had circles – plain circles, mind, but still – just appeared, like. Some folk called them the fairy circles. I say, call them whatever ye like – but what I want to know is what are they? Where do they come from, I ax ye? – them rings that spring up in me crops.’

‘Very interesting!’ said Jack. ‘I didn’t know they appeared during the war.’

‘Aye, they did that. Not too often, mind, but appear they did. When I was a nipper, I remember seeing thicky rings in many fields, all the way between ’ere and the Dancing Maids.’

‘The Dancing Maids? Does the stone circle stand on your land, as well?’

‘Aye, that it does,’ said the farmer, and then went on with a pensive expression. ‘Although oftentimes, I wonder at who really is the master here. For sure, me kin has farmed this land for generations, but them glawbs of light are very at home in this here place, and many a strange thing happen hereabouts, an’ all.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Jack. ‘I often feel like that myself. But tell me: What strange things? And why do you think the stone circle has this name – the Dancing Maids?’

‘Well, they say, the stone circle is called like that because of the witches, what lived hereabouts. Them be petrified for dancing on a Sabbath. But there be noise that they come alive every whips an’ while, and tread a circle on a full moon. Then, ’tis best to keep away, or they’ll trick ye into joining them in their dance – and that’ll be the end of it. That is what they say, but I doan knaw if there be any truth in it. But for sure, ’tis not an ordinary place ’ere: Wizards, witches, glawbs of light and them thicky fairy rings, an’ all – Whatever next?’

Diarmuid, who had approached them a little earlier, now joined in the conversation: ‘Aye, witches did live around here in the olden days – women skilled in herbal lore and versed in all manner of arcane things – and for that persecuted they were.’

‘Aye, ’tis true, an’ all – it happened hereabouts,’ confirmed the farmer. ‘A local woman, a midwife was nearly killed, while her husband and child had just vanished into thin air.’

‘That sounds familiar,’ said Jack. ‘I seem to remember hearing a similar story in the Pipers. You say, nearly killed – What happened?’

‘Well, from what I’ve heard, just after they had seized the poor wretch, she was saved by the squire. Generally, he was not in a habit of saving his tenants, for he was not a kind man – but fierce and even cruel at times, but his wife needed assistance, for she was in difficult labour.

‘He arrived on horseback, bringing a spare horse for the woman; but there she was – at the mercy of the brutish mob. And he charged into their midst, angrily lashing out with his crop, and ordered them to clear off, at once. To be sure, he instilled such a fear of God into them that they would’ve thought twice about bothering the woman again. So they bolted asunder for dread of eternal hellfire and brimstone, and she was taken to the manor, where did what she did.

‘When she had finished with her midwifery things and had brought forth an heir for the squire, he gave her a gold coin – so chuffed he was; and then he sent her home in his carriage. And, as she stepped out of the carriage, she wept; for, by that time, her hut had burnt down to cinders and her husband and child were nowhere in sight. Doan knaw what happened to her afterward. There was talk that she had gone up country; for, they say, she had never been seen, in these here parts again.’

‘When did that happen?’ asked Jack. ‘And do you know, where her cottage stood?’

The man rubbed his chin. ‘Let me see now,’ he began, ‘there seem to be a disagreement about the date and I’ve heard two different stories. One says, it took place in the mid sixteen hundreds. While according to the other, it happened later – sometime in the early eighteenth century: seventeen o’two or thereabouts. I daresay, you can find the date in the parish records, if you look hard enough. They say, ’twas the same year as what the last of the lintels got smashed.

‘As for where it happened – well, there be no secret there!’ The man pointed his hand down the lane. ‘See, if you carry on yonder that way, the road goes up and then comes down again, and then ye’ll come to a copse on your right.’

‘I know,’ said Jack, ‘it leads to the Dancing Maids. I’ve been to the stone circle, a few times.’

‘A local boy, are ye?’ asked the man, cocking his head to one side.

‘Yes,’ said Jack.

‘You might’ve heard of him – he be the one, who farms hemp not far from here,’ said Diarmuid. ‘The Nine Pipers stand on his land, an’ all.’

‘Oh aye,’ said the farmer, reappraising his visitor in this new light. ‘Me grandson spoke of ye. He also wants to grow hemp. And hemp grows well hereabouts. ‘‘I want to grow hemp, like that lad, I met in the Pipers,’’ says he. ‘‘Well grow it, then’’ says I. And he says, ‘‘Ah, but I can’t, not now.’’ And I says, ‘‘And whyever not?’’ And he says, ‘‘’Cus I ain’t got the dosh for the licence – that’s why.’’ And I says, ‘‘What are ye talking about, me boy? What licence?’’ And that’s when he telled me that you need a licence to grow hemp nowadays. Well, I diden believe him then, but now – what, with the world being mazed as it is, methinks it can be true, after all.’’ He looked enquiringly at Jack.

Jack nodded his head, silently.

‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed the farmer. ‘Me gadfer telled me that our Queen – that would’ve been Queen Victoria in his time – had used hemp for her ailments, and mighty useful she found it, too – ’at’s clear and sheer. Now me grandson can’t grow it, without having to pay for some paper, first. What’s the world coming to, I ax ye? Why don’t them red-tapers and paper-spoilers keep them noses out of things that doan concern them and they knaw nort about?’

‘You’ve summed it up about right,’ said Jack. ‘But tell me about the woman’s cottage. Where was it exactly?’

‘Well, you knaw, once ye’re in the copse and ye face the stone circle, ye’ll see a gurt big oak tree, standing aneest – ’bout seventy yards away from it. Well, that’s where the cottage stood! I doan knaw, if the tree was planted by anyone, or just sprouted there, all by itself, but it looks like, it could be about three hundred years old, or so. ’Tis called the Maiden Oak. I doan knaw, if it be ’cause it grows hard by the Dancing Maids – I’ve heard that solitary oaks in fields are oftentimes called that, anyhow. Them trees be enchanted, they say, and that’s where the good people do them junketing and frolicking, an’ all. But that’s where the cottage stood, all right.

‘In them days, there were only two other habitations aneest the main village – you knaw, the Winterbourne Haystock – me farm and thicky cottage. And throughout the years, I’ve found many a crock and such like, around the oak. Glawbs of light are seen there a-floating all the time, an’ all. And that’s where the poor midwife lived. That be the story of her family – that’s how ’tis told, so make of it what ye will.’

At that point, Jack did not know what to make of it. So he thanked the farmer and, treading the tram line, headed towards the crop formation – his hands brushing the wispy heads of barley, as he went. Jack had been to a few crop circles before, all out of the area, and they all had a special feel to them. This one was no exception.

The moment he had entered the agroglyph, he felt a-tingle all over. He meandered along the curvy paths, before reaching its centre, which looked like an immaculate arena. The green heads of barley might raise themselves a little, in time, but now they were lying absolutely flat, apart from a fluffy tuft, in the centre of the swirl.

The researchers were leaving and Jack could enjoy the crop circle magic in solitude. He sat cross-legged, next to the fluffy tuft, and closed his eyes. At first, he watched the purple light pulse slowly, as it often did. It was followed by a colour change: his inner vision was flooded with luminous green – the most vivid green he had ever seen, in this world. The green was succeeded by all colours of the rainbow.

And then, he saw himself sitting there, with what had looked like snowflakes falling, all around him. But no, it wasn’t snow. It was petals, white petals with a hint of pink. He was showered with apple blossom! Some minutes had passed, and then he heard his name being called. On opening his eyes, he saw Diarmuid – he alone stood next to the farmer. The reporter and the researchers with their drone had all gone.

Jack joined them and spoke again to the grey-haired man:

‘So what are you going to do about this? Will you keep it, or will you have it cut down?’

‘I tell ye this, me boy: I did not put thicky flower ’ere, so it is not me job to remove it. I knaw some folk destroy thicky things. They call them the Mowing Devil doings, but I say different. I feel ’tis an honour to have it on me land, and I need not suffer a loss. I’ll put an honesty box ’ere – and may all the good curious folk come and gaze in wonder. An’ come August, ’tis to be harvested together, with the rest of the fields.’

Soon Jack and Diarmuid were climbing back into the cabin of the truck. As they were driving away, they heard a noise approaching: a rumbling mechanical noise, which grew louder and louder, until it was quite deafening. Jack glanced at his companion meaningfully and looked out of the window. The sea of green barley was agitated, as if in a great storm; and, above the crop circle, a black helicopter hovered.

When Jack had returned home, he had an early lunch, and then went upstairs and sat in his favourite armchair by the window. What’s going on? he thought. All these mysterious happenings here! I’d like to speak to Clay, but he hasn’t come, for a while. I wonder, what’s happening on the Twill?

On the Twill, a goodly variety of things was happening. The Midsummer Celebrations were approaching, with their usual joyful preparations. But this time, they were to include a Song Contest, Games and an Archery Competition, which Rowanleigh was quite determined to win.

In fact, the whole thing was entirely her own idea, for she, still being in dispute with Ashbough about sagitiferous prowess and even superiority, was eager to prove to him that she was the better warrior. And, indeed, it was acknowledged by all that she was as good as her beloved, when it came to flying arrows. But whatever the reason for this augmentation, it was heartily welcomed by all. Even though, the Elves were excluded from taking part in the competitions, for no-one could rival their musical, or bow and arrow skills.

But although the rest of the Twill was all hubbub with activity, at the Cornflower farm it was unnaturally quiet. Deep in thought, Clay sat at the kitchen table; and even before him, there stood a jug full of Raspberry Cordial and a platter of Marshmallow Dumplings – that best comfort food ever – he did not feel very comforted. He could not help but wonder and ponder on what to do, and he was a sorry sight, indeed, not knowing which way to turn and which action to take. The thing was, he had no-one to ask for advice – for he was totally alone; so he had no choice, but to keep on debating with himself:

‘Shall I?’ he would say. ‘Oh, I do not know! Maybe it will work! Or maybe not... Oh, how I wish, Poppy was still here!’

But Poppy was not there, any longer. She had left. That is why, everything was different now. Buttercup had also gone; and even Coltsfoot, the stable boy had moved away. As for Daisynell, Clay’s and Poppy’s daughter, she had not dwelt at the farm for quite a long age.

The grimalkins, the goats and the frogs were still there, as well as the horses, and Talien and Lalien – the pie-bold ponies. All the other furry and feathered Cornflower farm dwellers had also continued their residence there; and also the Earthlight, who had inhabited the underground passage between the farm and the Honeysuckle Lodge, and who had belonged to both places. Actually, it was partly because of the Honeysuckle Lodge, that Clay had found himself in this predicament. But let me explain from the beginning.

As all too often, it was a case of one thing leading to another. At the Harvest Festival nearly two summers ago, Rose Lilt, who had managed the Appledoor Inn, had broken up her engagement with Capt. Briar and got together with John Barleydrew – the Master Brewer. Capt. Briar and Lt. Blackthorn failed to impress the Celandine girls, who, in turn, had carried a torch for the Ramsons boys; but alas, a reconciliation with Rose Lilt was not an option any longer.

As the military friends had still lodged at the Inn, they had had a very awkward time of it, even though they did help to hold the fort, when Rose had moved out of the Inn and into John’s cottage. Still, for the dashing duo the life on the High Twill had become somewhat lacklustre and shortly they had also departed, relocating to the coast. They had become members of the Spruce Beer Export Co-operative, and in their new home – the settlement of Meregate – they were equally successful with their new enterprise and the local lasses. As a consequence, the Appledoor Inn was left empty and in need of a proprietor.

Clay’s and Poppy’s daughter, Daisynell, at that time, lived at the Hollyberry Hall, helping Penny Bun with preparation of tasty victuals, and when the opportunity had arisen, she could not resist. She had learnt a great deal from the best cook in the Inner World; and now, wanting to strike out on her own, she had decided to give it a go and asked her mother to assist her with settling into her new venture. And that, of course, had left Penny Bun without an assistant, and at the most awkward time; for, besides all her usual occupations, she had also started writing a treatise on food – The Twill Bromography.

All that happened soon after Ivy and Glen had embarked on their journey to the East, to visit Ivy’s relations – the Panaxes. But their daughter Lillybell, who came to Hollyberry as Rowan’s companion, had remained there, after Rowanleigh had changed her residence and joined Capt. Ashbough in the Elvenleigh Mansion. Lilly’s attention and affection were not thrown away on the lovelorn Ellerwyn, and eventually, her enticement was enough to draw him out of his Scriptorium and helped to restore his spirits.

She had endeavoured to help with the food preparation too, but with disastrous results, for however her temper was sweet, her cooking had left much to be desired. And that was not surprising: Although it was to change, in the days when Lilly had lived in the Honeysuckle Lodge, her mother Lady Ivy Aralia Helix, despite having attained many highly desirable accomplishments, was rather hopeless in the kitchen.

That was how a lucky chance for further improvement, had presented itself to Buttercup. We all know that preparation of delicious edibles, had been her major passion – that is, until about two summers ago (but more of that later). And so, to Buttercup’s joy, she was to go to the Hollyberry Hall, to help Penny Bun, until something more permanent would be arranged.

Before Ivy and Glen had departed, Clay had enthusiastically offered to help, with looking after their abode – the Honeysuckle Lodge – during their absence, and to take care of their horses and goats. And he probably would have coped; but then the stable boy had also left the Cornflower farm and had moved to the South Ferndale; for no matter how hard he had tried, he was getting nowhere with Buttercup; and now she had gone altogether.

The plans for Chanterelle to accompany Ivy and Glen on their travels were changed at the last moment; and, to the delight of the Bramble Pips (Pip in particular) – she was to stay in the Ferndale, which was an additional reason for the Brambles to always be there and give a hand.

Still, even with their help, it was getting just a little bit too much for Clay. And on top of everything, he was growing lonely; and now and then he would catch himself say with a sigh:

‘If only Jack was here.’

But Jack was always so very busy, and the last few times Clay had gone to the Outer World, he did not even ask him to visit the Twill, as he had done before. ‘‘He will say no, again. When he can come, he will tell me.’’

But now he was considering asking Jack again, because now things were different: Everything has changed – ever since Poppy had left. So Clay began to entertain a crafty idea. He would ask Jack for help: How could he refuse that? he reasoned. That is the way to do it!

And it was true that he needed help! And Jack needed a holiday at the Cornflower farm. Having equal enthusiasm for farm work or recreation, Jack had never had any free time; as a result, his visit to the Twill nearly two summers ago, as well as his first, was also his last.

Back at the Cornwood farm, Jack was thinking:

I wonder if Clay is offended by my refusals to accept his invitations to come to the Twill, for he never asks me any more.

As it happens, there had been some changes at the Cornwood farm, as well. For ages, Jack had been juggling too many things, all by himself; but now, on his hands, he had spare time – a previously scarce commodity. His father had taken on the managing of the hemp oil press, and in the last year, Jack had hired a highly capable foreman, who was running the hemp-cultivating side of the farm, very smoothly.

The museum, which had formerly added to his already full-on schedule, had moved to Haytown, and Jack enjoyed having the extra space in the barn. He distinctly preferred creating to collecting and dedicated much time to all kinds of creative recycling.

Most importantly, he had planted the trees, the way Clay had told him they had grown before – from the pond to the Oak Grove; and then he extended the Birch Wood, as well. Now what Jack wanted most of all, was to go to the Twill again – but alas, Clay did not ask, any more.

Of course, in the past, he had repeatedly told Jack that he would be always welcome there; but that was such a long time ago that he did not want to come unannounced and without a special invitation, although he really wanted and needed a break – Especially, as some things were getting out of hand – they were things concerning Mary.

And – to Jack, at least – they, too, were very mysterious.

Chapter 2: Mrs. Worsnop Dancing the Back Step

When their relationship had expired and Mary had left the Cornwood farm, about one year ago, Jack, eagerly embracing this not-unwelcome modification, had fully intended to abide by Mary’s instruction, which coincided with his own promise to himself, not to call her. But she seemed to have forgotten that she had planned on never seeing him for as long as she had lived. What’s more, even her mother, Mrs. Worsnop, whose intemperate hostility towards Jack had outlasted one decade, was painfully forced to undergo a change of sentiment.

This is how it happened:

Mrs. Worsnop returned to the office of their family business – The Worsnop Machinery and Car Hire – after having popped across the road to plant a letter into a letterbox. That letterbox was a lovely, red and shiny pillar box – and it was fully satisfied with that. There was just one thing that marred its otherwise contented existence: It was a misfortune of knowing Mrs. Worsnop, and knowing her well, for not only had it stood right outside their house, but Mrs. Worsnop had an annoying habit of repeatedly descending upon it and inserting yet another comment of displeasure. It must be pointed out that this letterbox was an unwilling participant in that interaction: It had tried to object, had even tried to rebel, by pretending to be full and shutting itself tight. But whenever that happened, she’d station herself in the bay window, clutching the letter. Her sharp eye fixed on the road, she would wait in an ambush, ready to pounce on the poor unsuspecting postie. And there was no escape, as the letter, accompanied by a gush of upbraiding remarks, would be rammed into the postie’s slightly-shaking hand.

In her latest deposit, she informed, or rather accused, the Haytown authorities of a miscarriage of justice and wrongs that needed righting. Thoroughly composed and brimming with stout self-importance, she was blissfully unaware of what was to come; and one could almost feel sorry for her, as she had been totally unprepared for the bombshell that was about to explode and cause her unimaginable distress. And so, she was rewarding herself for the said good deed, with a cup of tea and a fig biscuit, when the telephone rang.

Upon lifting the receiver, she heard Mrs. Smigg’s voice at the other end of the line. Mrs. Smigg was a proprietor of the local Post Office and the Haytown Newsagents; and thrice the prime source of local information, for as well as the Haytown Gazette and a noticeboard in the shop, she had also provided her customers with an acute