Still Crazy after All These Years

By W.Wm. Mee

This book is a random collection of various short stories, snippets and ‘bits & pieces’ from my novels and other ‘scribblings’ over the last several decades.They are all of different lengths, subjects and in various stages of completion. A ‘wee peek’ into an often very bewildered mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.Wm. Mee
• Release date: Feb 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224019779

W.Wm. Mee

Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at [e-mail]'ll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

Book preview

STILL CRAZY

After All These Years

by

W.Wm.Mee

‘A Writer’s Scribblings’

Dedicated to all the readers out there

That love books as much as I do.

Copyright 2024 W.Wm.Mee

Smashwords Edition

‘Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child’

When I first saw this picture I thought: ‘Ya, I get it! Sometimes I feel like that about my writing! Actually most of the time.’ In love with something that takes up a great part of my life, fascinates me to no end, takes me away to far off times and exotic places where I meet all kinds of strange, interesting and often ‘quite dangerous people’ --- and that most people in this modern day don’t give a damn about any of it!

Bitter am I? Perhaps. But then what about you? You are actually reading this right now! Outstanding! So all is not lost! You and others like you will be interested in ‘curling up with a good book’ and letting both it carry you away like it does me!

Reading does not make us better or smarter people, just like playing sports or chess or a musical instrument doesn’t --- but it might make us more interesting ones. It could give us a new ‘window to the world’ where we actually participate rather than ‘just watch’. Reading a book instead of watching the movie allows us to make up our own mind what Anne of Green Gables, or Captain Ahab or King’s Landing or Harry Potter really look like!

Movies are great --- almost as good as books.

Sometimes they are even better. So why not enjoy them both?

***

What follows is a random collection of seventeen various short stories, snippets and ‘bits & pieces’ of a number of my ‘scribblings’ over the last several decades. Each ‘chapter’ is a different story. They are all of different lengths, subjects and stages of completion. A ‘wee peek’ into an often very confused mind. Enjoy.

Wayne William Mee

(Near Montreal in the winter of 2024)

Chapter 1: The King’s Brother

(A Romantic adventure in the Scottish Highlands)

Background of the ‘Jacobite Uprisings’

In the Year of Our Lord, 1745, Charles Edward Stewart, better known as ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’, attempted to regain not only his grandfather’s Scottish Catholic throne, but to capture the English Protestant one as well! After a glorious start, the ‘bonnie prince’ failed miserably and, though he’s now become a romantic, Scottish legend, in reality he simply drifted off into drink, old age and obscurity.

Thirty years earlier however, Charlie’s grandfather, James Francis Stewart, had also tried to ‘regain his lost throne’ --- but alas, James was even less successful than his famous grandson.

But what if, back in ‘The Rising of 1715’, things had gone somewhat differently?!

Early Spring, 1715

North-Western England

The wild, rugged ‘Borderlands’

leading up to the Scottish Highlands

The young woman with the piercing green eyes and the flowing mane of reddish-gold hair gave a quick glance over her shoulder, saw that the man following her was gaining ground, and urged her mount on to even greater speed.

On Zeus my lovely! she coaxed the black stallion. Run like the gods themselves!

Not a very Christian thing to say for a young, English noblewoman, especially in those war-torn times of religious strife, when Catholic hated Protestant, Protestant hated Catholic and both despised the French, the Scots and the Jews.

Glancing up the red headed vixen saw that she was fast approaching an ancient stone fence. With a saucy smile and an unlady-like tightening of her thighs, she set her galloping beast to jump. Up Zeus! Fly my beauty!

And fly the large stallion did! Up and over went the wild eyed, four year old beast --- along with it the smiling young woman of one and twenty! With another quick glance over her shoulder she saw that the man behind her had also attempted the jump --- attempted it and failed --- or at least his mount had.

The following beast, less ‘godlike’ than Zeus, had apparently decided to stay earthbound, though its rider however had not. George Crump, the young woman’s ‘bodyguard’ and ‘so called protector’, had unwillingly attempted the jump --- and landed in the brambles, tall grass and prickly purple heather for his troubles.

Lady Catherine Graham, the red headed woman with the flashing green eyes, waved an insolent goodbye to her now horseless bodyguard and continued on up the ever steepening path. The trail led into the foothills of the infamous ‘Scottish Highlands’.

Technically, Lord Herbert Graham’s vast estate, including the ancient Craigmorrow castle, was not actually in the ‘Highlands’, or Scotland itself for that matter! It was in what the English called the ‘Western Marches’ or the ‘Borderlands’ --- wild, rough and in many places, lawless land; much disputed between the two countries both in court and on the battlefield.

Aside from Catherine’s father, Lord Herbert Graham, and a few other noble families like the Carleton’s, Hetherington’s, and Fenwick’s, the Borderlands themselves were mostly populated by flocks of wide, woolly sheep, herds of wild, shaggy ponies and clans of wild, shaggy men.

The first two groups, the sheep and ponies, were relatively harmless, but it was the third group that caused all the trouble. Unlettered and ungovernable English and Scott alike! Hard headed, quick to anger and slow to forgive, age old feuds between the two groups had been going on for centuries, all the way back to Julius Caesar’s invasion in 44 BC against the tattooed Celts nearly two thousand years earlier!

But Lady Catherine had no time for ancient history, nor the silly squabbles her father and the other stuffy English and Scottish lords were always going on about. Catherine loved the ‘wild, free people of the hills’, be they English, Scott or, as in many cases, ‘mixed bloods’. It made no difference to her, for she met them all with an easy smile, a warm nature and a fearless love of life that drew them to her like iron to a loadstone!

‘Lady Cat’, as the Hill Folk called her, was well thought of on both sides of the Borderlands. She often went among them, speaking a mixture of the king’s English and Scottish Gaelic, she distributed food, spare clothing, medicine and now and then the odd English penny. This day however she was on her way to see one Hill Folk in particular --- a wise, old ‘wicca woman’ who, for a smile and several of those worn, English pennies, sold charms, various potions and told fortunes.

Old Nell she called herself, known throughout the Borderlands and beyond for her soothsaying skills and other ‘mystical arts’ --- though such things were only whispered at, and never near the kirkyard or on a night with a full moon!

‘Lady Cat’ hadn’t been to see Old Nell since before her father died the year before. The old crone had warned Catherine then of some ‘dark and foul deed soon to be done’, and had added the baffling phrase: ‘Beware your second father, for he has both a black heart and a false smile’. The old woman had finished with a third cryptic warning. ‘Beware as well the one eyed man from the north, for he lusts for what he should not!’

Catherine had gone away concerned but not really worried, for she only halfway believed in the old woman’s ‘powers’ and her warnings of ‘dark deeds, false smiles and one eyed men’ went unheeded, especially once back home at Craigmorrow with her hawks, horses and hounds.

Then, a little over a month after her visit to the wicca woman, her father had suddenly sickened and died. It happened far too suddenly for any physician, midwife or old crone to come to his aid. ‘His heart just stopped’ they all said. Her father’s younger brother, Reginald Graham, had been visiting at the time and helped with the funeral arrangements --- and had stayed on after to ‘comfort the grieving widow’. Her mother’s tears however soon dried up and her grief was quickly replaced by emotions of another sort --- emotions that many, Catherine included, thought ‘unseemly’ at the time --- especially for a grieving widow. Life however, is for the living, and before her husband was three months in his grave, Catherine’s mother, Lady Margaret Graham, was led to the altar by her brother-in-law and willingly became the new Lord Graham’s blushing bride. Catherine’s seldom seen ‘Uncle Regie’ had suddenly become her newly minted step-father!

I hope, dearest Catherine, her now ‘second father’ had said to her after the short ceremony and before the bridal night festivities had gotten underway; that you do not think too poorly of either your lady mother or myself. I admit freely that I have had ‘feelings’ for your mother for some years now, but thought it only proper to keep them hidden away in my lonely heart.

Until they suddenly ‘burst forth’ at my father’s funeral? Catherine had heard herself saying, surprised at the cold sarcasm in her voice, but unable to stop it from pouring forth. "How very gallant of you uncle --- or would you prefer that I call you ‘father’ instead?"

A flicker of anger had flashed through her uncle’s dark eyes, but was soon replaced by that insincere smile of his and his short bark of a laugh. "Call me whatever you like, dear Catherine, but do try to remember that it is I that now rules Craigmorrow, not my somewhat ‘over lenient’ brother."

You thought my father ‘over lenient’, uncle? In what way?

That smileless smile came again, followed by the annoying laugh. "In all ways, dear child! In his running of the estate, in his collecting of rents, in his ridiculous sympathy towards the rebellious Scots and, perhaps worst of all, his lack of control over his beautiful but rather wild and unwed daughter."

Catherine was taken aback by her step-father’s cutting words, especially that last bit, and was about to sputter out an angry response when ‘Uncle Daddy’ patted her hand as though she was a wayward child. But have no fear, Catherine dear, all that will soon be remedied. I’ve a fair number of suitors in mind for your hand and the invitations have already been sent out. He’d suddenly reached out and touched her wild, tangled mane. "Though before they get here we really must do something about your hair."

That rather unpleasant exchange had happened over two months ago --- almost half a year since her father’s untimely death --- and ‘Uncle Regie’ had been true to his word. A number of ‘suitors’ had indeed turned up at Craigmorrow castle, each one more eager than the last to claim the hand --- and the considerable dowry --- of the beautiful young red headed woman with the flashing green eyes. Yet it was her equally ‘flashing hot temper’ that had driven them away --- one aging old lecher with a stab wound in his hand from when he had foolishly placed it on her thigh! All but one had been ‘easily handled, quickly dismissed and even more quickly forgotten’ --- except for Murdock MacGregor, the Lord of Mull --- the bearded giant with the one good eye! MacGregor was most certainly not the sort of man that one soon forgets, especially if he doesn’t get what he wants --- and he made it abundantly clear that what he wanted was Lady Catherine Graham of Craigmorrow castle!

Ever since MacGregor’s rather angry departure Catherine had seen his bearded, angry face nightly in her dreams --- his one good eye blazing as he leaned in right after she had rejected his gruff proposal. "Hear me and hear me well, girl, for I’ll not say it again! Want it or not, you will be mine! Your step-father and I have already come to a ‘verbal agreement’ and your own ‘womanly wishes’ are of no concern to either of us! Now, I must away to Ireland on business, but either myself or one of my ships will return in two months time to bring you north to Mull! See that you are ready --- for if not, it will go hard on you and yours!"

MacGregor had departed after that, his armed men and servants scurrying after him as he strode like a king down to his three longships. The fierce, one eyed man had sailed westward. ‘Business in Ireland!’ he had rumbled, and Catherine had wondered what ‘business’ a one eyed pirate from the wild western isles would have with the bloody Irish?! ‘Smuggling most likely’ she had reasoned, and shuddered at the thought of his longships sailing back to ‘collect her’ like some prized heifer ripe for breeding! She was reliving this waking nightmare when her mother’s scolding voice cut into her troubled thoughts.

"Really, Catherine! You haven’t heard a single word that I said?! How do you expect to find a decent husband if you drive them all away with that over-sharp tongue of yours --- or, may God forgive you, at knifepoint?!"

"I have no wish to ‘find a husband’ at all, mother, ‘descent’ or otherwise. Unlike you, I do not feel the need!"

That last part had just slipped out and was instantly regretted --- not because it was untrue, but because of the pain it brought to her mother’s eyes.

Do you hate me so much, Cat, for wedding your father’s brother? her mother quietly asked. "Or is there some other reason that I am not aware of?"

Catherine moved to the older woman’s side. "I do not hate you, mother. I could never hate you. I’m just --- disappointed. You and father seemed so happy together, and to replace him so quickly --- and with a man that seems so --- "

"Shallow? her mother put in. Vain? Uncaring? Take your pick, Catherine, for I’ve heard them all. Both from the servants as well as from my so-called ‘friends’!"

"I was going to say ‘strange’. For mother, he is nothing at all like my father!"

Anger suddenly flashed in her mother at that --- a strong family trait passed down on the female side it appeared. "No, Catherine, he is not! Your father was kind, generous and loving --- but he was also a dreamer and a very poor businessman! Your new step-father is indeed much more reserved, business-like and calculating, but he is good to me in his own way --- and --- I do not have to spend the cold nights alone in that great, empty bed!"

Again the anger rose unbidden inside Catherine. "Are you that afraid of the dark, mother? Would not a candle or two have done instead?!"

There’s little warmth and no softness in a candle, Catherine.

A pair of my hounds then, mother?! One on each side will drive away the shivers! Catherine shook her head and bit back another cutting reply, yet the mother saw the look of disapproval in her daughter’s green eyes.

I’m not strong like you, Catherine. You are fearless, beautiful and brave --- and still very young! She turned away. "It’s so easy for the young to be brave --- but then the passing years slowly steal it all away. Day after day, night after lonely night, until there is nothing left but the shadow of a frightened, old woman!"

Catherine reached out and touched her mother’s hand. I don’t want you to be lonely, mother, or frightened, it’s just that your new husband is so --- so cold and calculating! Now that he has you and Craigmorrow, he is trying to sell me off for breeding like some prize milk cow!

"You wrong him, Catherine. Your step-father wants only what is best for you."

Anger flashed again. What’s best for him, you mean mother! To marry me off to some rich, lecherous old man or some one-eyed giant would suit him well! Aye! And you also by the sound of it!

A slap followed that --- and then tears, though neither came from Catherine. From her came more anger; the silent kind this time --- at a ‘low boil and lasting’ --- along with the flashing eyes and a sudden urgent need to get far away from Craigmorrow!

George Crump, the man her step-father had set to ‘watch over’ his onetime wayward niece and now defiant step-daughter, had scrambled aboard a horse and attempted to follow, but had been defeated by a stone fence and a bed of thorns.

And Lady Cat had escaped to the Highlands.

***

In the afternoon shadows the cave looked more like the open maw of a hungry beast than the home of a mysterious old wicca woman --- but then that was just what Old Nell wanted.

Fear is good for business, girlie the bent-backed hag had told Catherine the first time she had gone to see her. It gets the juices flowing. The heart pumps and the hands sweat and the mind imagines all kinds of ‘fanciful things’! Easier for me to read a person that way, do ye ken? The old woman had leaned closer and did something that might have been a wink with her one good eye. Fear is what brought you here to me, is it not, girlie?

Catherine had flushed at that, for it was not far off the mark. I’m not afraid of you, old mother! she had blustered. "Or anything else for that matter!"

That one good eye winked again. "Are you not, girlie? Well, you are a rarity then! Most folks, be they highborn or low, are afraid of all sorts of things. Sickness, death, robbers; too much rain or not enough; too hot a summer or too cold a winter. The clear eye winked again as it washed over the red headed young woman. Too lonely a life with no-one to love."

Catherine had flushed again at that, only redder than before, for this time the old crone had hit the mark dead on! At the ripe old age of twenty-one, Catherine had almost given up all hope of ever finding someone she could really love. Twice now she had ‘thought’ she had found someone, but it was not to be.

The first time had been several years ago when a handsome young tinker had swept into her life for a week or so and then left her broken hearted and alone --- and fearing that she might be with child. Luckily, Fate proved just as fickle as the tinker and no child was forthcoming.

The second time had been a neighbour’s son, Percy Hastings. Percy’s father was Lord George Hastings, the 17th Earl of Lancaster, one of the richest men in England. Lancaster had been Lord of the Northern Marches before her own father, Lord Herbert Graham, and the two men had been good friends for years. What could be more natural than their two children should marry? And for a while Catherine thought that she did indeed love the handsome young man --- until she caught him tupping a milkmaid in the barn!

So, after twenty-one years and two broken hearts, Catherine had become desperate enough to seek out a wicca woman and perhaps catch a glimpse into the murky future. The glimpse she got however was far murkier than she had bargained for!

The old crone’s words from her first visit still echoed in Catherine’s troubled dreams. ‘I see a dark and foul deed done to one close to your heart’; followed by the dire warning of: ‘Beware the one with the false smile!’

A few weeks later her father had suddenly died. A few months later her mother had married her dead husband’s brother. A month after that Catherine found herself ‘put up for sale’ by her new step-father!

So now she was back at Nell’s doorless door, desperate to see what future awaited her!

Ahhhh, cackled the old woman. "So it is love that brought you back to me! No, don’t try to deny it, child, I can see it in your stance and the worried look in those pretty green eyes. But there’s fear there too, and not just the fear of living lonely." Old Nell shuffled closer with her candle, for though her ‘cave’ was surprisingly cosy, it was far from bright.

"But come in, girlie! Sit by the fire and warm yourself, for your hands are as cold as death --- and I can see now that it’s ‘Death’ that you really came to ask me about."

How do you know that?! Catherine demanded, instantly thinking of her father.

Nell cackled again. "I’d be a poor ‘glimpser of tomorrows’ if I could not read a person’s ‘today’s’! Everything about you, child, shows sadness. Your stance, your frown, the way those green eyes of yours dart about, searching the shadows for answers to unasked questions. But come and sit by the fire. I’ll brew us a nice pot of tea and we’ll have a wee chat."

The ‘wee chat’ lasted long into the night, and Catherine found not only many answers to those ‘unasked questions’, but a new friend as well. It helped that the ‘tea’ Old Nell brewed had dried slices of a certain mushroom that grew only on the rocky slopes of the western highlands, best harvested with a silver blade on the night of a full moon. Before long Catherine’s head was all a swirl with the sights, sounds, smells and tastes of all the things the wicca woman had told her.

"How is it that I seem to feel ‘inside’ your tales, Nell?" Catherine the Cat asked as she sat all curled up before the fire. Almost as though I was watching them ‘acted out’ before me, with each person parading around in front of me like actors on a stage?

The old woman’s good eye winked again as she poured them both yet another cup of her special tea. "It’s all part of the wicca craft ye ken, taught to me by my mother when I was just a wee lass."

Have the women in your family always followed the wicca trade? Catherine asked, taking another sip of tea and helping herself to one of Nell’s delicious cookies.

Some have,lass, and some haven’t. Not everyone has ‘The Gift’. I’ve a sister who wears her knees out praying for my soul, for the poor thing is convinced I’m going straight to hell! ‘The Gift’ sometimes skips a generation or two, but in my family it’s been a direct line for hundreds of years. Catherine could see the inner pride of that fact showing forth in the old woman’s lined face and hear it in her raspy voice.

My mother, Hecate McTavish o’ Skye, taught me,' 'Old Nell continued. She in turn was taught by her granny, Brindle MacGregor o’ Mull and her from her granny, Deirdre of Islay. On and on it goes, back in time for hundreds o’ years." The old woman suddenly brightened and fixed Catherine with that one, seemingly all-seeing eye.

"Would ye like to hear the tale o’ Hawdwise o’ Chalis, the Witch o’ Cymru, the very first wicca woman of my line?"

Catherine, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, took another sip of tea and nodded.

Good! beamed Nell, tossing another log onto the glowing embers of the already bright fire. The stuffed owl that had been perched on the mantelpiece suddenly flapped its dusty wings and hooted --- but Catherine paid it no mind, for the story of ‘Hawdwise of Cymru’ was already beginning to play itself out before her.

Sitting there all warm and cozy before the hearth, the pleasant smells of herbs and spices in the air, her belly full of Nell’s homemade ‘biscuits’ and specially brewed ‘tea’, Catherine began to lose herself in the old woman’s fascinating tale.

It was long, long ago ye ken? Back in the time of Robin o’ the Hood, Sherwood Forest and King Richard the Lionheart, Old Nell’s voice seemed to fill not only the cave, but Catherine’s mind as well.

By the way you English reckon time, that would be almost six hundred years ago. Richard was away killing foreigners in a useless attempt to free some place called the ‘Holy Land’, and he had foolishly left his greedy younger brother, John ‘Lackland’, in charge of the kingdom! Bonny, bold Robin and his outlaws had a busy time of it trying to keep the little shite from ruining the whole damn country! Old Nell leaned closer and touched her chipped teacup to Catherine’s and winked her one good eye. "And, at the time, my great-great-great granny, Hawdwise of Cymru, was the little shite’s mistress!"

Suddenly the fire blazed, the stuffed owl hooted and Catherine found herself sitting round another fire, far away both in place and time --- deep in the legendary greenwood known as Sherwood Forest. Her companions were no longer Old Nell and a stuffed owl, but Bold Robin himself and his merry men!

And Catherine no longer felt as though she were watching a play, but had become part of it!

***

Robin spat out Prince John’s name, then vented his anger on the fire with a poker. Sparks few heavenward, and Sherwood’s deep shadows were momentarily brightened. It gets worse! the outlaw leader growled. "Prince John has kicked out William Longchamp and the other advisors Richard left to help run the country and has set himself up as king! He apparently moves his ‘court’ around to each of the barons who have already sworn fealty to him, be they Saxon or Norman! To any that refuse him and remain loyal to Richard, John unleashes Guy of Gisbourn and his ‘pack hounds’ on them and seizes their lands, castles and monies! Often the man’s head ends up on a pike in his own castle!"

Christ on His Crutch! Will Scarlet swore. "How can the man be so evil?!"

Captain Watts, a scarred commander of archers, drained his tankard and banged it down on a battered camp table, causing an old hound to spring up from its place by the fire and slink away. Catherine, ‘watching’ silently from the shadows, stretched out her hand and seemed to feel the hound’s hairy back move along her palm.

He was always a vile little shite, Captain Watts said. "When he was younger his mother, Lady Eleanor, could usually control him. Now they say that he gets his evil council and his newfound courage from his latest mistress, Hawdwise of Chalis, the Witch of Cymru."

"A ‘witch’?! Stevie the Welshman repeated. You must be bloody joking! Why would a prince, even a spineless little shite of one like John Lackland, listen to the rantings of a crazy old crone?!"

Stevie, obviously you’ve never heard Hawdwise of Chalis. Much the miller’s son said from his place sitting back in the shadows. "She is not a woman to be made light of."

Though Much had kept his voice low and Catherine could hear pain in it --- and something else that she thought might be fear as well.

Then Stevie the Welshman grinned wickedly. "I’m bloody Welsh, aint I, Much?! N’ us Welsh are the most superstitious damn people in the world, so of course I’ve heard of Hawdwise --- just like I’ve heard of Elda the Cruel and Craignir the Cold and Hecate the Soul-Sucking Shape-Shifter! In Wales every old granny with a broom is considered a wicca, what you Englanders call a ‘witch’ --- but that don’t mean I actually ‘believe’ any of that shite!"

Catherine actually felt the man’s passion --- and could smell him as well. Apparently men in the 13th century bathed even less than the ones in the 18th!

Robin suddenly moved past Catherine and closer to the fire. "It doesn’t really matter what we believe, Stevie --- it’s what that little bastard Prince John believes --- and it seems that he truly does believe in this Hawdwise and he so called ‘powers’."

Stevie the Welshman shrugged, but Catherine got the impression that he seemed more worried than he tried to sound. "Well, I’ve heard that he likes women, but that he doesn’t keep them very long. Maybe he’ll soon move on to another."

"He’ll keep this one, Much said quietly from the shadows. Even if he wants to rid himself of her, he will not have the strength to cast her aside."

Robin snorted out a laugh. "You sound, Much, like your actually believe that this Hawdwise is a real witch!"

Catherine watched the twisted little man cock his elongated head to one side and, his odd features, lit by the fire’s light, slowly nodded agreement. "I do think she’s a witch, or something damned close to it!"

Come now, Much, Captain Watts grinned. You really don’t believe it is such rubbish?! Old ladies casting spells and flying around on bloody broomsticks! It’s all just fireside tales told to frighten children, priests and maybe weak brained Welshmen like our Stevie here!

Though the others smiled at the captain’s jest, Much the Hunchback sat forward like a nervous penitent in the confession box. "Hawdwise of Chalis is no old crone on a broomstick, but a woman of a great and strange beauty --- ‘otherworldly’ might best describe it --- both in body and in voice --- but the voice most of all!"

How come you know so much about this wicca-woman?! Stevie asked, perhaps a little louder than necessary.

Much suddenly stood and walked towards the fire, the flames casting his misshapen shadow twice his height on the tall trees. He stood there for some time, half in, half out of the light; the flickering tongues of flame causing the golden motes in his dark eyes to dance about like tiny shooting stars. He stood there looking back into a time long past, seeing inwardly the small, twisted boy he had once been, playing all alone as usual, or with his puppy that his widowed father the miller had given his solitary son in the hopes of lessening some of the loneliness.

Catherine was on her feet now and though unseen amidst Robin and his men, she herself could actually see Much’s thoughts as well as feel his pain.

I met her once, Much said to the flames, his voice once again that of that little, lonely lad. Years ago it was --- out back of my father’s mill.

"You telling me that you actually met Hawdwise of Chalis?!" Stevie the Welshman demanded.

Yes, Much whispered.

And what did she do? Stevie asked with an amused smile: "Did she put a ‘spell’ on you, Much?! Turn you into a wee mouse or a rabbit?! Or maybe a horny toad?!"

Again the long pause, and Much, bent and twisted as he was, seemed to grow suddenly straighter and taller as he turned and spoke. "In a way, Stevie, I suppose that she did put a spell on me --- but not the kind you’re thinking off. Probably the same kind that Prince John is under now."

What kind is that? a confused Stevie asked.

Much, his strange eyes still looking at an earlier time, continued softly. A love spell of sorts --- or perhaps a spell of longing.

A ‘love spell’?! Stevie repeated, grinning from ear to ear. Then, frowning: "But you were just a wee lad!"

Ignoring Stevie, Much quietly continued. She was not ugly, but quite the opposite. She had, and probably still has, such a perfect beauty that it’s almost frightening. So beautiful in fact that it hurt my young eyes to look upon her.

Stevie, feeling suddenly again like a young, wide-eyed lad sitting at his granny’s knee, was instantly caught up in the tale. He pulled his stool closer to the fire, poured Much a drink and waited patiently for him to continue.

Standing just off to one side, Catherine also waited, as anxious as all the other ‘Merry Men’ to hear the twisted little man’s tale.

After a long sigh, Much took a drink, put the tankard down and started his rather lengthy story of when he first met Hawdwise of Chalis, the Witch of Cymru.

***

For all there it had suddenly become late autumn. A grey-white November sky was the background for an old stone mill all set about by stark, leafless trees and a frothy, white stream. The soft spoken lines of a strange poem suddenly filled the lonely glade; each word like a high, clear note from a silver flute, then quickly carried away on the wind.

"Come away, o human child;

To the waters and the wild;

And I will show you such wonders

Human eyes have rarely seen."

To Catherine the soft, sing-song voice seemed to be coming out of the flowing water itself. Pure, cold, crystal clear water that tumbled down from the heights of Sherwood past the old mill where Much’s widowed father plied his trade.

The small, hunchbacked lad playing at catching frogs in the shallows of his father’s stream looked up and saw an angel --- or at least, what he took for one. The bright November sun, rising up behind her over the ancient, near leafless trees, enveloped the woman in golden light that flowed around her regal form like the sun kissed halo of the Madonna herself! A pure, clear, mind-numbing light entered the boy’s brain through his eyes and touched his soul through the silent longings of the heart.

Of course, seven year old Much could verbalize none of this --- but he could feel it!

As could an equally small girl called ‘Cat’, watching spellbound from the far side of yesterday, who now somehow seemed to blend as one with the miller’s crippled son.

The pure light flowed through both of them like the waters at their feet; from the top of their tangled mop of hair, to the callous hardened soles of their bare feet.

Young Much and ‘Cat the Shadow’ looked up and saw what they both took to be an angel descending from heaven. Hawdwise of Chalis however, was many things --- but an angel was most definitely not one of them!

Dark, sinister tales sprang up around the beautiful wicca woman like flies on shite!

One such story tells that she was a bastard child of a bastard child, seven generations removed from the legendary King Mark of Cymru, he who sent the young hero Tristan to fetch home the old Welsh king’s young bride, Yseult the Sad.

Another tale tells that Hawdwise was the cursed daughter of an unholy union between the ancient mage, Merlin the Enchanter and his half sister, Morgan La Faye.

Whatever her origins, Hawdwise of Chalis, the Witch of Cymru, was always described as the dark beauty that comes and goes as she pleases, always with a following of strange and exotic servants. She was rumoured to have been a councillor of kings, a paramour of princes and a bane to all clergymen! Seemingly ageless, her startling beauty was legendary!

It was also said that she practiced the ‘Black Arts’ and that one look into her dark eyes was all a man --- or woman --- needed to lose both their heart and their soul!

Neither Young Much nor Cat the Shadow knew any of this as they stood knee deep in the stream, one hand that was somehow two clutching a slippery green frog, the other held up to shade their eyes from the dazzling light that flowed in, around and seemingly from Hawdwise of Chalis.

What have ye there, o’ human child? she asked in a sing-song voice from atop here dappled mare; the deep tones hinting at Irish or Welsh or perhaps even Faery ancestry?

Catherine felt the woman’s voice course through her body like a river of fire.

A frog, my lady! seven year old Much/Cat beamed. A great jumper he is too! I’ve been after him all morning long!

Persistence is an admirable trait, child , the musical voice intoned. Though it can be somewhat tedious at times. Show me.

Young Much and his red headed shadow held the green frog up to the angel and asked in unison: Are you my mother?

If Hawdwise was caught off guard by the question she did not show it. "No, child, I don’t believe that I am. But would you like me to be?"

Young Much/Cat pondered that for half a heartbeat, then shrugged and petted the frog.

"I’m not sure. Do you know my mother?" they both asked.

I doubt it. What’s her name?

Onooga. Much said.

In the shadows Catherine heard herself whisper her own mother’s name.

A perfect eyebrow rose in a perfect face. Onooga? An Irish name. Where is your mother now, child?

In heaven, my lady. Young Much beamed. I thought you might have seen her up there.

The vision hovering over them both laughed slightly, carrying with it the threat of distant thunder. Then again, it might have been something else --- something far worse. I’ll look for her the next time I’m there, she said with a sarcastic laugh. Is your father about?

He’s working in the mill, my lady. He’s always working.

And you’re out here frog hunting all on your own?

Seven year old Much shook his shaggy head. I had a dog once, but he ran off --- but I’m not alone, my lady. I have my shadow and also Old Num is here with me.

The glowing vision looked around her --- as did Catherine. Other than the odd bird flitting about, the water flowing over the large turning wheel and the distant grinding of stone on stone from deep within the mill itself, neither shadow Cat nor vision Lady saw another soul other than Young Much himself.

Hawdwise leaned down from her dappled mare and smiled sweetly at the misshapen lad. Much who suddenly felt all warm and comfortable, like he had when curled up on his pallet with his lost dog beside him. "And where exactly, human child, is this Old Num of yours?"

Young Much smiled, stuffed the green frog back inside the front of his shirt and waved a twisted hand at the brooding forest. He’s up there in the trees somewhere. He watches over me and my da. My frog too, sometimes, but not always.

He doesn’t like frogs? Hawdwise asked.

Much shrugged, started to pick his nose, then apparently thought better of it. Reaching back into the front of his shirt he pulled out an apple. Would you like to share? he asked. I’ve got a clasp-knife! I can cut it in half!

No --- but thank you. Perhaps you should share it with Old Num.

Oh, he’s not over fond of apples --- unless they’re in a pie. His wife makes good pies!

That perfect eyebrow rose again. Does she now? And what might her name be?

Bluedy-Blue.

And she lives where?

Young Much stuffed the apple back in with the frog and frowned. Cat the Shadow felt both apple and amphibian against her own belly. "She’s with Old Num, of course. They are married!"

Of course, Hawdwise smiled. How silly of me.

You’re not silly --- you’re beautiful, Young Much said quietly. Are you sure you are not my mother? Cat the Shadow silently wished the same thing.

"Quite sure --- though I believe that I should like it if I were. You and your ‘shadow’."

Young Much’s eyes opened wide at that. "You’d like me to be your son?! But I’m all bent and twisted, my lady! They tease me in the village."

Catherine’s heart went out to Much as his young voice dropped, both of them now recalling past hurts and fresh humiliations. A picture of her step-father’s sneering face flashed before Cat’s eyes, but she blinked it away.

They call me Humpback and Twistfoot and other nasty names! Sometimes they hit me --- or throw stones.

The dark angel reached down. There was a rustle of silk and a velvet hand gently stroked the hump on his back. Catherine felt icy cold fingers on her spine.

"But you are only twisted on the outside, human child. On the inside you are as straight as an arrow."

Much’s eyes widened, as did his smile. "I like arrows! I have three of them for my bow! One’s busted but it still