Continue The Story: It Was a Dark and Stormy night.

It Was a Dark and Stormy night. The City of Stolid Springs had just promoted Chet to the position of night watchman over Pong Park. The area had become jam-packed with closet nudist that enjoyed walking the streets under the cover of darkness. It was Chet's job to use his night-vision goggles and paintball gun to expose them to the community.

"Why are you going out in this weather?" asked his mother.
"I gotta go hunt for perverts," Chet replied.
"You don't think the storm will keep them home tonight?"
"I don't think they'll suddenly find Jesus just because it's raining."
"If you say so.......I still don't understand how shooting at them with paintballs makes any sense." his mother sighed.
"Because the paintballs are filled with non removable ink." said Chet.

(someone else take it from here)

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled out of the north like a bereaved banshee, roaring over the moor, funnelling its fuming ferocity down the valley toward the opulent manor...
Suddenly there was a knock on the door . . . the rap, rap, rapping resounded throughout the vacuous, great hall of the manor, echoing seemingly endlessly.

"If I fart now," Percilla thought to herself, "I'll never hear the end of it."

Pssst..whose Mary?

Mary = Mary Mapes
Dan = Dan Rather

Percilla's fear and dread, reawakened after all these intervening years by Uncle Edgar's arrival, threatened to come busrting out of her throat in a scream of fright but, before the cry could emerge, it was dampened by something else. Curiosity. Yes, she did remember the stories and the tales, and the single talk that she and Edgar had all those years past. And in the back of her mind, she always wished for the answers. Now, here on a dark and stormy night, her questions could finally be answered, by the only relative left alive who could.

"Mother gave me the locket, Uncle Edgar," she said finally, her voice regaining strength as she spoke, "and it's the most precious thing I have of hers. Will you damage it?"

"Hardly, my dear", Edgar said, "but the locket itself is only sentimental - the true value is the key within. Now, will we see the key, and could we please do so, over by the fireside, and out of this weather?"

Percilla, slowly, allowed the gaunt man inside and over the threshold, and got the impression that by inviting him in, her life would change forever. Edgar crossed the room to the hearth, and basked for a minute in its inviting warmth. Percilla saw that his hair, the same color as her mother's, was wind-tossed and wiry; his skin was reddened from the wind; all having the effect of rough-hewn wood.

"Ah, so much better, thank you, Cilla", Edgar said. "Now then, the locket, and watch closely..."

Percilla produced the locket from around her neck, and handed it over reluctanly, coming closer to watch. Edgar held it to the light for a moment, as if examining it for something. Then, with a curious motion, he twisted the locket with a tiny click, and a hollow space was inside.

The locket lay in Edgar's hand, now in two pieces: the lid had an elaborate etching on the inside, a coat of arms, from first glance. But in the bottom half, lay not a key, but a single pewter peg, almost the size of a nail.

"That? That's a key?" Percilla asked. "It looks nothing like any key I've ever seen."

"Of course not, because you haven't seen many keys, have you?" Edgar snickered. "Not everything is obvious - this might not look like a normal key, but what is a key, but a device to open a lock, and it matches the lock itself, and not your preconcieved views. Your first lesson of many, darling niece!"

"But, it couldn't fit any door in the house, or anywhere!"

"Doors! Keys don't always open doors, either. They open locks, Cilla, and this key fits into a lock which, I daresay, hasn't turned since I left this manor. But tonight, it surely shall."

“The locket lay in Edgar's hand, now in two pieces: the lid had an elaborate etching on the inside, a coat of arms, from first glance. But in the bottom half, lay not a key, but a single pewter peg, almost the size of a nail.
"That? That's a key?" Percilla asked. "It looks nothing like any key I've ever seen."
"Of course not, because you haven't seen many keys, have you?" Edgar snickered. "Not everything is obvious - this might not look like a normal key, but what is a key, but a device to open a lock, and it matches the lock itself, and not your preconcieved views. Your first lesson of many, darling niece!"
"But, it couldn't fit any door in the house, or anywhere!"
"Doors! Keys don't always open doors, either. They open locks, Cilla, and this key fits into a lock which, I daresay, hasn't turned since I left this manor. But tonight, it surely shall."

And with that, Edgar wielded his arm skyward like a war hammer and smashed his fist on the edge of the fireplace mantel.

Percilla gave a squealed scream of fright as pieces of stone hurled to the ground, exposing a small recess.

Edgar thrust his now bloodied hand into the hole and pulled out a small wooden box.

“Ah-Hah,” he shouted maniacally, ejaculating spittle into the air, “the key to the evasive puzzle is finally within my grasp!”
Edgar whirled around like a top, confronting Percilla with his stare. “And if you,” he bellowed, his voice suddenly filled with the passion of madness, “utter even one word of this, I- I-,”
His eyes rolled like an doomed animal in the clutches of a vicious predator. Edgar dropped the box, and seizing his chest, collapsed on the polished floor.

Percilla stood transfixed in horror as Edgar twitched in spasmodic gestures like a being possessed.
Then, aghast, she transfixed on this abomination of an Uncle as he, with a compressed motion, pulled himself up.

“I am,” he croaked, “done. so - close”
Then within his death throes, he gasped, “Are you - Cilla - as adept - at solving - puzzles as - are you are - creating them?”

The sudden lifeless body of Edgar fell to the floor with a dull thud.

Pricilla did as one who had been borne of high privilege and station would naturally do in these sort of matters. She screamed. And she continued to scream until the frantic footsteps of servants from downstairs echoed throughout the manor.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

There, there,” Thurgood purred, as he nudged ever closer to Pricilla, gently patting her on her tender thigh.

It was the day after the morrow since Uncle Edgar had died in her presence.
The storm had subsided quickly, as had the news spread of this horrid occurrence.
Thurgood and Eason, as soon as they got the word from the manors frantic driver, rushed by coach to her side.

While Thurgood cooed and comforted Percilla, Eason, with peevish frustration, examined the blood stained hole in the mantel.
More to break his cousin’s advances than anything else, Eason inquired, “’Cilla my dear, you say your Uncle extracted an object from this opening?”
Thurgood glared at his cousin. “Can’t you see what a state she’s in? She’s - ”
“No, no,” Percilla sighed, “it’s all right. I can manage.” She fluttered her eyelashes, conveying, in Eason’s eye, an obvious false sense of grief. “As I recall,” she struggled, ”the doctor who examined the body placed it on, on the table next to the window.”
“There, there,” Thurgood repeated,” You musn’t let Eason bother you.”
She dabbed her long since dry eyes with a hanky. “You are so thoughtful, dear Thurgood.”

Eason huffed, strode to the table and picked up the rectangular wooden box, and noticing a small, slender pewter peg next to it also gathered it up.
The box had a bit of brass in the center middle with a hole that looked like - Eason thought it might fit - and he inserted the peg, twisted, and the box popped open.

“Well I’ll be,” he exclaimed in a rather loud voice. “Look here!” As Thurgood glowered, Percilla’s mood swiftly changed to one of curiosity. The box that Eason held in front of her contained a torn piece of brittle, aged parchment. She gently coaxed it out of the box and walked to the sunlit window, with the two cousins following. Together they read the faded inscription:

“Bayson’s Fog,
Rent Her Sock,
Find the Lee to fit the Cock.
Draight to Sawn, et the and,
Free threet hoe-tell,
Sidding Dand.”

“It’s gibberish,” Thurgood huffed, “pure gibberish.”
Eason, recalling an old memory, flashed a grin. “Reminds me of what we used to make up as children.”
“Rot,” Thurgood insisted, “Fog, birds, torn socks? Nonsensical words? it is the work of a madman.”
“It must be something,” Eason persisted, “For her Uncle to go to such lengths to retrieve it.”
“Harumph!,” Thurgood responded. “Do you not recall, dear cousin, that Percilla mentioned he was once incarcerated in an asylum? Escaped from it, in my opinion. It is pure nonsense, and all it, and you, are serving to do is upset her.”

There hung a moment of uneasy silence. Then, abruptly, Percilla said, “Wait.”

She sat herself down on the chair with a slow deliberate speed. “I, I recall something.”
She then, in a distant monotone voice devoid of emotion, related a long ago childhood memory.

It was late spring. Her, her nanny and Mother had picnicked by the small lake on the south end of their land.
While Mother and nanny were busy preparing the noontime repast, she had wandered off.
She recalled reciting a some made up sing-song rhyme, lost in a child’s fairy tale world, and had walked to the base of a small, rocky rise just east of the lake.
Her voice quickened as she recalled a strange sound, mimicking her tone. Then a voice from afar, its source hidden in the rocks.
“You have given me the answer,” chimed the voice, as this sinister figure reveled himself, “I shall always be grateful.”

She then, with tonal alarm rising, conveyed to the pair that this cretin flung his overcoat round in a flourish to cover the lower half of his wicked face, and with a sinister cackle, rushed off.

“What a horrid experience!” Thurgood said.
“And you know, now that I think about it,” Percilla said stoically, “It may have been . . . Uncle Edgar.”
“Oh you poor, poor dear,” Thurgood condescended.
Percilla gave a teasing bit of a smile. “You are so thoughtful, dear Thurgood, in my time of need.”

“Back to this mystery,” Eason said, “Percilla, what do you make of it?”
“Oh, cease man,” Thurgood interjected. “It is pure rubbish, for that we are certain. And I will not, will not I say, have you upset this dear Lady another instant!”

Percilla nudged closer to Thurgood and continued the act of feigning grief and discomfort, while enjoying, as she always had, the contention for her affection.
“Still, Eason started, “I would dread to discard this so quickly.”
An uneasy pause ensued. Finally Thurgood broke the silence.

“Dear cousin,” he said, in a mockingly condescending voice, “humor us then, by continuing this investigation of yours outside, and I shall attempt to lift dear Percilla’s spirits. And please, dear cousin, I beg you to inform us the instant, the instant I say, you have solved the puzzle.”

Eason sighed. Once again his cousin had bested him. Head down in defeat and frustration, he departed through the door to the balcony, accompanied by Thurgood’s contemptuous chirps and Percilla’s gleeful giggles.

Eason, seething, moved to the far corner of the balcony and looked out over the countryside. The sun had appeared, which gave a promise of warmth to the early summers day.
However Eason’s continence ran cold. Once again Thurgood had bested him. How he hated his cousin at times, and yes, Percilla too. If only she weren’t so beautiful, so alluring, and so . . . desirable.

The truth and he knew it was that he was lonely for a woman.
Lonely for a wife and family, and that amongst their peers, only him and his cousin remained unwed.
And poor Eason, as he had heard innumerable times from Thurgood, one whose hair was too dark, forehead too narrow and whose proboscis a bit too large.

“My dear cousin Eason, why you do not give in to your shortcomings, grant your father his wishes and court Lady Eberley?”

Those rapier words came back, as did others, at times like these. True, his Father had prodded him from time to time, especially of late to start a proper courtship with Miss Eberley. And true, she was the daughter of a Grand Duke. But she was a humorless woman, built like a turnip, with a voice that pierced you like a north wind and teeth that could gnaw through a large oak tree.

Eason shuddered at the thought. Yet what else did he have? Percilla? He ached for her in both body and spirit yet she treated him at times like a doorstop. Using him to play against Thurgood.
Did Percilla not see the vainglorious nature of his cousin?

Thurgood, a half head taller than he, with golden hair, healthy complexion and stunning blue eyes yet one who loves only himself? Thurgood, who fancies himself as an authority on politics, Royal History, women and wit, yet is in fact a dallying dandy, devoid of any devotion unless it is within himself.

”Ah, but she desires me so, old bean. Percilla, that is. I must specify, as so many other ladies do you know.”
Those past words hung on his mind, demanding to be recalled.

”And she does desire so for me to ask for her hand in marriage. And I will, as soon as she becomes of age to receive the bulk of her inheritance.”
“Hah! it is in truth only that you fear she will discover what a deceitful cad you are before she receives her rightful acquisition and disposes of you.”
“Dear, dear cousin. Why do you let envy consume you so? Is it not I, who has touched and tasted the pleasures of her body? Her smooth, alabaster neck, bosoms, -”
“Stop it! Stop this vile accord or I shall throw you myself into the bog to cool you off!”

But the words were true, for all Eason had acquired over the years were a precious few teasingly swift kisses. And he knew that Thurgood had received much more of her pleasures. If only he didn’t brag so! Eason spat in anger and disgust. He deserved to be thrown bodily into the bog!

The bog.
Thebog.

“By Jove!” he shouted, and slapped his hand on the top of the railing.

-----------------------------------------------------

Eason flung open the door to the sitting room, ignoring the advancing closeness Thurgood had made.
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed.
“Your rudeness quite surpasses your intellect,” Thurgood glowered. Predictably, Percilla’s mode made a swift change. “You have what, pray tell?”
Eason stood in their presence for a moment, catching his breath. “That story you told, “ he directed at Percilla. “About the encounter with your Uncle. At the lake.”
“That rocky ridge to the east you mentioned. There is a bog further in that direction, is there not?”
“Why yes,” she answered, her interest rising. “Hyde bog it is called.” “Yes I know,” he said. “But before it was monikered with a different name.”
He turned to his cousin.” Thurgood, you have an excellent memory. Do you recall what it was called?”
Thurgood bit at the compliment and followed Percilla’s lead in interest. “Why yes, now that you mentioned it.” He furrowed his brow. “It was called - let me think - “
His thumb and middle finger came together with a resounding snap. “Fayson’s Bog!” he exclaimed.” Yes, that’s it. After some chap named Fayson, I suppose.”
Eason retrieved the scrap of parchment from the table. “Look you two. The first line. Bayson’s Fog. Simply transpose the first letters. Fayson’s Bog!”

“Excellent detection, Eason!” Percilla squealed. Excellent!
“Good show,” Thurgood deadpanned, “now you have solved one line of a mystery that Cilla’s uncle had known decades ago.”

“No,” Eason pressed, “Don’t you see? Though as a child Percilla gave him the verbal key to this riddle, he had obviously either forgotten the exact passages or, in his madness, had muddled it in his head. Why else would he risk his identity to come to the manor and retrieve it?”

Oh dear Eason,” Percilla said with excitement, “You have hit on it.” She rose swiftly. “And we have an adventure! What fun!
Thurgood followed her lead. “Yes, yes!” he exclaimed, “How jolly good. Of course it was by my recollections that we unlocked the secret.”

“Only the first line,” Eason reflected. “We have a ways-”
I shall go to the cook,” Percilla interrupted, “have her prepare a basket for picnic. Thurgood? Be a dear and fetch my driver and have bring the carriage ‘round to the front. Oh, this will be such fun! Our own adventure!”

“Bayson’s Fog,
Rent Her Sock,
Find the Lee to fit the Cock.
Draight to Sawn, et the and,
Free threet hoe-tell,
Sidding Dand.”

“Well?” Thurgood asked, with a bored detachment. The carriage ride to the bog had diminished the initial excitement, and Percilla, twirling her parasol gave a slight sigh acknowledging the situation as she watched the driver ferry the carriage toward a grove of trees to give them privacy.

Eason surveyed the scene. Fayson’s bog was small as bogs go, minuscule actually, and isolated. He judged to be no more than three of watery mired vegetation. there was tiny a ribbon of clearing leading from the shore to a small spit of sand, which was dominated by a rather large boulder. A short distance away, on higher ground, he noticed a weathered hand cart and a peasant cutting peat.

“Well?,” Thurgood repeated, “I can think of more suitable places to picnic, can’t you, old man? That is, unless you have more to say about this mystery you have dragged us into.”
Eason, desperate to retain the small victory over his cousin, gestured toward the peasant. “I will see if he has any local knowledge that could help.”
“A cretin?” Thurgood mocked, “to assist you in this folly? Old bean, I suspect that you are going daft.”
Percilla gave a small giggle. Eason, now in a too familiar mood, left the pair and ventured toward the peasant.

“Excuse me my good Man,” Eason said as he arrived on the higher ground, “I wish to ask you a few questions.”
The commoner brought his eyes up from his task at hand, saw the dress and manner of of the inquirer. “Yes Squire, yes sir,” he replied with nervousness as he lay down his peat knife and stood at attention.
“Are you from these parts?”
“Yes gov’ner, yes sir, I am.”
“And are you familiar with the local lore?”
“Ah, as I understand your Lordship’s question, yes sir, you could say that I am, yes sir.”
“So tell me-” Eason paused as he heard the mocking sounds from below. Clenching his jaw, he continued, “Tell me, my good man. We - that is, my friends and I - are let’s say, attempting to recall childhood memories. Names of places, landmarks, that sort of thing.”

He extracted a half crown from his pocket and held it for the peasant to see. “So perhaps you could help me.”
Oh yes sir,” the peasant replied, “that is if I can sir, if I can.”

Eason inquired, in a slow measured voice of authority reserved for conversing with one of such downward difference in station, if the peat cutter had any recollection of a landmark, landscape or feature in the immediate area that bears any of the names or anything close to the following:
The peat cutter listened with somewhat confused intent as he went through clothing, rented or torn, birds, along with draights, sidding, threets, dands and any other word play combinations he could muster.
But the peasant, outside of recollecting the original name of the bog, fell silent on information. “Sorry Squire, but nothing sounds like anything I’ve ever heard of, and that’s a fact.”

Eason gave a short snort of exasperation. “Well my good man,” he said, as his ears picked up a fresh amount of whispered barbarous tones from below. “Can you recall anything peculiar or different about this particular bog.”

“Oh yes sir,” the peat cutter responded, anxious to please. “Yes sir, there is and I do know this for a fact. For one thing, the bog stays the same she does. The wet part I mean. No matter if it be raining for a fortnight or dry as a bone, she stays the same.

And there be a path a body put down long ago, and it be smooth as a cobbled lane but with good footing and that’s a fact. Peculiar they be, not grass or moss will grow on ‘em and that’s a fact. And they be only a few inches below the water.”
The peasant pointed toward Thurgood and Percilla,“Right near where your friends are standing Squire. And you can see it sir, plain as day it be, going out to the from the shore.”

Eason, gazing at the bog, recalled the small clear channel with curiosity. The Peasant, anxious to earn the offered brass, added, “When I was a wee lad, me and my mates would walk it out to center rock there and play king of the mountain. Easy walk it was, with bare feet and all. Course we-”

Eason’s head suddenly snapped back toward the peat cutter. “What did you-” but his thoughts were interrupted by a rather loud chortle from below, obviously at his expense.
He quickly filed the information, and rankled at being mocked, said tersely, “Anything else you can add?”
“Uh, no Squire, begging your forgiveness, that be all I can remember. And that’s a fact.”
Eason held the coin out at arms length. “Tell me. Is there a pub close by?”
Startled by the inquiry, the peasant hesitated. “Uh, yes sir, there is, just down the road a bit.”
“Then there you will go immediately and leave us to our privacy.”

The peasant meekly held out a nervous hand. Eason dropped the coin. The commoner fumbled the exchange and the coin fell to the ground. Eason raised the toe of his boot and stepped on the half crown. “And you will keep silent on this, you hear me,” he said in a loud voice, “Or I shall find you and give you a right thrashing!”

He raised the toe of his boot. The peat cutter quickly snatched up the coin Like a mouse snatching a bit of cheese from a potentially lethal trap. “Thank you Squire,” he mumbled, head bowed, and shuffled off toward his handcart.

As Eason watched as the peat cutter quickly gathered up his tools, a sudden thought hit him: he knew what value that half crown held for this man, and what wounds his pride went to obtain it. Then for an instant he pictured himself in the peat cutter’s shoes.

On impulse she started toward the peasant, “Excuse me, my good man,” he said in a tone noticeably softer.
The commoner wheeled, clutched the precious coin to his tattered vest with a look as if he anticipating the lash at any instant.

“I wish to apologize to you,” Eason continued, “for my actions. I had no right to humiliate you as I did. It was extremely arrogant and callous on my part.”
The peasant gave him a queer look. “Sir?”
“You had earned that coin, and I had no right to do what I did. Please forgive me.”

The peat cutter stood erect, and with surprising calmness replied,” Oh, that’s all right, Guv’ner.” He turned to where Thurgood and Pricilla were standing. “I understand.”
The two men looked at each other for a moment in silent conversation and understanding. A thought conceived in the back of Eason’s mind, and he asked,” Tell me, my good man, are you married?”
“Yes sir, I am,” he answered without hesitation, “been so for nigh onto eighteen years.”
“Any children?”
The peasant flashed a smile” Oh yes Squire, that we have. Four fine Lads and one Lass.”
“You must be proud of them,” Eason said.
“Yes sir,” the peat cutter answered with a smile, “We are. Very proud.”

Eason procured a crown from his pocket and flipped it to the peat cutter. “For the Miss’es,” he said. “To soothe her feathers should you decide to return home with spirits on your breath.”
“Kind of you,” he replied, “Kind of you. And wise you are to the ways of a woman. That you be Sir, yes Sir.”
”Now be off with you,” Eason said in a soft voice,” and thank you again for your service.”
The peasant nodded, gathered his handcart and with a wave of his hand, started down the path.
Eason, deep in thought, smiled and waved back.

Somewhat confused at the myriad of emotions, he started toward the pair below. If they made a sound he did not hear, for he was thinking, processing what had transpired, including what the man had said that had assisted him in solving the mystery.

Well well,” Thurgood spouted, “The great detective has returned. Tell me, old boy, did your consultation with your assistant bear fruit?”
Eason, ignoring the jibe and subsequent chirp from Percilla, bent down to the edge of the bog and placed his hand in the clear area described by the peat cutter. “The man was correct,” he said, ”it is a path, only a few inches below the water, has good footing and without a trace of vegetation.”
“Whatever do you mean,” Percilla asked. Eason pointed to the middle of the bog. ”There. The locals call it center island rock or center rock.” He turned to the now befuddled pair. “Don’t you see? The second line of the message. Rent her sock. Cen-ter rock. Center rock.”
“Why Eason,” Percilla squealed. How positively brilliant!”
“And it will be an easy wade, I assure you.”
“Not me,” replied Thurgood. Though that muck?”
“Well I am game,” Percilla said,” Thurgood, remove my foot ware. And mind your eyes as you do.”
Eason thought deeply for a few moments, then inquired, “Does your driver equip your carriage with a spade or shovel or both?”
“Always,” she answered. “to dig the carriage out of the mud if need be. Why do you ask?”
“And as I recall, your Father additionally employs him as an estate hunter, does he not?”
“Why yes, but why-”
“Then he should have a compass on his person. Thurgood? be a good fellow and retrieve a spade and compass from the driver.”
Thurgood glared at Eason with furious indignation “I am NOT your errand boy!”
“Oh Thurgood,” Percilla intervened, “we must all pitch in and do our fair share, musn’t we? ”
Thurgood, unwilling to confront the fair Percilla, gave a caustic leer toward Eason then strode toward the carriage as the two gingerly made there way across the bog to center rock island.

_______________________________________

Percilla leaned against the large boulder of center rock island, and playfully twirled her parasol as Eason surveyed the area.
She was about to instruct him to amuse her with a story to pass the time when he glanced up from staring at the scrap of torn parchment and gave her a look of what seemed to be of a derisive nature, yet veneered with what she conceived to be as grim determination.

For a long moment her mind reflected off her continual self absorption toward the mystery at hand as it, at present, was above all else.
For in truth her life thus far, as one who was born to such privilege and station as she, consisted primarily of a rather monotonous continual change and re change of attire, dependent on the meal or evenings interlude, only broken by a rather mundane hedonistic amusement of playing one cousin against the other. And after the years of said games, this was by far, wholly more engaging than that.

She watched with somewhat confused yet intriguing curiosity as Eason absorbed himself with the prose on the parchment.

And when he nodded his head slightly and clenched his free fist as if to acknowledge he had solved yet another piece of the puzzle, She, though quite unconsciously, ventured a small outward elation toward him.
This was not the Eason he knew. One who had been such an easy foil for her playful games had seemingly altered himself into a man of passionate self determination and purpose. She was both intrigued and befuddled.
The noisy splashing of Eason’s lifelong adversary broke her from her spell. She watched as Thurgood, panting for want of breath, thrust the spade and compass toward his cousin. “Here,” he said, with bile on his tongue, “are these damn things you requested.”

Eason ignored the digging tool thrust to his face and retrieved the compass from his obviously irate cousin’s grasp. He then glanced skyward for a moment, then concentrated on the device in his hand.

“You are daft man, completely daft,” Thurgood chimed, anxious to continue the role of the better and to of course convey this in Percilla’s eye.
“Hush!,” Eason replied, with a force that set Thurgood aback.
When Percilla, with an unaccustomed softness in her tone, inquired on Eason’s actions, he stated, “Because it is early afternoon, and I do not have a precise sense of direction.”
“Do tell us of your discovery, ” Percilla begged, “We are dying of curiosity.”
“Fayson’s Bog,” Eason started, “Center rock.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Find the key to fit the lock.”
“But we already possess the key!” Chimed Thurgood.
“Hush!” Admonished Percilla. She turned to Eason. “Please go on” “Draight to Sawn, et the and,” he explained, “Is translated to Straight to Dawn, at the end. The sun rises in the east. Therefore due east at the end of this sand spit is where the instructions beckon us to be.

“And the next line?” Percilla inquired, with mounting excitement.
“’Free threet hoe-tell’, is Three feet to Hell. Straight down from the easternmost point of this isle. And the last is simply a transposition, ‘sidding dand’ to ‘Digging Sand’.”

Eason plunged the spade into the surprisingly malleable soil, and after a few spades full, observed the minor depression. Just as he thought, the soil at the bottom contained but a mere wisp of dampness. “A layer of hardpan,”Eason explained, “at the outer perimeter of this bog, hence the level consistency of the water. And, as I suspect, a plume of said clay has surrounded this tiny island.”

He removed a few more spades of loose sand, confirmed his hypotheses, then handed the implement to his cousin. “Dig,” He instructed.
“Me?” Thurgood dropped the spade like a hot poker and took a step backward, aghast at the suggestion. “As a common laborer? Surely you do not imply . . . “

Eason’s glare, combined with Percilla’s impassiveness in the matter caused him to pause for a moment and collect his thoughts.
“I do admit that I am curious on what we might find, but really, cousin. Really.”
Eason remained firm. “Curious, yes. But above all else you are greedy. And the thought of any wealth associated with this venture will spur you on to uncommon tasks. Such as this.”
He thrust the spade toward Thurgood. “Dig,” he said flatly.

Thurgood snatched the implement from his cousin’s grasp, and flashing a sneer smile, proceeded. As he awkwardly flung spade after spade of soil toward the side of the ever deepening hole, he rationalized that he had indeed put his cousin through a rather rough gauntlet of biting verbiage a short time ago, and perhaps he should, abet temporarily, take his lumps. Though it was not his fault: for Eason had invited it in degraded himself by conversing with that foul cretin.

He continued to dig until the spade sang out in a ringing tone as it struck an object.

Eason quickly reached down and gathered up a brick shaped piece of stone.
“Lovely,” Thurgood opined, “All this effort for a white brick.”
“No,” Eason answered, brushing sand from the object, “It is no mere brick of stone, but marble. And by the weight of it I can tell that it is hollow.“
“It is beautiful!” Percilla exclaimed, then anxiously crowded around the pair to get a closer look. Eason ran his finger in a vertical fashion a quarter way down from the top, which exposed a distinct line in the stone. “See?” He exclaimed, “The top portion is a lid of some sort. Thurgood, grasp the bottom.”
Thurgood obliged, and within a few coordinated seconds they had succeeded in removing the top.

Inside was another scrap of parchment. Eason gingerly extracted the piece, and placing it with the first, observed that not only was it a perfect fit, but resembled a cut side view of a key mated with a lock.

However, that was not what he, like the pair beside him, gave primary attention to. It was the writing on the second piece of parchment, which was decidedly different than the first.

Very different indeed.

Yet another installment of "It was a Dark and Stormy Night" :)

Great tale!

Great tale!

Thanks! Please fell free to add to this story.

After dinner at the manor that evening, the small party adjorned to the study, the same where Perciolla, as a child, had overheard her parents argue with her enigmatic Uncle Edgar, about the plaguing secret which had reared out of the mist of the past.

It was a strange meal, not quite what Percilla was used to, at all. Normally, her coquettish playing-off of Thurgood versus Eason would have entertained her nicely. But Eason had transformed; he was one moment introspective about the mystery they had uncovered, and the next animated and speculating about what the parchment might hold. Thurgood wasn't much changed. Spiteful and sarcastic, he was much the same.

None of them had examined the parchment or the box closely in the light of day, or out on the island where Eason had so swiftly divined the meaning of the clues. But now, fed and watered, and back in familiar surroundings, the three spoke in hushed tones as they unrolled the scroll in the study.

"It appears to be, well, old", Thurgood observed. "But none the worse for being buried out in the bog for God knows how long."

"The box had a good seal," Eason said, "and nothing spoiled the contents. Marble, as we know, lasts for ages. But the parchment looks as if it was already aged when it was buried. An antique, surely."

"But why go to such lengths to conceal it?" Percilla wondered. "Who did it, and why?"

"Your uncle seemed to have had knowledge of it, and waited until now to claim it," Eason said.

"Gambling debts, probably", Thurgood blurted out.

"Hardly", Eason said. "Think about it: if Edgar had mounting debt, why why appear now, when he could have used the secrets to redeem his fortune earlier?"

"But, who says it's treasure, or money? We don't even know what it is", Percilla said. "Look at it again!"

Closer examination revealed the paper was old, but fine mill, something expensive. The writing all over both sides was in old ink, which at one time might have been red. A strange design adorned the base of the reverse, lwhich to Percilla, looked...

"Wait one moment", she said, as she moved to the hearth to recover the locket which lay upon the mantle. "Yes! I did see this before! Look, there it is again!" And the device in the locket's lid, when set to one side, matched the mark to perfection.

"It's a coat of arms", Thurgood said, "But not one from England, surely! Look, here's the cross of St. George, but what is that?!?"

"It looks like a snake?" Percilla wondered.

"Not a snake, a worm - a dragon!" Eason saw.

"A dragon and St. George - like the old myth of St. George, evidently," said Percilla. "But there IS no Order of St. George in England, I don't understand."

"Well, if it's not an English order of knighthood," Thurgood thought, "then there must be some other country with such an order. I wonder if there's a reward..."

Thoughts of ancient orders, castles and knights flew through their minds as the three bent closer to examine the parchment they had rescued from the bog. Percilla was reminded of Uncle Edgar's last words:

"Are you, Cilla, as adept at solving puzzles as you are at creating them?”

The writing, in faded red ink, wound across both sides of the paper like the coiled dragon figure on the coat of arms of the locket. The paper itself showed little effects of the burial in the bog, but the ink itself had been smeared.

"It isn't in English, or French, not even German. I recognize the others from school", Eason said.

"Not Spanish," said Thurgood, "nor Italian. What, Percilla, dear, do you make of this?"

Percilla, in fairness, didn't want to look at it. Because she DID recognize it. And the puzzle began forming in her mind, just as Edgar has said.

I know what it is, Percilla thought wildly, it's what Uncle Edgar told Mommy and Papa about, here, in this room, and what he wanted to tell me, too, oh why did Uncle Edgar have to die like that, before telling me the truth...

But, the two men had divined the look in Percilla's eyes. "Percilla, dearest, whatever's wrong?" Thurgood minced. "Why that face?"

"It's because she knows," Eason said, "am I not right? Percilla, do you recognize this language? Maybe even the crest? What can you tell us?"

"If I told you," came Percilla's choked voice, "you'd never speak to me again. Either of you, yes, even you, Thurgood," she said to Thurgood's fallen face, "because you especially would think me as fallen from station."

"Oh, nonsense, Percilla, dearest," Thurgood said emphatically, "nothing could ever convince me you were anything but the sweet noblesse you are!"

"How could you think we would hold you to that, Percilla!" Eason said. "Nothing you say will cause me to think less of you, of that, you must be certain. Now do, go, tell us what you know."

Percilla was silent, turning her back to both of the men as she nervously paced the floor. After a minute of quiet, she turned slowly.

"I know the language on that paper. Mommy used it often, because it was home to her. But you won't like it.

"The language? It's Romany. The tongue of the Gypsies. And I am not high-born English - I am half-Romany!"

bttt - marking my spot

Eason, and even Thurgood, were stunned to silence at Percilla's revelation of her heritage. The Gypsies were despised over most of civilized Europe as a people of thieves and vagabonds, knowing no borders, no home, and no code, so it seemed. But Percilla knew a different version...

Eason was first to find voice. "Romany! Romany, you?!? But your mother, Chelsea Westerfield, of the Hempstead Westerfields -"

"- was taken in by the Westerfields, as a heathen orphan, by Lord Westerfield, and raised in an English manor," Percilla finished. "And her name wasn't Chelsea at birth, it was Francesca, Francesca Tzibiu. Haven't you divined now, where my features come from?"

"Um, well, you were always so, well..." Thurgood tried to interject, but trailed off at Eason's glare.

"Different? Yes, Thurgood, not the milquetoast English creamy complexion, at all," Percilla said with rising anger, "but a mixed breed of proper England and the Romany, and I know both cultures equally."

"Then, Percilla," Thurgood blurted, "you can read the writing?"

"Yes, of COURSE! The scroll!" Eason almost shouted, his excitment returning. "Thurgood, clever man, has reminded us. Percilla, please, solve this mystery for us!"

Percilla felt as a cornered cat must feel, being trapped into revealing the knowledge contained therein. But also, like the proverbial cat, her curiosity rose once more. Uncle Edgar was dead. Both her parents were dead. All those who might know the tale of her past, and the meaning of the rumors, were gone. But here, in her grasp, was a key. And what was it, that Edgar told her?

"Not everything is obvious... what is a key, but a device to open a lock, and it matches the lock itself, and not your preconcieved views. Your first lesson of many, darling niece!"

Slowly, Percilla crossed back to the table, turned the document over, and stared at it in silence, trying to recall scraps of learning from years gone by, conversations with her mother, or the occasional visitor in the night, who left before the dawn, and whom Mother always allowed to lodge in the house.

"It's hard to read," Percilla said finally, "I don't recall clearly all of the Rom language. Mommy taught me to speak it, better than read it - most Romany lore is oral tradition anyway, passed down through the generations. To set it down on paper, is the mark of something momentous that must be recorded, like a contract, or a treaty."

"But, Percilla, don't keep us in such suspense!" Thurgood said. "what does the bloody thing say??"

Looks like your kind of story starter, Darks.

And here is what Percilla, in a tremulous voice that trembled at first, then grew in strength, read from the document out of the bog:

"I am Dmitri, son of Stefan of the Nagesti. I am telling these words to my good friend and grandfather of our clan, Zsigismund Nagy, who has taught me to write, but he being the master still, shall put these, my words, to paper, so that those who follow us shall remember, though we are gone from God's beautiful world.

"In the year of the Church of Rome, it is called eighteen hundred and eighty-three. Queen Victoria the German sits upon the throne of England, long these many years. The Hapsburgs still rule in Hungary, as do the Romanovs in Mother Russia. But in our home, the faraway land beyond the forest, the old noble lines fade into the mountains. But the clans remember.

"The clans remember the oaths of old days, taken by our ancestors, binding all of our line to their fulfillment, such is the nature of the spoken word. Our fathers before our fathers told us this, and we know it is true. The story of The Order of The Dragon must not be forgotten, and shall not by the Romany, their people..."

"The Order of the Dragon! That explains the crest at last!" Thurgood exclaimed. "But, I've not heard of such an order until now, and I thought in university, I knew them all..."

"Quiet, Thurgood, let her continue," Eason said, hanging on Percilla's every word with widening eyes. And Percilla went on:

"It is in this year, that the passing of the last true-lined member of The Order of the Dragon has come at last. The great lord, Mircea Szilagy, Baron of Sibiu', lies with his fathers. But not with him does the blood end. For among the Romany, we remember, that the good Baron, a man of honor, had one mistress only in his life, and that faithful woman bore him a daughter, the fair Elizabet'a, who has been raised among us, and shall be taught her true bloodline when the time comes.

"This document shall serve as the key, to unlock the true blood of Elizabet'a Szilagy, when it is time for the blood to awaken once again, and the Order be restored to its rightful place in the land beyond the forest."

Bttt

Looking it over now.

It was a dark and stormy night when the boy wonder finalized his plans for the takeover of power.The incessant beating of the torrid rain on the thatched roof of Rove's small cabin. The architect continued to scrawl his Machiavellian strategy in the dingy room, lit only by the ceaseless flashing of lightning.

He grinned that sinister boyish grin as he perfected his evil craft. How could he not be pleased at the prearranged betrothal of the ultra-liberal northern senator with the newly departed Republican senator's widow? Who could foresee that perfect of all patient chess moves?

As the vicious storm continued into the night, was it the wind or the boy wonder who howled in defiance? The perfect Rovian Storm was born of such...

I was just trying my hand at divining the intent of a troll poster.
The results of this feat are seen here:
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-chat/1356938/posts?page=170#170