The Hagge of the Orm

 

This photograph of a view across the narrowest share of the Vast, was taken at dawn this morning by Kate Tomlinson, a true daughter of Ormland…

‘If y’n be from beyond, t’s prob’ly impossible for y’n to imagine that to us Ormlanders it is an incontestable fact that The Hagge is a denizen of this treacherous expanse of water…’ 

So railed Autumnous Sourmire, an early 18th Century commercial-baron of Rook Town,  at an incredulous fly from beyond… who had somewhat foolishly scoffed at the notion that such a thing as ‘Sybiltane, The Hagge of the Orm’ could possibly exist…

But Jonah Jones, destined to become the psychic goalie of Rookwood Town F.C. not only knows that the risen Hagge is the physical embodiment of the magical and constant force flowing through Ormland… he sees her in his dreams, such as on the night she came to the aid of The Rooks in their bleakest, most beleaguered hour…

‘When told, Jonah humphed and his gaunt face stretched with a mirthless grin; at first he wouldn’t say how he knew but he was adamant that the grass and soil of Orm Park were clean… indeed, more than clean, positively reinvigorated…

When pressed he’d only say that the night the flood had receded for the second time he’d dreamt of The Hagge, risen and composed of the siltsome mire-sludge and manifold sunken junks of the Orm, the Vast and Waelhem Marsh… and that he’d felt her dismay and compassion… and that from the distance of his dream he’d seen her scour their holy land clean…’

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Joss ‘Pepper In His Boots’ Reeves

‘The ball squirted out from between two fully committed challengers and came rolling towards Cyril. The tall sandy haired jacko with ‘pepper in his boots’, as it used to be called, came running towards him to retrieve it. Cyril felt suddenly very conspicuous and awkward not knowing how to react if the scruff was rude or aggressive about his watching them. 

He needn’t have worried; the scruff smiled a genuinely cheery smile at him and said, “Hello, Mr Cunningham!” before scooping the ball round with his left foot and hoofing it unerringly back to his mates and chasing after it.

“Hel..ugh..oh”, Cyril stammered by way of reply. He was suddenly gripped by a very powerful sense of recognition of someone whom five seconds previously he’d have sworn he had never set eyes on before. Slightly bewildered Cyril found himself thinking, ‘Yes, yes, I… I’ve definitely encountered that scruffish man-jack afore… but where?’ Cyril peered down the long gloomy galleries of his memory but saw no one even vaguely like him…’

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