Rade Hazz Dumfugs

Hewler knew something was wrong.

Thus, like all that find themselves faced with a sudden conundrum of this type he analysed the general surroundings for some clue as to the origin of his discomfort. He was of that happy class in whom sudden psychic certainties of events or circumstances being amiss are far from common. For this reason he was inclined to indulge the sensation rather then to condemn it as the ill-timed sparking of a generally disused synapse.

Hewlers looks were those of a farmer; his sturdy flesh inured to trials of foul weather or ill fortune alike. He was seated in the doorway of the main house, looking out across a pale scrub of grass penned inside the enclosure wall and idly plaiting his fulsome red hair into twin ponytails. His face was grim in that way that those distracted upon some complex tasks often will become serious but when he thought his toil complete his expression remained. He swung the finished locks back and they assumed their accustomed positions just behind his ears. They bounced upon the shoulders of his scruffy leather waistcoat, a garment beneath which he wore no shirt due to the current heat of the summer. Coiffure now tamed he now oiled his jaw with libation from a tiny jug and then, utilising a sharp little sickle, began to scrape at what stubble had peppered his chin during the night. While engaged upon this task, and the rasp of the blade echoing loud inside his head, Hewler once more endured a thrill of trepidation.

Something was wrong.

All that could be made out from his current vantage was the forest beyond the wall and the sky above. The trees were dark verticals beneath the generous summer canopy of gently crackling leaves; these lit to green fire by the heavy sunlight. The vault of heaven was scored by a few horse tail wisps of diaphanous white, like scuffs upon blue glass. Satisfied by his examination of slight evidences that the scene before him could not be the origin of his unease, Hewler glanced over his shoulder into the long windowless room behind. The turf walls of this place conferred a loamy odour to the cool air coupled with the familiar smell of smoke from the peat fire.

There sat Nerrapel, working in the shadow of her great rack of a loom, hunched in concentration over a knotted strand of colour and oblivious to her mates concentration upon her. Now, daily meetings with his wife over the last seven years had made of the woman an object so familiar as to be invisible, one that only a deliberate application of the faculties could render novel. For this reason he examined her closely, for any sign that she might be the instigator of his malaise. For something was surely wrong somewhere, a Farmer’s instincts in this regard are never mistaken.

Nerrapel was wearing her brown work dress, a roughly stitched garment under which she wore no shirt due to the excessive clemency of the past week. Thus her strong brown shoulders were left naked, the muscles moving slightly as she unknotted the rogue thread. Her blonde hair was fastened behind her head in a rough ligature from which dangled a number of golden strands that curled upon her nape glittering in the light from the cooking fire. Her legs were spread either side of the loom, an action that had drawn up her skirt, revealing shapely tanned knees. Being that he was about business of a contemplative and yet urgent kind, Hewler put aside certain sexual speculations he was entertaining and moved his attention to the peat cook fire.