Hettie's head bumped again. Spiky vines broke off in her hair. She tried to straighten, stumbled, fell forward, then snagged against a new patch of roots sticking down—a musty murk pressing upon her. "That's just how it happens." She yearned for her cottage, or what she dimly remembered from—then. What was the name of my village again?

"Assaakk—" A sigh rattled out. "All the legal judgements through which I've presided—what are those worth?" These bog-wah now own me. "It is my fault."

Hettie Maggate had not been her real name. She had been Henrietta Truthscot when she had been small. But since then, she'd become Magistrate Truthscot—seventeen long years on the job in the hamlet of Wandor.

—Or Hettie Maggate, for short, to her tiny village-patch hecklers. Humph. She smiled a weak, crooked smile.

The changing of her name had started when one child, called Halle, had noticed—through the low cottage porthole—the serious magistrate actually laughed! She could be nice!

After a time, and another few hints, the youngest suggested that Hettie Maggate might have a good side to her—beyond the deciding of rules. The child was determined from then ever after, to prove to the others that this could be true. Hettie Maggate did not seem really so bad, but who was to tell for sure? Could the Magistrate in town be not quite so fierce as their parents had warned them?

"Hey, that's Hettie Maggate!" the neighbourhood children would tease, when she came from her cottage and tromped to the town.

And Hettie Maggate secretly liked it. She thought that the name made her seem a little formidable—a useful thing on its own. The children found excuses to test all her limits, but never dared to take it too far. So, Hettie never let on that their curious rumours could be a fact.

The children would heckle and she would just glare—without returning their gaze—feeling sure none could truly be scared by her looks. She'd never put any real fear into them. She revelled in making faces, and keeping things in the village in line.

Hettie now attempted to pace on soft segments of earth between all the roots inside the cavern, but the mud only squelched and her feet barely fit. "Harrak!"

Again, she hit her head on the dangling ceiling of earth, forced to remember. She steadied. It hurts, if I stand. She bent over—more crablike, consumed by the ooze through her toes, absorbing her view—dark trampled dirt making the floor—in the Untag's 'tulug', referred to as home.

Overnight, her body had begun slipping away. Hettie Maggate was now too lost to be found. She lived in the grotto—cold muck under roots, just as her kidnappers wished her—confined to her hole.

"That simple. I just didn't listen—" She droned on in a muttering voice. Sound leaked from her lips, the same way that the clay sucked and slipped through her toes. She struggled to pace.

All towns had secrets, but this one about Hettie belonged to the kids of Wandor alone, or at least, so they hoped that it did. They all knew Hettie could be their unspoken blessing.

Throughout many sums, it had become sort of a tradeoff. Hettie could joke underneath her stern and gruff ways—as long as she kept up the pretence with the adult—that she was in all ways the stern and gruff law on their patch of the lands. As far as the parents knew, when push came to shove it was going to be the Magistrate's word, and not the wishes of children, in truths sorted out.

But the children knew better.

As each child discovered, if you were ever really, deeply in trouble, Hettie might frown and she'd lecture, but in the end of the day, she would be the one to solve any troubles before they got started—and the town became involved in your public 'finger-pointing' review.

Hettie might look up from her work, only briefly, to see if you would be telling the truth, not that that mattered. She just seemed to know. Then she would glare and write down her ideas for your 'punishment' later, or so it would seem, and without even a word, but sometimes a grunt, she would simply hand off a note to her Aid and keep working.

Miraculously, somehow, the note would then materialize back at your home—long before you had the nerve to go in. But, instead of punishing you, your parents had suddenly altered—it seemed as if overnight. They were no longer prone to be angry or worried.

The note had arrived and thus it appeared that the words might have spoken much better of you (and of your ills) than you would have claimed in even your most hopeful attempt at defence.

It seemed a complete stroke of luck, or perhaps even magic, your parents—although usually at least quite mistaken—felt oddly commended for raising a child who had handled so well such a difficult trial; and, as such, said particular child might just be 'let off' with some encouragement only, on this one unfortunate, but confusing occasion for which the parents were now suddenly proud.

Hettie could see things from every perspective. And that made Hettie somehow—special. She could be an ally and, quite often—maybe even a friend.

So, that worked wonderfully well, as long as each child remembered to play along properly; the kids were forced to keep up their ruse.

And if anyone ever did anything wrong, at points in their future, somehow Hettie would 'see'; and they'd know they couldn't step out of line, or else in the very same way, they'd be caught onto early.

Hettie was smiling again at her memories.

She might have to find a new place to live eventually, but until today's children grew up, she had a way of maintaining the place in pretty good order. It was her skill.

Hettie missed every bit of the teasing. Above all, she knew that she had—she corrected herself—that she had had—a good reputation: impartial and fair.

On Handing Day, everything about Hettie's life had seemed to be marvellous—before the moment she'd taken a break. Avoiding busy crowds and her next scheduled talk in the town in only an hour, she'd buried all thoughts of her duties and gone for a walk on the path in the woods, to enjoy her small lunch.

And from that walk, she'd never come back.

Now, Hettie groaned. "—I don't really have time for a walk in the woods—surely I don't!' Her thoughts were mixed up. "Oh, how I miss you—! Ug—bog stench. It aches and it's cold—"

"Can't walk, can't stand upright." Oh, I am still trapped! She bent over and focused. "Just think hard, Hettie, and you'll keep it together!"

These were her only 'sanity times' here in the marsh now, and this was her chance to remember—away from the Bogh of the day (which was their night) sequestered away in the her 'room', in the dark—her own hole in the squalor, imprisoned by the family called Untag.

She went back to recalling all that she could. "My 'knowing' indeed had told me not to go in, but—apparently, I will conceivably die here."

Surely this was no attitude, but could it be helped? What was going to happen to her?

Grief wasn't Hettie's style, but it seemed a necessary part of the only good that remained—a process through morbid long hours alone.

"And I have time to grieve now. I have time—forever!"

And so Hettie remembered.

Who will believe me when I am not sane? What must I endure to escape the clutches of darkness, at last? I yearn to have tea with Kreelah!

But such days hadn't come.

≈≈≈/

I hope this re-telling is at least as clear as the mud that it should be, to this point in the story. Please let me know if there is the slightest confusion? Thank you so much for your support and being here reading!