Nanny Ludlam's Cave

Once more on the path, the trio turned their backs to the mere and jauntily resumed their journey.   The trail was easy and soon they came to a small stream.   It seemed to emanate from a dark hole behind a curtain of ivy in the steep hillside.   There was also the feint, but distinct smell of something cooking.

“Shall we explore?” exclaimed Potkin.

Josie was about to reply that it would be a shame not to investigate, when they noticed General Gordon had been distracted.   He was watching a figure that approached them from further up the path.   An elegant lady dressed in twin-set, tweeds, green wellingtons and a headscarf was striding towards him, a thumb stick in her right hand.

“There you are Gordon.   Come here at once.   It’s way past your teatime.   And leave those dreadful animals alone.   They probably have fleas.”
“Sorry,” said the terrier to Potkin and Josie, “I think I have to go.”
Before they could reply he gave a little bark and hurled himself towards her, stub tail wagging wildly.   The lady bent down and scooped him up.   Without looking at the two cats she turned and marched back along the path.

“Rascal,” they heard her say.

Josie watched them go and both cats waved.

“I’ll miss him.”

“Yeh, yeh.”   Potkin was following the stream, and about to disappear behind the screen of foliage.   Josie scampered to catch up with him.   Beyond the greenery the entrance of the cave was bricked in except for a pointed archway.   They entered cautiously and both stopped while they got used to the gloom.   Eventually they could make out a cavernous interior.   The stream carved a deep channel across the packed earth floor, emerging from a low cavity in the far wall and passing out via the doorway.   To their right a staircase, cut out of the natural rock, gave access to an upper level.   A window, somewhere up there, let in enough light to pick out the cobwebs that festooned the cavern roof.   Much of the main room was taken up with a large upright loom, warps tensioned by clay weights.   On it hung an unfinished and intricately woven textile.   Countless threads, each of singular colour and texture intertwined in an endless dance.   Silver threads glinted and jewel-like beads flashed.   In the flickering light of an oil lamp the composition seemed constantly on the move.

On a brick hearth, built in the centre of the room, a smouldering turf fire blackened the ceiling and heated a massive iron pot.

“Who’s down there?”   The question came from the balcony above.   “Don’t move. I’m coming down.”

A menacing shadow crawled inexorably across the wall.   A dark shape began to materialise at the head of the stairs, black as a hole in space-time.   Green eyes flashed.   Josie quickly rehearsed a number of responses to the situation and their probable outcomes, in his head.   Nothing came out well.   Potkin wasn’t moving.   Why didn’t Potkin do something decisive?   Josie was still trying to choose between flight and total surrender when the originator of the commands appeared on the stairs.   It was a small, barrel shaped and very black cat.   She came down to ground level and sauntered over to the hearth.
Potkin shook his head and scratched an ear with his back foot.   He considered doing something really cool for effect, but nothing came to mind.
“You have an interesting place here.   Are you perhaps a little bohemian?”   Josie looked puzzled and Potkin was not sure what he meant, but he had heard the word 'bohemian' somewhere and it sounded impressive.
The diminutive black cat explained that she had been a witch in a past life.
“Nanny Ludlam was my name.   All black cats have been witches.”
“I thought they burnt witches,.” said Josie.
”No,” Nanny Ludlam replied “That’s heretics.”   Josie had had hair ticks himself and felt burning was too good for them, but they were notoriously hard to catch.
Nanny Ludlam was stirring at the cauldron of steaming goo, which she promised they could try soon.   It would warm them up.
“What brings you to my cave?” she asked.
“Our journey,” replied Josie “We are trying to discover the purpose of our journey.”
“It’s a kind of adventure really,” added Potkin.
“Have you learned things and met new people?”
“And seen such sights!” said Josie enthusiastically.
“Well there you are,” said the black cat, “Often the purpose of a journey is the journey itself.
“Now come and have some of this potion - er - soup.   Then you can lie down next to the fire and rest.” The slightly sticky fluid was served in wooden bowls.   It was hot and a steamy greenish vapour curled above the surface.   Its warmth spread through them.   Their noses tingled and tails quivered.   As Potkin and Josie curled up on the earth floor the fire and furniture, witch and cauldron shimmered and floated away; the rosy, glowing walls of the cave seemed to close in on them and the tapestry...
"It's the web of weird!"
...folded around them.

"Where's Josiepose?" It was Joy's voice.
As Josie woke he felt a familiar rug beneath him, in front of the familiar black-iron fireplace. On the familiar sofa Potkin lay on his back snoring. In the kitchen beyond the cosy dining room, Joy and Richard were noisily doing whatever it is that people do in the kitchens of Edwardian cottages in such a civilised part of England.