The magick of the Sive and Sheeres

The Sheers are stuck in a Sieve, and two maydens hold up ye sieve with the top of their fingers by the handle of the shiers: then say, By St Peter & St Paule such a one hath stoln (such a thing), the others say, By St Peter & St Paul He hath not stoln it. After many such Adjurations, the Sieve will turne at ye name of ye Thiefe.

From Cunning Folk and Wizards In Early Modern England, University of Warwick Dissertation (September 2010), quoting John Aubrey, Remains of Gentilisme and Judaisme (London, 1881), p. 25.

In order to establish the necessary conditions for the final conquest of England I intend to intensify air and sea warfare against the English homeland. I therefore order as follows :

1. The German Air Force is to overpower the English Air Force with all the forces at its command, in the shortest possible time. The attacks are to be directed primarily against flying units, their ground installations, and their supply organisations, but also against the aircraft industry, including that manufacturing antiaircraft equipment.

2. After achieving temporary or local air superiority the air war is to be continued against ports, in particular against stores of food, and also against stores of provisions in the interior of the country.

Excerpt of Directive No. 17, For the conduct of air and sea warfare against England, signed by Adolf Hitler 1 August 1940

A huge thanks to Freudiancascade for the sensitivity read for George. Originally posted for the 2018 Narnia Fic Exchange on AO3. As posting Booze Cruise didn't result in what I'd expected, I thought I'd try this one next.

3-4 September 1940

Polly was awake before the alarm went off and was exhausted before she even tried getting out of bed. She hit the bell with enough force to silence the blasted thing but unfortunately not enough to break it for good. It felt like they had only just crawled back into bed from the cellar shelter. In the next bed, so close to hers, they were really just one, George muttered an oath and Gwydion grumbled.

There wouldn't be any delay in getting dressed. With the raids, they'd slept in their day clothes. The aircraft guns had been going off all night and the bombs the Luftwaffe was dropping over the southeast of England had rattled the windows behind the blackout shades and shaken spiders from the overhead beams of the cellar.

She wondered if the local airfield and any of the RAF pilots she'd seen yesterday had survived the night. Was anything left of Biggin Hill?

At least she wasn't in London, spending night after night in the Underground and the City on fire above her. Though, when the Nazis came, if she told herself sternly, they would come from Calais, barely 20 miles away, and surely land along the very same coastline she was currently killing vermin in.

Good thing she had rat poison and a shovel.

She hoisted her legs out of the bed and shoved her stockinged feet into her boots. The lumps in the next bed were making more noise but there still wasn't much movement. Squeezing around the beds and their bags and equipment, inching along the wall, she made it to the window and cautiously lifted a corner of the blackout shade to peer out. No grey uniforms and bucket helmets, no swastikas and, she listened closely, no sounds of guns or hobnailed boots goose-stepping on the country lanes of Kent.

"No invasion," she announced to Gwydion and George.

"We'll just go back to bed then," George said under the covers.

"You've not even left it yet," Polly retorted. She straightened her breeches, tucked her jumper in and belted up. She always felt a twinge of guilt for not putting on the neck tie; the Women's Land Army manual was very strict about appearances. George always wore the tie.

Polly whistled and Gwydion's shaggy head shot up from under the covers. "Let's both go find a bathroom and breakfast."

Gwydion considered his options and, making the expected decision for a dog, slid out of the bed and shook himself, sending hair and bits of spittle to settle all over the room.

When they were killing rats in the villages and farms around Lydd, she and George had a private billet above Tilbeys Store, courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Tilbey. She, George and Gwydion slept in a space that was more closet than room, but the flat attached to the store had a real bath and running water. Polly let Gwydion out the back door and enjoyed a proper, bracing, wash up and bound her hair up in a scarf for the day, also not technically Land Girl-regulation.

By the time she was done, George was up but very disheveled, with her short cropped hair sticking up every which way, tie hanging around her neck, her shirt unbuttoned and the swathe of linen in her arms.

"Do you want any help this morning?"

George's dressing was a bit complicated even though they wore the same thing every day. She was often out of sorts in the morning and sometimes needed help to get her breasts bound in a way that made her feel comfortable in the blouses provided with the WLA uniform.

"Tea." George grunted.

Anticipating their need, there was already tea, toast, plum jam, and slices of local cheese in the kitchen. "Thank you, Mrs. Tilbey!" Polly called. She could hear the Tilbeys on the other side of the curtain that separated the kitchen from their store.

"You're welcome, Polly!" From the sounds, Mrs. T was sweeping the floor and, from the clinks, Mr. T was restocking bottles.

Gwydion already had his nose in bowl of scraps and mince on the floor. "Do I want to know how you let yourself in?" Gwydion raised his head with an expression that clearly said "no."

Gwydion was an uncanny. He was a shaggy black and white shepherd, with mismatched eyes and utterly independent of George. He needed no instructions or commands, could find and remember where every rat hole was and never even sniffed the bait. Polly was certain that if George had said, "We will meet you at the Bricklayer's Pub on Dover Street in Folkestone at 4 o'clock," Gwydion would be waiting for them on the stoop, or, even more likely, have already gone in and ordered them each a glass of beer. Polly had wondered if he might have somehow jumped out of the Narnia pool in the Wood Between the Worlds and found himself here. When George had gone into a barn in Rye to plug up a rat hole, Polly had crouched down, eye to eye with Gwydion and asked politely if he was from Narnia.

He licked her cheek but said nothing at all.

Just as Polly poured the tea, George appeared, neatly dressed to WLA regulation.

"Always have to make me look bad," Polly told her, handing her a cup.

"That's on you, Polls," George replied.

"True that." Polly glanced at the morning paper on the kitchen table. The East End had been badly hit again. If the docklands areas were destroyed where could the ships come in that were carrying what they depended upon to survive? Would the Land Girls have to grow enough to feed the entire country? It made their work killing the vermin that ate England's food all the more important.

"And that's the news that made it passed the censors," George said, nodding at the headline. "I think it's worse than that."

"Given all the downed planes we've seen in Kent, yes." Polly forced herself to eat the rest of her toast though her appetite had fled. It was so bad, local folks had been able to give them directions based upon the aircraft littering the countryside – just turn left at the Dornier and go another mile. The Walker farm will be on your right.

"And there've been more crashed Hurricanes and Spitfires than Messerschmitts and Junkers"

All over Kent, they had seen children collecting and trading shrapnel and bomb fragments. Everyone was speaking in worried whispers about spies. At a dairy two days ago, the farmer had warned them to watch out for nuns who were hiding guns in their habits. Even in their Land Girl uniforms, people would quiz them on their doings and make sure they really were killing rats rather than poisoning wells or laying charges to blow up farms. Having Gwydion helped; people assumed such an obviously English sheepdog could not possibly be a Nazi.

Gwydion was no Nazi. Polly just didn't think he was really a sheepdog even if he couldn't, or wouldn't, answer her polite questions.

"Mrs. T already made us some sandwiches so we can get started." They would be going back to the farms, granaries and dairies to clean up where they'd laid traps two days ago and then on to the places where they were just setting bait so the rats got used to eating it before they laid out poison. It was dirty work. Polly nodded toward the neatly tied up brown parcels on the shelf next to the hob. "Mrs. T has our laundry done, so we have clean clothes for tomorrow."

The bell on the store's front door tinkled.

"Good morning! What can we do you for you, sir?" Mr. T asked.

Gwydion rose from his crouch and growled. George immediately set her tea cup down on the table and pushed through the curtain into the store. Polly didn't know what was wrong but if George and Gwydion were worried, she should be, too.

The man who had come into the store was thin and hollow-cheeked. He looked like he'd been sleeping in a hedgerow.

Through the shop window, Polly could see Mrs. Cole, who ran the Rising Sun pub across from the store, rush out, slam the door behind her, cast a worried look in their direction, and hurry away down the street.

Mrs. T saw Mrs. Cole's rush, too, and was frowning. Something seemed off.

The man looked about the shop, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, took a deep breath and said, "I would like some cigarettes." He sounded foreign. Polly thought it was an American accent. But he didn't look like the Americans she'd seen during her travels to New York.

"Mrs. Cole across the street sent you here?" Mrs. T asked.

The man nodded and gestured at the placard in the pub's window. "I asked for cider champagne and cigarettes. She told me to come here."

"Rising Son's not sold that in years, son. And you'll have to wait for a pint until Mrs. Cole can serve it." Mr. T went to the shelf with the cigarettes. "Will Players do for you?"

Again, a long pause. "Those are cigarettes?"

He doesn't know what Players are?

"Yes," Mr. T drawled slowly and put the pack on the shop counter. "That'll be 8P."

"How did you come to be here?" George asked, being more pointed than Polly would. George could be intimidating and looked to outweigh the man by a good three stone.

"Boat."

Polly glanced at Mrs. T and they were both obviously wondering the same things. She supposed an American wouldn't know that you couldn't get a pint of cider at 9 o'clock in the morning but why would anyone be crossing the Channel now with hunting U-boats and German ships massing on the French coast?

The man was fumbling with the coins from his pockets and finally held out his hands with in an expressive, helpless gesture. Mrs. T stepped in to help him. "That one," she said, pointing at the shilling in his palm. "You will get 4 pence back."

"Thank you. Do you know where I might get a bath?"

Mr. Tilbey looked bewildered. "I suppose at one of the hotels, up towards Dover or south to Folkestone. You can get a room."

The man nodded, stuffed his money and Players in his pockets and went back out the door.

Snarling, Gwydion stalked to the store window and warily watched the man wandering down the street.

"Something's not right about him," Mrs. T hissed.

"We should summon someone," George said. "Polly and I can go to the base."

"I think that's where Mrs. Cole was going," Mr. T said. He pointed. "And she's already coming back. With an RAF officer."

The Rising Sun was bedlam by the time Polly and George arrived for supper after spending all day driving through southeast Kent killing vermin. Polly had used her spade more times than she could count to whack rats to death and they both had to wash their boots before they were fit for any company besides themselves and Gwydion.

They were apparently the last people within 10 miles to learn what had happened. The man in Tilbeys Store that morning was far more than confused and in need of a bath. Through her quick wits and thinking, Mrs. Cole had caught a Nazi spy.

Polly and George were able to squeeze in with Mr. and Mrs. T so they could hear the whole story.

Mrs. Cole was going hoarse from the retellings. "I knew something was off. He didn't know what a tanner was," she told the rapt audience. "And imagine! Thinking you could buy a pint at nine o'clock in the morning!"

"He talked funny too," Mr. T said.

"And Gwydion didn't like him," Mrs. T added, tossing a chip into the dog's waiting jaws.

There were many toasts to Mrs. Cole's patriotism and quick action. While it was nice to strike this blow against a Nazi invasion and was terrific for morale, to Polly it seemed to be a very, very small victory when compared to the dire situation in the countryside, the planes overhead and explosions in the distance. The danger was everywhere. They'd helped three separate farmers hitch up horses to pull airplane debris out of their fields. The wandering, exhausted RAF pilot they found had managed to walk away from the crash. He'd said it was the third time he'd been shot down. After they dropped him off at a local airfield (that was still operating and not a bombed-out crater), she and George had concluded it wasn't lack of skill on the pilot's part, but the overwhelming odds of fighting the Luftwaffe.

As they were taking in the news and downing their hard-earned beers, George's interest suddenly sharpened.

"Excuse me." George got up and shouldered her way through the crowd toward a rough-looking old man who had managed to get a table in a corner. Polly sought the opinion of the expert still among them and looked down at Gwydion. "Well? Is he another spy?"

Gwydion scratched his ear and nosed about for more chips.

"No, that's Roger Jones," Mr. Tilbey said, tilting his head toward the table George was headed.

"He's a gamekeeper up on the Downs," Mrs. Tilbey added. "He left a box for George today at the flat."

It seemed George exchanged only a few words with Jones and then they solemnly shook hands.

It looked formal and deadly serious.

George pushed her way back to their table just as the Scotch eggs came.

"Everything alright?" Polly asked George in an undertone.

"Fine," George said blandly, taking a deep drink of her beer and wolfing down her egg in 3 bites. Gwydion was looking very alert and intently at George. At first Polly had assumed it was because he wanted part of George's egg but, in truth, he had a more questioning expression. George shrugged and jerked her head toward the pub's entrance. The shepherd got up from under the table to wait at the front door.

Something was obviously going on and both George and Gwydion were in on it. "You will tell me later what you're up to?" Polly asked in a low voice.

"What do you mean?"

Polly nodded toward Gwydion who darted outside the moment the door was ajar.

"He's more than a dog and you are more than a Land Girl," Polly said.

"And here I was thinking the same of you, Polls."

"Except I trust you enough to not deny it," Polly replied.

She wasn't going to hint about adventures in Narnia in a crowded pub. Polly knew she was odd. Digory was, too. And Digory had observed some years ago that oddity seemed to find them and follow them both about. It was the after-effect of Narnia and clung to them, even forty years later.

She just couldn't place the source of George's oddity. It was more than that she had a dog that wasn't a dog and how good she was at everything and how confident she seemed and how everyone in the countryside sought her advice. It wasn't even how mannish she was; Polly had known many women like George among the Suffragists. Some had been as good as married to other women; others just liked the freedoms that came from dressing and acting like men; some simply did not care.

It was something else that was very peculiar about George.

"Finish your beer, Polls. We've got a long day tomorrow."

Polly nearly falling over the wooden box Roger Jones had left for George in their shared closet forced the issue. There were ominous clanks and clinks coming from within that made George pale.

Polly sat on her bed and rubbed her stinging and scraped shins. "For that, you owe me an explanation, George."

George knelt and swiftly pulled out her multitool knife. "If anything broke…" She prised the lid off the box and let out a deep sigh. "Well, at least your bumbling…"

"Over your box that you neglected to warn me of."

"Won't blow up the flat."

Polly started and sat up straight to peer into the box. Nestled in straw, there were several black bottles labeled as "vinegar," "cordial," and "dog medicine." There was also a truncheon, 2 long knives in sheaths, batteries, a .455 Webley pistol, and packages of bullets.

"Those bottles are for making Molotov cocktails," George explained, packing the straw more firmly around them. "There's sulphuric acid in there."

Polly thought about it and came to the only possible conclusion. "So, you are a one-man army to repel a Nazi invasion force?"

"Not only one. Uncle Roger recruited me. We're called the Home Defence Scheme. It's part of a network the Secret Intelligence Service created. We're to blend in with the local population and disrupt, sabotage, or just slow down the enemy."

For when the Nazis land at Dover.

Polly wasn't surprised, but was a little disappointed. She thought that there was something more to George and Gwydion than secret saboteur. "Did you get orders tonight?"

George nodded and settled the lid carefully back on the box.

"Roger said that that the report based on information collected from the spy today is that there were four spies who came ashore along the coastline between Dungeness and Ramsgate. Mrs. Cole caught one. Anyone that can be spared from active defence is ordered to try and find the others."

"We're hunting a different sort of vermin tomorrow?"

"Yes," George replied. "I'm not to interfere with regular operations, of course. But catching any spies as quickly as possible, especially right now, is vital."

"And the whole of this coast is vulnerable," Polly said. "Is that why we've been working here? To keep you available for the defence of Kent?"

"I volunteered to be here, and you haven't seemed to mind being in the thick of it." George raised her head. "You haven't, have you? You were a mechanic on the Western Front, right?"

"Yes. I was there until the Armistice." It had been horrific and she'd die before letting England and her people suffer as they all had in France. But her contributions then had been in the motor pool keeping trucks and motorbikes running, not armed actions. Polly decided not to mention the arrests, property damage, and assaults as a Suffragette, which were undoubtedly more helpful to working as a saboteur. Wistfully, she asked, "I don't suppose you'd let me have the Webley?"

She'd not shot one in years and had not thought she would ever need to. Yet, here they were, 22 years later.

"That pistol's mine," George said emphatically. "Given your facility with the spade, if it comes to repelling Nazis at the coast, I'll let you have the truncheon and a knife."

If there had been an air raid siren, Polly slept through it. A good night's sleep, however, was not to be had. Her unrestful dreams had been filled with talking Animals and the Lion and then Gwydion barged into the closet well before dawn. He leaped over the explosive box and flew into George's bed.

"Damn it, Gwydion!" George muttered.

Polly sat up and switched on the light.

Gwydion eagerly dug at the bedcovers George was buried under until her tousled head appeared. Gwydion stood over her and peered intently into George's face. This was truly ridiculous. Did they think she was blind?

"What does he say?"

George gave her a sideways look. "He doesn't talk!"

"Well not to me, no." Polly yawned. "I find it odd that you will confess to me you are a saboteur for the intelligence service but not that you have a …"

Now both Gwydion and George were staring at her. "A what?" George finally prompted.

"A familiar?" Polly tried. Yes, that seemed to best fit. She repeated, "So what is he saying?"

George groaned. "Don't you dare gloat!" This was evidently directed to Gwydion. "If you were less clever you would be a better dog."

Gwydion growled and pawed irritably at the coverlet.

"Oh come now, George. He's been out all night and has obviously done something spectacular. We shouldn't be scolding him."

Gwydion jumped across the bed from George's to hers, and nuzzled her face.

"Fickle beast." George rubbed her eyes. "Another spy was caught this morning on the Dungeness Road. So the hunt is on for the other two."

"Thank you for your bravery and patriotism" Polly said, speaking directly to Gwydion.

He thwacked his tail, obviously a "you are welcome."

"You seem very accustomed to unusual dogs, Polls."

Polly cradled Gwydion's elegant snout in her palm, stared into his mismatched eyes, and leveled her accusation. "You told George I kept asking if you were a Talking Dog from Narnia, didn't you?"

Gwydion pulled away and dove under her bedcovers, evidently hiding from her reprimand.

"Coward," George said, then tested the word thoughtfully, "Narnia?"

Polly knew that, though her own adventures were very interesting, they had happened a long time ago and were of less import when there were spies to help apprehend, raiders to thwart, and apparently a magical Nazi-hunting familiar to help them. "A place I went to as a girl with my friend, Digory. There was a witch." Even now, forty years later, Jadis made her shudder. "The Trees and Animals talked."

Polly slid out of bed and began picking through her clothes. The not-laundered ones, she decided. Spies didn't deserve her clean uniform. Gwydion was pretending to snore.

George was still sitting in her bed, picking at the coverlets. "How did you get to Narnia?"

"It's a long story I'll tell you sometime when we're not trying to stop an invasion. The short answer is magic."

"Is Digory one of the cunning folk?"

Polly was confused by the terms. "He's very smart but I don't know about cunning. He's a Professor at Oxford."

"Sorry. Cunning folk is an old term we used in Wales. I meant magician. Did his magic take you to Narnia and back?"

"No, not Digory. His Uncle was a dabbler, and a very poor one. He used magic dust he purportedly acquired from a Mrs. Lefay."

"Morgan le Fay? Queen of the Fairies?"

"I suppose."

"So the Uncle wasn't gifted but still managed real magic? Not just a silly fraud?" Before Polly could answer, George went on. "Never mind. Of course it was real." A satisfied expression crossed her face. "Moment I saw you, I knew there was magic on you. It's quite distinctive and you get good at spotting it once you start looking."

"It does tend to follow both me and Digory about," Polly admitted.

"And you saw right through Gwydion's glamours."

"Are you magical, too? It's not just Gwydion?"

"Oh yes. As you've noticed, Gwydion is my familiar and he's shown me the way to Elfphame three times, now. The first time it was near my home in Wales. I chased Gwydion into a cave. I met the Queen of the Fairies herself." She paused. "Come to think, I wonder if the Queen of the Fairies is the same as your friend's Mrs. Lefay... No, I shouldn't think so," George concluded after a moment's thought. "Any dabbler coming before the Queen would be turned into a newt."

"That would have been very fitting for Uncle Andrew," Polly said. "How did you get your magic?"

"I learned it from my mother, who learned it from hers, and so on. In the 16th century I'd be a renowned cunning woman. Or, tried and murdered for practising black magicks, of course."

"It's certainly not black if it will help us catch spies."

Or stop an invasion.

George combed her fingers through her hair, making it stand up and giving her a very wild look.

"Polls, you're awfully sanguine about this."

Polly shrugged and shook out her breeches and contemplated her uniform. If they were going to help authorities apprehend Nazis, perhaps she should wear a tie today.

"I once rode a flying horse, George, and adventured in a land so full of magic, toffee fruit bloomed overnight from squashed candy and a half-sovereign and a half-crown grew into gold and silver trees."

Polly tossed George's linen swathe, shirt and breeches on to George's bed and then gathered her own things. "Time to get dressed. We have rats to catch."

It took her longer than usual because Polly decided to wear the tie and did it all wrong. George laughed at her but did also stand behind her and help her get it straight in the mirror.

George was humouring her by letting her strap on one of the knives from the box to her belt. But then George put the pistol in a shoulder holster that she wore under her Land Girl coat. Polly quite liked their collective dashing look.

And then, ruining the derring-do effect, George pulled a ragged sieve punctured by large holes and a pair of scissors out of her carpet bag. Polly was going to make a smart comment but Gwydion crawled out from under the covers and sat on the bed, looking very attentive.

George nodded at the dog. "Ready?"

Gwydion evidently was.

This was magic. Not Narnia magic and not the nonsense Uncle Andrew tried. This was cunning folk magic, as old as Britain herself.

"Polls, I don't suppose you're a maiden?"

Polly snorted.

"Me either. I think this should be fine, though. This is the Magick of the Sive and Sheeres. Cunning folk use it for finding lost and stolen things and identifying thieves."

George turned the sieve upside down and stuck the scissors through the bottom of it. "Now we both hold the sieve up by the scissor handles below. Got it?"

Polly took hold of one side and George held the other. She was forcibly reminded of having one hand in Digory's, and her other clutching a Ring. It was a long time ago but the pulsing pull-push tension was the same as before. Polly felt the hair rise on her arms and neck; the lamp in the room flickered.

"You'll repeat after me and name as many places along the coast that you can think of."

George intoned, "By Saint Peter and Saint Paul such a one hath stolen ashore at Dover, By Saint Peter and Saint Paul such a one hath not stolen ashore at Dover. By Saint Peter and Saint Paul such a one hath stolen ashore at Folkestone, By Saint Peter and Saint Paul such a one hath not stolen ashore at Folkestone."

She nodded, at her and Polly tried, "By Saint Peter and Saint Paul such a one hath stolen ashore at Greatstone, By Saint Peter and Saint Paul such a one hath not stolen ashore at Greatstone."

Polly was wondering what would happen, until it did. George said, "Dymchurch" and the sieve sparked, turned, and flew off the scissors.

Gwydion whigned.

"Dymchurch?" Polly wondered aloud.

George had closed her eyes. "I think I see it …" Gwydion jumped off the bed and shoved his nose into her side.

"Yes," George murmured. "There's an old fort. It has round walls."

Of course that would be it.

"It's the Dymchurch Grand Redoubt right on the sea," Polly said. "It was built during the Napoleonic Wars, to defend England."

"In the event of an attack launched from France across the Channel," George finished.

Gwydion barked, darted around them, leapt over the box, and bolted out the door.

"He's not driving, is he?"

Polly drove the truck, instead; George and Gwydion managed the navigation as they rattled north along the coastal road toward Dymchurch. The brooding presence of the vast German Army, barely 20 miles away, felt even more sinister that gray morning.

It was reassuring to see the sentries and patrols, though Polly wondered if they really could do anything. If they couldn't stop rowboats from landing spies on the coastal beaches, could they stop anything else? How many Nazis were already in England, spying and sending messages over the wireless across the Channel about their defences, the state of the airfields, and their exhausted pilots? She sternly reprimanded herself for such cynical thinking. That was why she, George, Gwydion, Mr. and Mrs. Tilbey, Mrs. Cole, and everyone was else, was still here. One way or another, they'd stop the buggers.

It was just beginning to lighten when they reached Dymchurch and encountered a checkpoint. Sergeant Brown from the Somerset Light Infantry pulled them over and demanded they show identification and state their business.

Their ID and WLA cards were fine but George also showed Sergeant Brown some document that made him much more interested and far less challenging.

"Not seen one of these before, Ma'am," Brown said, examining the paper closely and then shining his torch into the truck. Rather than growling, Gwydion perked his ears and leaned toward the good Sergeant to demand a pat on the head. "Don't suppose no Nazi spy would be bringing a good English dog with 'em."

"Boy, don't be a pest to the Sergeant." With a perfect bit of play-acting, George shoved Gwydion back as if he were any common sheepdog and took her paper from the attentive Sergeant. "We were in Lydd yesterday when they caught the spy at the Rising Sun. Based upon the interrogations, we believe that two others came ashore near here, possibly at the Redoubt."

Sergeant Brown whistled. "Smart thinking by that lady, Mrs. Cole. Thank you for the word, Ma'am. I'll pass the information about the Redoubt along to my platoon. We'll find 'em."

Gwydion whigned and tried to climb over George to get out the truck's window. Sergeant Brown took a surprised step back and laughed. "You want to help us catch some spies, boy?"

Gwydion's enthusiastic bark accepting the invitation could have shattered eardrums. George opened the door, Gwydion flew out, and bounded away, off the road, and toward the beach.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry! We can't go fetching your dog now."

"It's fine, Sergeant. Gwydion's good at finding things; maybe he'll find their boat. We're just going to go on toward the Redoubt. If we see anything suspicious, we'll alert someone from your platoon."

"The Battalion HQ is at a villa on the ocean side, just north of the Redoubt, before Hythe. And we've got sentries up and down the coast. We're not making it easy for any spy to move."

The first line of defence. The first to stand. The first to fall. But not the last.

Polly was glad for the weight of the knife on her leg. She wished she could find a gun.

"But what about your dog?" Sergeant Brown asked, sounding very worried.

Gwydion was long out of sight but they could hear distant, ecstatic barking. "Like I said, he's good at finding things. He'll find us when he's done. Thank you, Sergeant. Good hunting."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

Polly put the truck in gear and they moved forward. They could still hear Gwydion barking on the beach. She drove slowly so George could search the coast and the marsh on the other side of the road through her field glasses.

They came around a bend and the hulking Dymchurch Grand Redoubt was ahead. "Let's pull aside here," George said.

It was far too peaceful for the violence that was so very close. They could hear marsh birds, the crash of the surf, and, distantly, Gwydion barking. Their boots crunched on the gravel road. The Redoubt was built for a time before bombers and tanks. It looked very inadequate now. Still, its stolid bulk was reassuring.

"Let's go inland," I would think they would want to get off the beach and try to find a town," George said.

Polly debated truncheon and spade and chose the spade. It had been her weapon of choice lately. She was going to scrape yesterday's rat blood and hair off then decided she liked the message it sent and left it on. At least rats were honest about what they did.

I've coshed better than you.

They left the car, crossed the road, and wandered into the fields and marsh to the west before striking a trail.

"I'd wondered if they might flood the marshes to discourage Nazi paras," George said. The paths were a little muddy but still quite passable and the insects were not more than a slight nuisance.

"According to the ordnance survey, there's a road west that leads to Botolph's Bridge," Polly said. There was, of course, nothing to mark the way. "For the first time, George, I see the government's strategy in removing all road signage and street signs."

"It's hard to navigate around here even when you know where you're going!"

They walked along a byway that a placard eventually confirmed was Botolph's Bridge, named for Botwulf of Thorney, the patron saint of farming and travelers.

They searched the hamlet but didn't see anything peculiar. "I hope Saint Botwulf doesn't bless spies," George said sourly. They scraped mud off their boots and struck back towards the coastline.

If two Land Girls mucking along a West Hythe path was peculiar, the man who came out of the marsh was doubly so.

George unbuttoned her coat. Polly thumbed the clasp on her knife sheath and hefted her spade. She wasn't worried. As with the spy yesterday, George had several inches on him and at least two stone. He also had the same worried, harried, dirty look, as if he'd been sleeping under a bush or in a dingy boat rowed ashore from a German warship.

From his alarmed expression, he probably thought they were military.

"Can we help you?" George asked, and her words were far more polite than her tone.

"I'm lost."

His speech was halting and heavily accented.

"That appears to be the case," Polly said and pointedly shifted the spade to her right hand in a strong chokehold.

"Where am I?"

He spoke English so poorly, Polly wondered if maybe he wasn't a spy. Surely a Nazi would be better trained so he didn't sound so obviously like the enemy? At least the man yesterday had spoken with an American accent.

"You're in England, young man," George said. "And if you want to get to the closest village, you're going the wrong way." She pointed in the direction of the coast road. "We're going back to our truck. We will walk with you and make sure you get to where you must be."

He hesitated but Polly brandished the spade again and George used her body and aggressively pressed on him until he was force to step back to escape her menacing bulk. "Just turn around," she motioned with her fingers, "and start walking toward the road. That direction." She pointed. "We're right behind you."

With a little shrug, the man complied, turned around and began trudging back the way he had come. It was brave, Polly supposed. She wouldn't have wanted to turn her back on George or a lady brandishing a shovel like cudgel.

They were flushing him out into the open as they would a rat from a hole.

"What should we do?" Polly whispered, keeping her eyes on the man's back. He was trying to outpace them but the marsh and uneven ground meant he couldn't go very fast and he was obviously exhausted and bedraggled.

"When we get to the truck, we offer him a lift."

"To the Battalion HQ."

George nodded. "And if he runs, we chase him and you cosh him with the spade."

"What if he resists?"

"Then I cosh him with your spade."

Reinforcement arrived as they approached the coast road. Like the ratters they both were, she and George drove the suspect right into a Lance Corporal of the Somerset LI coming across the marsh. Polly was not surprised at all to see Gwydion trailing the soldier.

"Gwydion probably herded him here," George said. They both waved at the soldier and pointed at the foreigner.

"We're very glad to see you!" Polly called.

"You there!" demanded the Lance Corporal. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"I am a Dutchman! I am from Brest! I am lost!"

"You are also going to jail," George said firmly. "Lance Corporal, can we drive you and this lost gentleman to your battalion HQ for interrogation?"

They were treated to a cuppa and a biscuit at the HQ and thanked for their service. Gwydion got a sandwich for his assistance in helping find a rowboat with some very interesting equipment a refugee from Brest shouldn't have. They learned that another man had already been apprehended. George had a lengthy conversation behind closed doors with an officer.

Polly truly didn't want these dire circumstances requiring actions in Britain's defence to continue. But as they left Hythe and began driving west, it did seem that visiting farms, clearing traps, and killing rats were a trifle dull by comparison. It didn't feel very important even if they were securing the English food supply.

Nor was the conclusion satisfying. "We'll probably never know what happened to them, will we?"

"No," George said shortly. "And Polly, it's better not to ask. I imagine that who those men are and what happens to them are terribly secret. There may be hangings at the end of it."

Gwydion's sudden barking shook the truck's windows.

George immediately pulled over to the side of the road. They'd passed the fields of Hamstreet and there were dense woods on either side of them.

"What is it?" Polly asked. "Is there another spy?"

"Gwydion wanted us to stop."

George rolled the truck forward and they parked at a place their map called Packing Wood. Polly cracked upon the door and Gwydion jumped out of the truck and charged down a path. From the reproachful backward glances, Polly sensed they were not moving fast enough for him as they got out and followed him past a marker with the name blotted out with white paint.

The trees ahead seemed to swallow up Gwydion. She could hear his barking but it suddenly sounded very far away. And very still. There was tense, exciting expectation as they walked the mossy path to follow a familiar. It reminded Polly powerfully of being at the walled garden or the Wood Between the Worlds.

Surely, this is a magical place.

"George? Is this…?"

"It is, Polls."

George took her hand. "Gwydion and I would like to show you Elfphame. And don't worry about missing anything. We'll be back in time for tea."

Some notes (links are with the story's original post on AO3).

The Home Defence Scheme began operating in 1940. Run by the Secret Intelligence Service, it recruited local men accustomed to living rough and off the land, such as gamekeepers and poachers. These men, in turn, recruited others to form their guerilla operations for when the German Army invaded England. The weapons provided include those described and were kept in secret caches. The Defence Scheme would eventually be brought under the auspices of the War Office rather than the SIS under the better known Auxiliary Units.

The information about the Home Defence Scheme and their equipment comes from Fighting Nazi Occupation: British Resistance 1939-1945, by Malcolm Atkin and online exhibits of the Imperial War Museum.

The Rommey Marsh 4 were surely the most inept of Nazi spies World War 2, with some speculation that the Abwehr sent incompetents in order to discourage Hitler's planned invasion of England, Operation Sea Lion. Of the four, in fact, none was German and only one a Nazi.

As to the 2 Dymchurch spies, it is reported that Private Sidney Tollervy Pearce of the Somerset Light Infantry apprehended Charles van den Kieboom, 25, a Dutch-Japanese dual national. Another source identified Lance Corporal Robert North as apprehending Sjoerd Pons, 28, a Dutchman, who aroused suspicion after stopping two bystanders to ask for directions. As to the Dungeness spies, Mrs. Mabel Cole of the Rising Sun pub was responsible for the apprehension of Karl Meier after he tried to order a champagne cider at 9 in the morning, asked for a bath, cigarettes, and didn't know what a Tanner was. She stalled by sending him over to Tilbeys Store for cigarettes. A policeman identified and apprehended Jose Waldberg, who later said his name was Henri Lassudry, and that he was Belgian.

After I'd written this, I identified other source materials that contradicted my first source materials and that I'd reversed the dates and events accidentially, with the Dymchurch spies being apprehended first, the morning of September 3 and Mrs. Cole spotting the spy, Karl Meier, at the Rising Sun pub later that same day. Waldberg was caught on the Dungeness Road the next day. I've also seen different accounts of what Mrs. Cole did – she may have summoned two unnamed gentlemen in the private bar next door to the Rising Sun who challenged Meier and took him to the police station, or it was an RAF man who appeared.

The four were tried under the Treachery Act and three were hung. Pons was acquitted as he claimed to have been blackmailed into espionage; he was then immediately rearrested and detained as an enemy alien.

On AO3 I have pictures of some cartoons, picture of women in the WLA uniform, and the battle plan for Operation Sea Lion, the planned Nazi invasion of France.

More notes: