In the more disreputable and dilapidated quarters of suburban Horsingdon, one occasionally encounters gateways set within crumbling, whitewashed walls. Oftimes, on the other side of these peeling, black-painted doors one encounters densely-overgrown scraps of neglected garden: the wasteland detritus of the former lives of long-forgotten residents; but there are amongst these gateways some which bear the apotropaic mark of the Folk of the Black Bowers - all but invisible to those unfamiliar with the Old Ways and their systems of signification. These gateways, once identified, are best avoided, for they sometimes lead to those occulted zones and unseen regions of Horsingdon’s topography from which - at least for the casual traveller - there may be no hope of returning.
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