When Peggy Powler had remarked to Wilbur Delphi that a Kaffajinn was a lower-order demon bound in a carcase
of some unfortunate animal, she was only skirting a full depiction. What she'd read in one of Myrddin's books and
what she'd witnessed at the old man's barn was of a miserable creature who used such deceased vehicles, but not
necessarily one at a time.
Now with the Policeman's anticipating attention on her, the Last Witch of Underhill felt her account of her interaction
with the thing dwelling on the outskirts of Crickledale should be given a full-airing and Officer Delphi could take from
it what he will.
.................................................................
As the little necromancer had listened to her new customer over her welcomed-brew, Peggy discovered the ancient
farmer's name was George Putters and he worked a small homestead not far outside of the village. George's two-girl
family had all grown up and now with their own futures to build, only he and his wife Hannah had remained at their
home and did what they could to maintain the place.
One morning in mid-summer, George had tottered out to check on a pregnant cow he'd temporarily brought in from
a meadow and arriving at the out-building, found the doleful bovine mooing up at the rafters of his barn. Entering the
straw-scattered barn, the old man saw the target of the wannabe-mother's anxiety.
There crouched on a beam was the lifeless body of the calf... except it wasn't alone and it wasn't truly lifeless. Tilting
his head in an attempt to understand what he was viewing, George saw that the object had somehow been combined
with another animal he recognised at once. The twisted and flinching shape -all gangly hooved-legs and snatches of
stinking fur was a mixture, a hideous amalgam of a veteran faithful dog he'd buried a while ago and the corpse of the
cow's stillborn freemartin.
"Binjee-Binjee tootah" the tangled mutant mewled from its roost and keeping his eyes on the horror up in the rafters,
George expeditiously urged the cheerless cow out of the barn and closed the paint-flaked Dutch-doors as fast he could.
It would be seven whole church candles before the bristly farmer dared to venture back to that out-building and when
he did, he found the horrid creature had added the remains of a rooster to its fabricated form. A wattled dead-eyed
head now protruded from the shoulder where his long-dead sheepdog's skin-ribboned skull resided and through -either
the bird's beak or the rotting detritus that had once been a canine's muzzle, the alloyed monster sitting in a silage-bare
manger spoke its evil language once again.
Maybe the strange words had something to do with the pitchfork George had harmed himself with or even the simple
fact that he was visiting the horror's new-found den, but which ever it was, the comment had enough of an effect on
the old man that he'd find his beard had turned completely white the next morning and his crusade to empty his barn
of the misshaped demon manifest into a fleeing of a building his grandfather had erected when he was but-a twinkle
in his own Pa's eye.
"Ooh-ma cibus" George told his only audience in The Lost Traveller tavern, these were the words he'd heard before
running away and taking his wife with him to his eldest daughter's cottage. Peggy had patted the worried-eyed old
man's arm and gently whispered "It means bring me food and that's just what we're ganna' do".
.................................................................
Wilbur Delphi's eyes were wide and as a chunk of driftwood crumpled to its inevitable station of being an ember, the
resulting sparks wafted up from the flames like tiny fairies taking to the night. "Aye, a Kaffajinn has nay shame in what
it wears to get around" the Policeman's companion warned her audience and carefully fed the campfire to continue the
blather.
The sea honoured the quietness that sat between the two shore-dwellers and kept its hypnotic sounds of movement
to a minimum. The darkness around the home-made billet waited for the next part of the colloquy, but this time it
came from the man in the blue kirtle. "Janie Beesley was from a farm" Wilbur offered, but he knew as the words
left his lips that the fact had no bearing on what they were currently dealing with and so feigned he found something
interesting in the campfire. Janie -a nineteen year-old blonde from Munderville, had been the first to go missing.
It would be two flicks of a badger's tail before Peggy spoke again and this time it was a reluctant question. The reason
for the query was known to a very few of those who conjure with majick and great heed had been done to keep it that
way. The mannerisms of those who penetrate the curtain between this world and the other can become absorbed into
a society and with it, its potency is diluted. Sometimes, it's best to keep one's wheels in the well-worn wheel tracks.
With another quick look-see towards the dark shadows within the gorge, Peggy used all her theatrical ability to idly
ask "Did... de' yer knaw' if the Beesley lass had long hair?" and saw her attempted act of a thespian had failed.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the little Witch reasoned the word 'bugger' should be hissed around now.
of some unfortunate animal, she was only skirting a full depiction. What she'd read in one of Myrddin's books and
what she'd witnessed at the old man's barn was of a miserable creature who used such deceased vehicles, but not
necessarily one at a time.
Now with the Policeman's anticipating attention on her, the Last Witch of Underhill felt her account of her interaction
with the thing dwelling on the outskirts of Crickledale should be given a full-airing and Officer Delphi could take from
it what he will.
.................................................................
As the little necromancer had listened to her new customer over her welcomed-brew, Peggy discovered the ancient
farmer's name was George Putters and he worked a small homestead not far outside of the village. George's two-girl
family had all grown up and now with their own futures to build, only he and his wife Hannah had remained at their
home and did what they could to maintain the place.
One morning in mid-summer, George had tottered out to check on a pregnant cow he'd temporarily brought in from
a meadow and arriving at the out-building, found the doleful bovine mooing up at the rafters of his barn. Entering the
straw-scattered barn, the old man saw the target of the wannabe-mother's anxiety.
There crouched on a beam was the lifeless body of the calf... except it wasn't alone and it wasn't truly lifeless. Tilting
his head in an attempt to understand what he was viewing, George saw that the object had somehow been combined
with another animal he recognised at once. The twisted and flinching shape -all gangly hooved-legs and snatches of
stinking fur was a mixture, a hideous amalgam of a veteran faithful dog he'd buried a while ago and the corpse of the
cow's stillborn freemartin.
"Binjee-Binjee tootah" the tangled mutant mewled from its roost and keeping his eyes on the horror up in the rafters,
George expeditiously urged the cheerless cow out of the barn and closed the paint-flaked Dutch-doors as fast he could.
It would be seven whole church candles before the bristly farmer dared to venture back to that out-building and when
he did, he found the horrid creature had added the remains of a rooster to its fabricated form. A wattled dead-eyed
head now protruded from the shoulder where his long-dead sheepdog's skin-ribboned skull resided and through -either
the bird's beak or the rotting detritus that had once been a canine's muzzle, the alloyed monster sitting in a silage-bare
manger spoke its evil language once again.
Maybe the strange words had something to do with the pitchfork George had harmed himself with or even the simple
fact that he was visiting the horror's new-found den, but which ever it was, the comment had enough of an effect on
the old man that he'd find his beard had turned completely white the next morning and his crusade to empty his barn
of the misshaped demon manifest into a fleeing of a building his grandfather had erected when he was but-a twinkle
in his own Pa's eye.
"Ooh-ma cibus" George told his only audience in The Lost Traveller tavern, these were the words he'd heard before
running away and taking his wife with him to his eldest daughter's cottage. Peggy had patted the worried-eyed old
man's arm and gently whispered "It means bring me food and that's just what we're ganna' do".
.................................................................
Wilbur Delphi's eyes were wide and as a chunk of driftwood crumpled to its inevitable station of being an ember, the
resulting sparks wafted up from the flames like tiny fairies taking to the night. "Aye, a Kaffajinn has nay shame in what
it wears to get around" the Policeman's companion warned her audience and carefully fed the campfire to continue the
blather.
The sea honoured the quietness that sat between the two shore-dwellers and kept its hypnotic sounds of movement
to a minimum. The darkness around the home-made billet waited for the next part of the colloquy, but this time it
came from the man in the blue kirtle. "Janie Beesley was from a farm" Wilbur offered, but he knew as the words
left his lips that the fact had no bearing on what they were currently dealing with and so feigned he found something
interesting in the campfire. Janie -a nineteen year-old blonde from Munderville, had been the first to go missing.
It would be two flicks of a badger's tail before Peggy spoke again and this time it was a reluctant question. The reason
for the query was known to a very few of those who conjure with majick and great heed had been done to keep it that
way. The mannerisms of those who penetrate the curtain between this world and the other can become absorbed into
a society and with it, its potency is diluted. Sometimes, it's best to keep one's wheels in the well-worn wheel tracks.
With another quick look-see towards the dark shadows within the gorge, Peggy used all her theatrical ability to idly
ask "Did... de' yer knaw' if the Beesley lass had long hair?" and saw her attempted act of a thespian had failed.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the little Witch reasoned the word 'bugger' should be hissed around now.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.