Constable Wilbur Delphi looked up at the narrow vista of the sky and breathed a sigh of chagrin that the daylight wasn't
going along with his and Peggy Powler's investigation. Occasionally, some sea-faring inquisitive clouds would drift over
from time-to-time in order to darken the gorge before making their way to hopefully water his mature carrot and tomato
crops down in Munderville. But the tall reserved man holding the crossbow had to cede that in general, the sands of the
day seemed to be draining away quicker than the warm-water stream tinkling beside him.
He wanted to creep up to the hole in the cliff and cut down the suspended curtain of moss that obstructed his view of
where the little Witch had gone, but his hesitation was sustained by his worry that at any moment, Peggy, the tetrad
of terrified women or the mongrel-bodied Kaffajinn would burst out of the fissure and he wouldn't be ready. The stoic
law enforcer shuffled in his seated position on the collapsed slab of stone and produced a kinsperson for his original
respiratory lament.
.................................................................
What could loosely be called a tunnel took a slight turn to Peggy's left and with it, offered the Last Witch of Underhill
a scene that would cause the little woman to extinguish the small flame flickering from her thumb. Somewhere above,
a crack in the earth allowed a beam of daylight to illuminate a cramped area by glittering its lustre across embedded
Borax crystals along the walls.
Normally, such a hidden tableau might bring a smile to someone who ferreted about in such a dark location, but the
additions to the forgotten burrow would certainly cause the average explorer to turn-tail and scarper. Peggy kept her
breathing steady has she slowly reached into her satchel and removed her hat at the same time.
Quickly checking behind her before moving forward with her plan, the canny sorceress tugged the long peruke of
sheep's wool from her bag and plonked it on her head. It wasn't the best of disguises -she mused as she adjusted
the hairpiece, but in this poor light a Kaffajinn may think its gullible trespasser had long hair. if the corrupt sniffer of
ladies long locks came now, she would race towards the cave entrance and hopefully lure the bastard out to where
Wilbur was waiting.
But for now, Peggy figured if the twisted monstrosity was close, it had probably heard her unintentional punt of the
lantern and was skulking somewhere devising a way of adding to its collection. This was exactly what she wanted...
for now.
Even though the four bedraggled and suspended young women were not moving in their constraints, Peggy guessed
that there was a fair prospect they were all still alive. The whole cave resembled a spider's lair with slender threads
of fishing-line latticing the space between the walls. The unconscious females were bound to wooden cross-members
in the ceiling of the excavated grotto and even though their bare feet were in the dust that made up the floor of their
prison, Peggy's features transformed from a shocked expression to a signal of her anger as she speculated on the evil
torture these innocent lasses had endured.
And it would have been this surge of emotion that ruined the warlock's stratagem, if it hadn't been for another miner's
lantern laid close to where her own unshod foot was about to step. For a moment, a bird-like thought fluttered into her
head reminding her that stealth would still be a fine policy and with her rage subsiding at the sober realisation, Peggy's
eyes alighted on other objects constrained within the Kaffajinn's web. On some of the nearest filaments, empty tin-cans
and pieces of broken glass dangled like shiny catkins on an Autumn day, but for the wig-wearing wary Witch, they were
certainly not ornaments.
Mary Bottle slowly lifted her head from the torn remains of her dress-front and seemed to be about to show her relief at
seeing a salvation to her nightmare. Even though she was only semi-conscious, Peggy knew any sound or movement
would foil such a rescue, so by holding her finger to her lips, the bantam-sized shaman sent a visual message across
the gloomy cavern that silence would certainly be golden at this particular moment.
The letter-writing girl with a dream of holding down a business with her pen-friend and fellow captive blinked twice,
managed a vague nod and then went back to tolerating the stinging tautness of the fishing line fastened to her wrists.
Scanning the darkness behind her once more, Peggy Powler got down to another type of business.
going along with his and Peggy Powler's investigation. Occasionally, some sea-faring inquisitive clouds would drift over
from time-to-time in order to darken the gorge before making their way to hopefully water his mature carrot and tomato
crops down in Munderville. But the tall reserved man holding the crossbow had to cede that in general, the sands of the
day seemed to be draining away quicker than the warm-water stream tinkling beside him.
He wanted to creep up to the hole in the cliff and cut down the suspended curtain of moss that obstructed his view of
where the little Witch had gone, but his hesitation was sustained by his worry that at any moment, Peggy, the tetrad
of terrified women or the mongrel-bodied Kaffajinn would burst out of the fissure and he wouldn't be ready. The stoic
law enforcer shuffled in his seated position on the collapsed slab of stone and produced a kinsperson for his original
respiratory lament.
.................................................................
What could loosely be called a tunnel took a slight turn to Peggy's left and with it, offered the Last Witch of Underhill
a scene that would cause the little woman to extinguish the small flame flickering from her thumb. Somewhere above,
a crack in the earth allowed a beam of daylight to illuminate a cramped area by glittering its lustre across embedded
Borax crystals along the walls.
Normally, such a hidden tableau might bring a smile to someone who ferreted about in such a dark location, but the
additions to the forgotten burrow would certainly cause the average explorer to turn-tail and scarper. Peggy kept her
breathing steady has she slowly reached into her satchel and removed her hat at the same time.
Quickly checking behind her before moving forward with her plan, the canny sorceress tugged the long peruke of
sheep's wool from her bag and plonked it on her head. It wasn't the best of disguises -she mused as she adjusted
the hairpiece, but in this poor light a Kaffajinn may think its gullible trespasser had long hair. if the corrupt sniffer of
ladies long locks came now, she would race towards the cave entrance and hopefully lure the bastard out to where
Wilbur was waiting.
But for now, Peggy figured if the twisted monstrosity was close, it had probably heard her unintentional punt of the
lantern and was skulking somewhere devising a way of adding to its collection. This was exactly what she wanted...
for now.
Even though the four bedraggled and suspended young women were not moving in their constraints, Peggy guessed
that there was a fair prospect they were all still alive. The whole cave resembled a spider's lair with slender threads
of fishing-line latticing the space between the walls. The unconscious females were bound to wooden cross-members
in the ceiling of the excavated grotto and even though their bare feet were in the dust that made up the floor of their
prison, Peggy's features transformed from a shocked expression to a signal of her anger as she speculated on the evil
torture these innocent lasses had endured.
And it would have been this surge of emotion that ruined the warlock's stratagem, if it hadn't been for another miner's
lantern laid close to where her own unshod foot was about to step. For a moment, a bird-like thought fluttered into her
head reminding her that stealth would still be a fine policy and with her rage subsiding at the sober realisation, Peggy's
eyes alighted on other objects constrained within the Kaffajinn's web. On some of the nearest filaments, empty tin-cans
and pieces of broken glass dangled like shiny catkins on an Autumn day, but for the wig-wearing wary Witch, they were
certainly not ornaments.
Mary Bottle slowly lifted her head from the torn remains of her dress-front and seemed to be about to show her relief at
seeing a salvation to her nightmare. Even though she was only semi-conscious, Peggy knew any sound or movement
would foil such a rescue, so by holding her finger to her lips, the bantam-sized shaman sent a visual message across
the gloomy cavern that silence would certainly be golden at this particular moment.
The letter-writing girl with a dream of holding down a business with her pen-friend and fellow captive blinked twice,
managed a vague nod and then went back to tolerating the stinging tautness of the fishing line fastened to her wrists.
Scanning the darkness behind her once more, Peggy Powler got down to another type of business.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.