The night had finally arrived and on the sheltered shore of the Great Sea, Peggy Powler and Constable Wilbur Delphi
warmed themselves beside a campfire that the law-enforcer had built out of the abundance of driftwood along the
stony beach. The little half-Fae's input to the couple's source of heat was the strange flame that appeared from her
thumb, a trick that Peggy knew impressed the impersonal man sitting across from her, although he would never
admit it.
They had travelled down the carved stairway of The Cat Steps and after surveying the narrow foliage-thick cleft from
the shoreline, Peggy agreed with her partner that they should begin their search properly tomorrow. The early-evening
light -what there was of it, was hastily leaving westwards and though it wasn't uttered, neither of them would like to
spend the night in the foreboding woods that squatted between the ravine's cliffs.
Crossing the shallow estuary of the warm-water stream, Peggy spied the brother of the hewn stairs they had just
descended. The Dog Stairs led up to the Heinz residence and from the look of the sprouting bushes and long grass
taking advantage of the ledges, she could see that the sculptured escalier hadn't been used in some time.
By dragging two washed-up logs together, the pair prepared their bivouac and with Wilbur's bare-footed confederate
producing two large sandwiches from her satchel, the unusual brace of investigators settled down to wait for morning.
The curtain of twinkling stars were on full parade tonight and with the lack of clouds, the light sea breeze was chilly
as it arrived from the gloom of deep water. The Officer of Bowes County gazed up at the coruscant nebula and as
he surveyed the clinquant heavens, the last Witch of Underhill wondered if Delphi was capable of appreciating the
entire gamut of what was being displayed.
Realising she was emulating the fellow's time-wasting technique, she glanced one more time towards the shadowy
clump of brooding trees at the end of the gorge and then leaned forward nearer the flames. "Yer' know Ah think we're
bein' watched" Peggy muttered softly and moved her eyes to indicate where she believed the secretive monitoring was
coming from.
But instead of doing what the little sorceress guessed he would do and promptly stare in the designated direction, the
seemingly nonchalant Policeman turned his head and looked out to sea. Yet, as his pose returned to its original state,
she saw that he used the opportunity to glance towards the murky boscage. The act drew a smile from the woman
on the other side of the campfire.
"I believe you are correct..." Officer Delphi whispered and then added "...but since we're out in the open and the distance
would negate any opportunity of sneaking up on our surreptitious spectator, may I ask a question that I have been unable
to institute due to our recent busy activities?" The little Witch folding her hat and was depositing in her satchel stayed her
action as she peered at the man in the dark-blue tunic, "Aye, yer can me-lad" she answered flatly.
Wilbur adjusted his rump on the marooned log and prepared himself for an explanation that may threaten to untether his
usual settings of pragmatism and rationale. Quietly clearing his throat, he asked "just what really is a Kaffajinn?"
...................................................
If memory serves, it had been just after her twenty-fifth summer that a young sorceress called Peggy Powler had first
went up against the demon known as a Kaffajinn. The last of the travelling carnivals had moved southwards the day
before to avoid whatever weather may roll down from the mountains around the village of Crickledale now that the
seasons were changing.
The leaves of the trees were yellowing as the little Witch with the shapely legs wandered into the picturesque hamlet
and spying a plaster-clad tavern titled 'The Lost Traveller', Peggy smiled as she grasped the reference the name was
making. Crickledale was built on a crossroads and because of its location, roaming fairs and carnivals would regularly
visit here with hopes of attracting customers from several regions.
Stepping across the threshold of the alehouse and quickly checking no twisted-sixpences or knotted horse-hair had
been tacked to the door's lintels, the wandering Witch went in to whet her whistle. The half-breed had grown-up
interacting with humans in their own settings and so ambling through the clouds of pipe-smoke and gawping faces
as she approached the too-high counter, Peggy Powler ignored the scenery and focused on a brew.
"Fair travels up there, would me-money buy me a flagon of yer' fine mead, barkeep?" the floppy hat asked from over
the bar and leaning forward, Amos Brearly gazed down at a pretty smiling face and a small hand holding two frollis.
"Iff'n yer not too busy, that is" the tiny customer added and cast her best winning wink. The hairy-cheeked Amos
couldn't help but grin back at the small figure, the bare-footed newcomer was a bonnie lass and she had tender too.
It only took a moment before a large pewter tankard of froth was being passed down and the coins gratefully accepted.
If Peggy had remained next to the scarred and boot-dented panelled counter, Officer Wilbur Delphi would be now sitting
on a washed-up log peering at a shrugging necromancer under a canvas of dazzling stars. However, wanting to rest her
weary legs, the bantam-sized curiosity of the eight-or-so patrons of The Lost Traveller inn stepped daintily over to the
front window where an old man beneath a long white beard sat balefully gazing out of the lead-lined glass.
It was this hirsute ancient with an empty jug who eventually asked the small woman across the table from him for help.
Help with an unwanted resident of a barn at his farm and if his description was correct, Peggy recognised that this fellow
had a problem with a Kaffajinn.
warmed themselves beside a campfire that the law-enforcer had built out of the abundance of driftwood along the
stony beach. The little half-Fae's input to the couple's source of heat was the strange flame that appeared from her
thumb, a trick that Peggy knew impressed the impersonal man sitting across from her, although he would never
admit it.
They had travelled down the carved stairway of The Cat Steps and after surveying the narrow foliage-thick cleft from
the shoreline, Peggy agreed with her partner that they should begin their search properly tomorrow. The early-evening
light -what there was of it, was hastily leaving westwards and though it wasn't uttered, neither of them would like to
spend the night in the foreboding woods that squatted between the ravine's cliffs.
Crossing the shallow estuary of the warm-water stream, Peggy spied the brother of the hewn stairs they had just
descended. The Dog Stairs led up to the Heinz residence and from the look of the sprouting bushes and long grass
taking advantage of the ledges, she could see that the sculptured escalier hadn't been used in some time.
By dragging two washed-up logs together, the pair prepared their bivouac and with Wilbur's bare-footed confederate
producing two large sandwiches from her satchel, the unusual brace of investigators settled down to wait for morning.
The curtain of twinkling stars were on full parade tonight and with the lack of clouds, the light sea breeze was chilly
as it arrived from the gloom of deep water. The Officer of Bowes County gazed up at the coruscant nebula and as
he surveyed the clinquant heavens, the last Witch of Underhill wondered if Delphi was capable of appreciating the
entire gamut of what was being displayed.
Realising she was emulating the fellow's time-wasting technique, she glanced one more time towards the shadowy
clump of brooding trees at the end of the gorge and then leaned forward nearer the flames. "Yer' know Ah think we're
bein' watched" Peggy muttered softly and moved her eyes to indicate where she believed the secretive monitoring was
coming from.
But instead of doing what the little sorceress guessed he would do and promptly stare in the designated direction, the
seemingly nonchalant Policeman turned his head and looked out to sea. Yet, as his pose returned to its original state,
she saw that he used the opportunity to glance towards the murky boscage. The act drew a smile from the woman
on the other side of the campfire.
"I believe you are correct..." Officer Delphi whispered and then added "...but since we're out in the open and the distance
would negate any opportunity of sneaking up on our surreptitious spectator, may I ask a question that I have been unable
to institute due to our recent busy activities?" The little Witch folding her hat and was depositing in her satchel stayed her
action as she peered at the man in the dark-blue tunic, "Aye, yer can me-lad" she answered flatly.
Wilbur adjusted his rump on the marooned log and prepared himself for an explanation that may threaten to untether his
usual settings of pragmatism and rationale. Quietly clearing his throat, he asked "just what really is a Kaffajinn?"
...................................................
If memory serves, it had been just after her twenty-fifth summer that a young sorceress called Peggy Powler had first
went up against the demon known as a Kaffajinn. The last of the travelling carnivals had moved southwards the day
before to avoid whatever weather may roll down from the mountains around the village of Crickledale now that the
seasons were changing.
The leaves of the trees were yellowing as the little Witch with the shapely legs wandered into the picturesque hamlet
and spying a plaster-clad tavern titled 'The Lost Traveller', Peggy smiled as she grasped the reference the name was
making. Crickledale was built on a crossroads and because of its location, roaming fairs and carnivals would regularly
visit here with hopes of attracting customers from several regions.
Stepping across the threshold of the alehouse and quickly checking no twisted-sixpences or knotted horse-hair had
been tacked to the door's lintels, the wandering Witch went in to whet her whistle. The half-breed had grown-up
interacting with humans in their own settings and so ambling through the clouds of pipe-smoke and gawping faces
as she approached the too-high counter, Peggy Powler ignored the scenery and focused on a brew.
"Fair travels up there, would me-money buy me a flagon of yer' fine mead, barkeep?" the floppy hat asked from over
the bar and leaning forward, Amos Brearly gazed down at a pretty smiling face and a small hand holding two frollis.
"Iff'n yer not too busy, that is" the tiny customer added and cast her best winning wink. The hairy-cheeked Amos
couldn't help but grin back at the small figure, the bare-footed newcomer was a bonnie lass and she had tender too.
It only took a moment before a large pewter tankard of froth was being passed down and the coins gratefully accepted.
If Peggy had remained next to the scarred and boot-dented panelled counter, Officer Wilbur Delphi would be now sitting
on a washed-up log peering at a shrugging necromancer under a canvas of dazzling stars. However, wanting to rest her
weary legs, the bantam-sized curiosity of the eight-or-so patrons of The Lost Traveller inn stepped daintily over to the
front window where an old man beneath a long white beard sat balefully gazing out of the lead-lined glass.
It was this hirsute ancient with an empty jug who eventually asked the small woman across the table from him for help.
Help with an unwanted resident of a barn at his farm and if his description was correct, Peggy recognised that this fellow
had a problem with a Kaffajinn.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.