The familiar cackling voice came from the clearing behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder in time to see the old witch named Thistle watching from the edge of the cliff.

          “What kinda bloody hocus is this?” Fenn wanted to know, his voice a little shaky in the wind.

           “Just a sign you’re ready,” the witch replied.  She sat perched on the edge of precipice, her frightful hair tossing every which way, her scrawny bare feet dangling like a little girl.

            “Ready for what?”

            “Blimey, you can be a dim one!”

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