Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, was standing silhouetted upon the headland, gazing forlornly across the fog-bound ocean. Drury, the skeletal hound, lay uncharacteristically subdued by his side, his bony old head resting miserably upon his equally bony old paws.
“It seems that she’s really gone, old friend,” said Rhys, in wavering tones. “Where, why or how, I have no idea. Just another casualty of this god-forsaken island, I guess. ”
Drury lifted his head to the heavens and emitted a heart-rending, mournful howl; a howl that chilled the blood of all who heard it.
Philomena Bucket was hungry and cold, the threadbare walls of her tent providing meagre shelter. During the deepest, darkest hours of that first night, she had lain awake and reflected how her mission to discover her latent magical abilities had brought her to the mysterious cavern, far beneath the island of Hopeless, Maine. With the comforting presence of the alchemist, Doctor John Dee, to advise her, she had felt confident that nothing could go wrong. Even the fact that, upon entering the cavern, they had instantly found themselves wandering through a beautiful old forest in springtime, fazed neither of them. It was very unlike anything that existed upon the Hopeless that they knew, but from past experience each was aware that, within the walls of the cavern, anything was possible. It was only when John Dee disappeared that things started to go awry. Philomena, suddenly alone and panicking, could find no way out of the forest, and was forced to spend the night in an old black tent that nestled beneath the branches of a lightning-struck tree. Although Philomena had come to terms with her situation, and was sure that the forest, the lightning-tree and the tent all had a purpose in releasing the magic residing within her, it was cold comfort.
A pale morning sun peered through the trees, and Philomena was glad to get up and walk around. Her back and joints ached. Although lying on the thin palliasse had been preferable to being upon bare earth, it was hardly a feather mattress. If life had taught her anything, it was to make the best of what she had and not feel sorry for herself. Her first priority was to take stock of her situation; she had shelter, of a sort, and access to water. Lovely though the forest was, it provided her with nothing to eat, for even if she had possessed the skills of the finest hunter, Philomena knew that she would probably starve before being able to bring herself to kill and eat any of the animals or birds that lived among the trees.
Hunger is a strange thing, as anyone who has experienced a complete fast for any length of time will tell you. For the first day or so, every thought is fixated upon food. By day three, this feeling generally passes, and a definite air of superiority over those who indulge in the vulgar practice of eating, takes its place. After that, starvation is easy. As toxins are banished from the body, however, the person fasting often experiences strange dreams and hallucinations. Philomena was no exception. Granny Bucket would flutter in and out of her dreams and waking hours, bringing with her a host of spectres, some ethereal and filled with grace, others as grotesque as anything Philomena had witnessed on the island. Giant, shadowy forms seemed to flit among the trees and unearthly singing would fill the air. Philomena knew that these were illusions, and told herself not to be afraid, even when Death itself passed by, her dark robes brushing the side of the black tent. To counter these strange, unnerving visions, Philomena would sit upon the ground, hugging her knees and rocking gently to the sound of her own humming, dredging up tunes from her early childhood, the ones taught to her by Granny Bucket, all those years ago, back in Ireland.
When the stranger first approached, Philomena thought that he was no more than another figment of her imagination. As usual, she was sitting on the ground, rocking and humming, wrapped in her own thoughts. This latest apparition, however, seemed fleshier, more earth-bound than those who had preceded him, being powerfully built, with a broad chest that threatened to burst the buttons of his tweed waistcoat. He stood before her and extended a large, meaty hand, wordlessly inviting her to take it. Philomena looked up into a pair of laughing, twinkling eyes and a kindly face, which a thick salt-and-pepper beard failed to conceal. She instinctively knew that she could trust this man, and unhesitatingly took the proffered hand, rising unsteadily to her feet. Not a word was exchanged as, hand in hand, they left the lightning-tree and black tent behind them, to where the trees thinned and meadowland began. Philomena could make out a scattering of buildings lying beyond, obviously a village or maybe a hamlet. She wondered to herself why she had not found this place before. After all, she had walked miles, looking for a way out of the forest, and now, within a few hundred yards, this stranger had led her to safety. It made no sense… but there again, nothing in this adventure had made any sense, so Philomena shrugged and stoically decided to give herself up to whatever was going to happen next.
Upon reaching the village they were met by a great throng of people, who all seemed to know Philomena. They clapped and cheered as the bearded stranger took her gently by the shoulders and led her into the midst of the crowd. Weirdly, although she did not recognise anyone there, she felt that, somehow, she knew each and every one of them personally. The air was filled with music and singing as they wandered through the sunlit streets, with Philomena carried aloft, shoulder high, on a litter, looking for all the world, like the Queen of the May. From this vantage point she could see that a feast had been prepared, a street-party, no less, with trestle tables barely visible beneath a burden of food and drink, the like of which she had never before seen. The litter was set down and Philomena seated in the place of honour at the topmost table.
Philomena was never able to recall for how long the party went on. She could remember that there were toasts and speeches, all in her honour, followed by dancing and entertainment. It made her feel quite dizzy. When darkness fell and fires were lit, old tales were told; tales of kings, princesses, crones and magical beasts. Then, far away, a clock chimed for midnight, and the bearded man raised his hand; the crowd grew quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “It is time, at last, to hear a few words from our very own Lady Philomena.”
All eyes fell upon Philomena, who stood tongue-tied in the silence. She was frantically thinking of what she might say when a distant, mournful howl, caught her attention.
“Drury!” she cried, her voice filled with excitement. “Dear Drury, where are you?”
She turned her head towards the direction from which the dog’s howl had come, and like Cinderella leaving the ball, dashed away from the party without a thank-you or goodbye.
She had run no more than a dozen paces before she found herself gazing into the mouth of the cavern. This was it, her way out, back to The Squid and Teapot.
There was no trace of the candle lanterns that she, and Doctor Dee, had used, however, a pale glow now suffused the tunnels, as if someone, or something, had been expecting her return. Even so, it was an hour before Philomena found herself at the foot of the ladder which led to the attics. She remembered that there was a hidden one-way door, as well, that opened into one of the inn’s cellars. She felt weary and this would be a far less strenuous mode of entry into The Squid.
Philomena composed herself before pushing open the door. Whenever she had been to the cavern before, time appeared to have been stretched. However long the adventure had been, on Hopeless only minutes would have passed, so she was confident that, quite possibly, her absence had not been missed. She wandered through the cellar, climbed up the flight of stone steps and walked into the bar, where a score of rowdy islanders were enjoying the produce of the Ebley Brewery. Bartholomew Middlestreet turned to serve a customer, when his eye fell upon Philomena. Even in the dim light it was obvious that his face paled visibly. Others followed his gaze and the cheerful hub-bub died to absolute silence.
“Philomena? Where on earth have you been?” asked the ashen-faced barman.
“What’s the fuss? I just popped out for a couple of minutes,” she replied, feeling quite indignant.
“But… but, you’ve been gone for a year,” said Bartholomew. “We all thought you were… we wondered what had happened to you.”
“A year?” gasped Philomena.
“A year and a day, to be exact,” the voice was that of Norbert Gannicox. “I remember it well. It was Midsummer’s Eve last year when you and Doctor Dee both vanished.”
Philomena flopped into a nearby chair. A year and a day! Granny Bucket had once told her that, in all of the old tales, any task achieved in exactly a year and one day had a deep and magical significance.
What had she done?
