Story by Martin Pearson art by Tom Brown
“I would hope that Mirielle will now have the good grace to apologise to Septimus,” said Reggie Upton. “She did not believe him when he told her that he had amnesia, and now that those fellows have returned with the same symptoms, it proves that he was telling the truth.”
He paused for a few seconds, then added, “But, sadly, knowing Mirielle, as we both do…”
He let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished. The nod of agreement from Philomena Bucket was enough to tell him that there was no need to say more.
“It seems as though he got off lightly,” said Philomena. “Septimus is only suffering from memory-loss, whereas those other poor lads seem to have lost their reason altogether.”
“Hopefully it’s only temporary,” said Reggie. “Still, it’s a dashed mystery where they have been all this time, and to get into such a state.”
The reappearance of the five young men, who had been secretly enslaved by Durosimi O’Stoat, had caused quite a stir on the island. Most people had given them up for dead. When they eventually emerged, blank-eyed and brain-addled, having been subjected to a toxic mixture of drugged ale and Durosimi’s cloaking spell, they were deemed by some to be little more than walking corpses. Fortunately, Septimus Washwell’s refusal to drink the drugged ale had allowed him to escape after just three days, with nothing worse than having no recollection of where he had been.
It was generally decided that, rather than return them to their homes immediately, the young men should be temporarily housed in one of the empty dormitories of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, where the ghostly Miss Calder, and her equally ghostly assistant, Miss Toadsmoor, would be able to keep an eye on them, and monitor their progress around the clock. There was a certain downside to this arrangement, however, as both of these ladies are – as the word ‘ghostly’ might suggest – no more than shades, albeit friendly and helpful ones. As such, they would be unable to carry out the various physical tasks associated with nursing care. It had been hoped that Reverend Davies and his wife might be willing to lend a hand, but strangely, both had found their diaries to be unusually full for the foreseeable future.
Some might claim that it was purely a burst of community spirit that saved the day. My own view is that the main driving-force was curiosity. Whatever the reason, there was soon a constant flow of island residents, each eager to see, for themselves, the ‘Famous Five’, as the lads were now known, and every visitor was expected to do their bit to help. Such expectation was often greeted with dismay, but Miss Calder’s undisputed charm, coupled with her unnerving habit of absent-mindedly replacing her very pleasant facial features with that of a grinning skull, were enough to convince most that it would be wise to comply.
One person who managed to avoid carrying out nursing duties was Doc Willoughby, who insisted that he was visiting in his capacity as a medical professional, declaring that he would certainly be able to diagnose the problem and suggest a cure. Following a stream of important-sounding “Ahs” and “Hmms”, accompanied by a series of pokes and prods, he pronounced the five to have a rare and life-threatening condition, known to the medical world as Urtica dioica.
“Unfortunately,” he announced gravely, as he left, “there is no known cure.”
“Could you smell alcohol on his breath?” asked Miss Calder, as she watched the Doc wandering unsteadily down the pathway.
“Yes,” replied Marjorie Toadsmoor, with a flickering grin, “and he’s just diagnosed the lads to be suffering from stinging nettles. It must have been a bit of Latin that he heard somewhere, and it stuck!”
The two phantom carers shrieked with laughter, causing the hair of more than one passer-by to turn prematurely white.
Not everyone celebrated the return of the ‘Famous Five’ with enthusiasm.
For the past week Durosimi O’Stoat had been cowering beneath his bed-clothes, terrified that the huge demon toad that had foiled his plans to gain access to the Underland would pursue him. When Doc Willoughby came hammering on his door, bearing news of the reappearance of the five young men (whom he had recently diagnosed as having a nasty case of stinging nettles), the sorcerer was not thrilled. He realised that he had been made a fool of, and there was only one being who frequented Hopeless who was able to pull off such a stunt. Trickster!
To the Doc’s great disappointment, he was dismissed with unseemly haste, and not a mouthful of whisky for his trouble. Still, he reflected, it was probably all for the best; when Durosimi was in this mood it was as well to be as far away from him as humanly possible.
Durosimi paced the floor, smouldering with anger, his mind racing.
Why had Trickster saved those youngsters? That was not his style; what could he up to?
Did he plan to use those five young men against him? That must be it. Well, two could play at that game. But no… that was not right.
Durosimi was well aware that, despite his magical skills, he was no match for Trickster. The old rogue was as old as time itself, and if he had you in his sights, then you were done for. But Trickster was not infallible, not by a long way; he made mistakes. He had even been chased, while in the guise of a white hare, over a cliff by a band of spoonwalkers (as was related in the tale ‘The Kindness of Spoonwalkers’).
Durosimi smiled to himself grimly. He would tread carefully around Trickster. But those young men – what was it that people were calling them? The Famous Five, they were his immediate problem, his weak link, his Achilles heel. Them, and the Washwell fellow. The effects of the ale and the cloaking spell would not last forever, and if the truth of their abduction was to get out, there would be condemnation and a thirst for retribution, which even he might have difficulty in controlling. All six of them needed to be silenced, and sooner rather than later.
“They must all disappear, and this time for good,” he said aloud, and the air around him grew icy.
