You may remember that an elderly and enigmatic resident of Hopeless, Herr Schicklegruber, disappeared under mysterious circumstances on December the fifth, a date which is not only St. Nicholas Eve, but also known as Krampusnacht (see the tale of that name). It is generally believed that Herr Schicklegruber was spirited away by Krampus, which is odd for two reasons: Firstly, the Krampus of legend usually focuses his dark attentions upon misbehaving children and, secondly, although the island is ripe with monsters of all descriptions, as far as anyone knows, this particular Christmas terror has never before been seen on Hopeless.
It has been speculated that Herr Schicklegruber, an Austrian gentleman, had somehow brought Krampus from his distant homeland, as part of his luggage, as it were. This is not beyond the realms of possibility, as the author Mr Neil Gaiman has so ably posited in his novel, ‘American Gods’.
I only mention this, as Rhys Cranham and Reggie Upton recently encountered a strange character who, it seems, came to the island under similar circumstances… but I am jumping ahead.
Regular readers will be aware that, at long last, Philomena Bucket is to marry Rhys Cranham, who will shortly be relinquishing his job as the island’s Night-Soil Man. This is only the second time in the history of Hopeless, Maine, that a Night-Soil Man has retired from his post, the first to do so being Randall Middlestreet, grandfather of the current Landlord of The Squid and Teapot, Bartholomew Middlestreet.
Having lived in The Squid and Teapot ever since her arrival on the island several years earlier, it seemed obvious to Philomena that the time had come to move on, and that she and Rhys should start their married life in their own home. This came as something of a shock to the Middlestreets, and the other resident, Reggie Upton, who expected the newlyweds to live at the inn. Philomena, however, was adamant, but promised that this was to be the only change; she would continue to act as cleaner, cook and barmaid at The Squid for as long as she was able.
“As long as you’re able?” asked Bartholomew, puzzled. “What does that mean?”
A flush came to Philomena’s pale cheeks.
“Well… you never know…” she said, not meeting his eye.
Bartholomew’s wife, Ariadne, gave her a knowing smile.
“If it should be that you cannot help us, be assured, we will certainly help you,” she said.
Bartholomew shook his head in bafflement. These women were talking in riddles as far as he was concerned.
“And when you move away,” he asked, trying to get back on to firmer ground. “Do you have anywhere in mind where you would like to live?”
“There’s an empty cottage out towards Scilly Point,” Philomena said. “No one has lived there for ages. I thought that we might go there.”
“Sven Blomqvist’s old home?” said Ariadne. “He died years ago. Long before you arrived here. It must be a damp and dusty old place after all of this time.”
“That can soon be put right,” Philomena said, confidently. “I haven’t actually been inside yet, but a bit of elbow-grease and a few fires and we’ll soon have it looking homely. In fact, I intend making a start before Rhys gives up his job next week. I want it looking nice for him.”
“I can help you,” said Ariadne, “and I am sure that Reggie will be more than happy to lend Bartholomew a hand while we’re away.”
The following morning the two women walked the half-mile or so to Scilly Point, armed with cleaning cloths and brushes, intent on bringing the abandoned cottage back to somewhere fit for human habitation. When they arrived there, and pushed open the front door, each was suddenly grasped by a feeling of trepidation, and looked anxiously inside.
The scene before them was not what either had expected.
“I think that I have made a mistake,” said Philomena. “Someone obviously lives here. Someone a darn sight tidier than me, too!”
The little parlour was scrupulously clean. Not a speck of dust or strand of cobweb could be seen.
“You don’t think that Mrs Beaton has moved in?” said Ariadne, worriedly. “I imagine that this is how her place must look.”
Philomena shuddered.
“If she has, I don’t want her finding us here… oh, but look… “
She pointed to a small bookcase.
“These books… they’re all in some foreign language,” she said.
“It’s probably Swedish,” said Ariadne, pointing to a map hanging on the wall, which proclaimed itself to be an accurate, if somewhat elderly, representation of Sweden.
“Mrs Beaton is definitely not Swedish,” said Philomena. “I don’t know anyone on the island who is, either.”
“Mr Blomqvist was,” said Ariadne.
That evening, when Rhys Cranham left his cottage to go to the bunkhouse and rouse his apprentice, Winston Oldspot, he noticed a letter pinned to his front door. In the light of his candle lantern he could just make out his name, written in a familiar hand, which made him smile. It was a note from Philomena. He took the paper to read indoors, where there was more light.
A knock came on the door.
“Are you ready, boss?”
It was Winston.
“Um… yes. Are you happy to go down to service the houses at Tragedy Creek? I’ve got something to do over at Scilly Point. I’ll meet up with you later.”
Winston nodded, and left. He was a lad of few words, which was a common trait in Night-Soil Men.
Rhys had barely walked a dozen yards when Reggie Upton slipped out of the shadows. Rhys could have guessed that Philomena would have sent his old friend as moral support.
“Philomena told me about the Blomqvist house,” said Reggie. “It’s all very rum. Apparently the old chap’s been dead for years and his place looks like a palace.”
“Yes, she wrote to me. She thinks someone is living there,” said Rhys.
“I know,” said Reggie. “Then she felt guilty, worried that you’d be confronting heaven knows what. That’s why she asked me to join you.”
Rhys grinned as the old soldier brandished his sword stick menacingly.
The two men had only been standing under the trees for a few minutes when they heard signs of movement around the cottage; it was the unmistakable scrape of a tin bucket, and something being dragged over the cobbled pathway. Then, like something out of a child’s picture-book, a tiny man appeared around the corner, pulling a sack behind him. He was no more than a foot high. He was colourfully dressed, with a loose red cap covering his head, and a long grey beard that reached down to his belt.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie. “What the devil is that?”
“More of a who than a what,” corrected Rhys. “That little fellow is some sort of elf, and is the one responsible for the housework.”
“You honestly think that he’s an elf?” Reggie sounded incredulous. “They don’t exist – they’re the stuff of fairy tales.”
Rhys gave Reggie a long, hard stare.
“You have come to an island where werewolves, shapeshifters and all manner of night-creatures are commonplace, strange little critters totter about, using stolen cutlery for stilts, and you live in an inn where two of your fellow residents are ghosts. How is it that you can’t bring yourself to believe in elves?”
For once in his life Reggie had no answer, all he could say was,
“I’d better report back to Philomena.”
As is so often the case, the answer was discovered in one of the many encyclopaedias littering the attics of The Squid and Teapot.
“The creature is called a Tomte, apparently,” said Reggie, thumbing through a dusty old tome. “Some sort of Swedish gnome, by all accounts. Old Blomqvist must have brought him over in his luggage. It says here that as long as you leave food out for him, he’ll continue to help. The downside is, if he isn’t fed, then he will cause all sorts of trouble for you.”
“Marvellous!” exclaimed Philomena, with a frown. “An angry gnome is all that I need at the moment.”
“Well, he didn’t look as though he’s starving,” said Reggie. “So someone must be leaving food for him – and I have a suspicion that Rhys knows more than he’s saying.”