“Five days?” Winston Oldspot looked aghast. “That can’t be right, surely.”
“Five days,” confirmed Reggie Upton. “You were absent without leave for fully five days, m’boy. If it hadn’t been for the ghostly wisdom of Granny Bucket, who knows about such things, we would have assumed that you were dead.”
“I don’t understand it,” said Winston. “I went into a cave to shelter from a storm. I remember dropping off to sleep, and when I woke up the storm had passed. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple of hours.”
“I can promise you, you were gone for more than a couple of hours,” said Reggie. “It was as much as any of us could do to stop Rhys Cranham from getting back into his Night-Soil togs. It’s only for the fact that you’d taken the bucket with you that made him change his mind.”
Winston shook his head, bemused.
“And nothing at all strange happened, as far as you know?” enquired Reggie.
“Only a few weird dreams, which I’ve forgotten,” replied the young Night-Soil Man.
“Although… but no, that’s me being silly.”
“Go on, “ said Reggie. “There is no harm in saying it.”
“Well… ever since I’ve been back, I feel as though someone is watching me. That’s all.”
A huge and hairy creature known as Mr Squash had, indeed, been watching Winston.
Upon discovering the boy unconscious, and apparently close to death, high on the Appalachian Trail, the Sasquatch carried him gently back to Hopeless, via one of the many hidden portals that only certain gifted beings, such as himself, can see. Mr Squash had used this portal to visit Hopeless on several occasions previously, and had cultivated no great love for the island. He especially disliked its perpetual fog and lamentable lack of anything resembling a primal forest. He had, however, developed something of an affection for Winston, and felt duty-bound to protect the lad. Unlike most others (not including Reggie Upton, who had long ago lost his sense of smell) he had no problem with the all-pervading reek of the Night-Soil Man.
(This may be a good point to speak about the species to which Mr Squash belongs. From Siberia to Australia, via Asia and North America, tales are told of huge, hair-covered man-like creatures. Depending upon the location, they may be known as Sasquatch, Bigfoot, Skunk Ape, Yeti, Abominable Snowman, Elmasti, Mansi, Yowie, Almas… the list goes on. While many deny their very existence, there are others who insist that they have crossed paths with them, for good or ill. The one common trait linking all of these cryptids, as they may be described, is their elusiveness. They leave few traces, and seem to have the ability to disappear at will. In view of this, I can only assume that they all share Mr Squash’s gift for being able to swiftly dive into hidden portals and transport themselves to some distant spot.)
Meanwhile, back in the tale… within a day or two of returning to Hopeless, Maine, Winston fell back into his old routine of sleeping during the day, and traversing the island at night to service the privies, thunder-boxes and, occasionally, cesspools, of an often less than grateful public. To all intents and purposes, little had changed in his life, except this creepy feeling of being constantly observed. It was only when he visited Ghastly Green, and the hermit, Neville Moore, did he have any clue as to who or what might be watching him.
Neville tended to keep late hours, mainly because his pet raven, Lenore, refused to come in before midnight, and spent her time gently rapping, rapping at his chamber door; only that, and nothing more.
“Good evening, Winston,” called Neville, a dozen yards away and safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man. He was standing on his porch, which, as porches go, was grander than most, its fluted columns lending the hermit’s cottage a look that would not disgrace a mausoleum. The overall effect was somewhat spoiled, however, by the many unsightly streaks of raven guano, but no one was going to mention that to Lenore.
Winston waved back in greeting.
“I see that you have Mr Squash helping you these days,” shouted Neville. “It must be nice to have some company.”
“Mister who? Sorry I don’t understand…”
“Mr Squash. I haven’t seen him about for a year or two. It’s good to have him back.”
Winston was nonplussed. He had no idea as to what, or whom, Neville was referring.
The hermit, who rarely spoke more than he needed to, retired indoors, Lenore flapping noisily after him, fiercely intent on reaching the bust of Pallas, where she frequently liked to perch.
Gathering all of his courage, Winston turned and spoke quietly into the dark, foggy stillness of the night.
“Will you come out to where I can see you, please, whoever you are?”
There was a rustling in the darkness, and Winston froze, suddenly confronted by nine feet and eight hundred pounds of hair and muscle.
For a long moment the night was wreathed in utter silence, then Winston said,
“I saw you… you were in my dream the other day.”
“That was not a dream,” said Mr Squash. His voice was as deep and dark as you might expect.
“You can speak!” exclaimed Winston in surprise.
“Of course I can speak,” said Mr Squash, sounding slightly offended. “What do you think I am, a sock-puppet?”
“No… no of course not,” stammered Winston.
“That’s alright, then,” said Mr Squash, amiably. “Come on, let’s get these privies emptied, and then you can fill me in with everything that’s been happening on the island since I was last here. Is Durosimi O’Stoat still alive?”
Winston’s heart dropped. If Mr Squash was a friend of Durosimi, that could not be good.
“Yes… well he was last week,” he said cautiously.
Mr Squash sighed.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “Still, you can’t have everything.”