Doc Willoughby eyed the half-full decanter hopefully. “That’s some mighty fine whisky you have there,” he said. Then he added, on the off chance that Durosimi O’Stoat had failed to fully comprehend his approval of the liquor, “Yes, that’s some mighty fine whisky indeed.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” drawled Durosimi, making no effort to replenish Doc’s empty glass.
Whenever Durosimi invited Doc to his home, in order to chew the fat, blow some smoke, shoot the breeze, and other unlikely idioms suggestive of folksy camaraderie, there was always an ulterior motive. Durosimi is incapable of camaraderie, and he certainly is not folksy. Doc knows this, of course, but the sorcerer’s unique and mysteriously endless supply of single-malt whisky is the type of bait that one such as Doc is unable to resist.
“So,” said Durosimi, running his fingers over the decanter’s stopper, “ tell me more about this Bigfoot creature. Squash, isn’t it? What has he been getting up to?”
“I’ve heard a few bits of gossip about him,” said Doc.
He had played this game before. There was a definite art to telling Durosimi just enough to encourage him to lubricate the conversation, while keeping something back in reserve.
“Go on,” said Durosimi, removing the stopper
“Well, he’s been around the island for a few weeks now – keeping an eye on young Oldspot, apparently.”
“Oldspot?”
“Winston Oldspot, the new Night-Soil Man. Squash rescued him from somewhere or other and brought him home.”
“Oh, but that’s hardly news,” said Durosimi, putting the stopper back.
“But Squash has this unsettling habit of coming and going.”
“Coming and going? How do you mean?” asked Durosimi, suddenly interested.
“He doesn’t eat on the island,” replied Doc. “He says that the food here doesn’t agree with him.”
“That ‘s reasonable. It sounds as though he’s a sight more sensible than most,” said Durosimi. “But if he doesn’t eat on the island where does he go, and how does he get there?”
There was an excited glint in Durosimi’s eye, and by now the stopper was well and truly removed and the decanter hovering tantalisingly over Doc’s glass.
“I have no idea,” said Doc, then added hurriedly as the decanter moved further away, ‘but he did say something about a portal.”
“A portal, eh?” said Durosimi, and Doc’s ears were warmed by the comforting sound of single-malt whisky hitting the bottom of his glass. It was as though he had uttered some arcane shibboleth allowing him into Durosimi’s good books.
With the whisky safely in his care, Doc felt safe in mentioning the caveat.
“He did make a point of saying, however, that it was meant only for Sasquatches, and nowhere that a human could pass through safely.”
Durosimi harrumphed irritably. In his opinion, the usual rules governing mere mortals did not apply to him.
“Did he happen to mention where this portal is located?”
“No, sorry,” said Doc, realising that he had no more to give.
He drank his whisky in one gulp. It occurred to him that Durosimi might have wanted it back.
“I daresay you need to be getting back to work now Willoughby,” said the sorcerer, ushering his guest towards the door. “No peace for the wicked, eh?”
“You should know,” thought Doc, but what he actually said was, “No, indeed,” and he feigned a little laugh.
Durosimi knew all about portals. He had been going back and forth, for some months, to Tudor London, via The Underland, which always managed to deliver him to Doctor John Dee’s study while the old alchemist was away from home. It was a pleasant change from Hopeless, to be sure, but Durosimi was rarely satisfied, and wanted more. He wanted to see the places where the Sasquatch went.
The bright full moon that smiled down upon the state of Maine was seriously dimmed by the perpetual fog that hung over Hopeless, like a soiled sheet over a birdcage. This gloom was no great hardship to the commerce of the island, as most rarely ventured any further than ‘The Crow’ or ‘The Squid and Teapot’, after the hours of darkness. Durosimi O’Stoat, however, was not like most islanders. Armed with his magic and an overbearing sense of self-confidence, he felt match enough for anything, with the single exception of the stench of the Night-Soil Man. That was why, on this night, he was keeping well upwind of Winston Oldspot and the huge creature walking by his side. Of course, he had seen Mr Squash before, some years earlier, but he had forgotten just how massive the fellow was.
Watching from a safe distance, Durosimi saw the Sasquatch take his leave of Winston and wander off into the trees. Durosimi scuttled after him, desperate to see where he might be heading. He saw Mr Squash arrive at a fairly unremarkable spot where two trees had seemingly fallen against each other, forming an inverted V, which no one would have looked at twice. Mr Squash walked beneath the simple, natural archway, and to Durosimi’s surprise, disappeared with a resounding snap.
“Well, that looks easy enough,” thought Durosimi, following in Mr Squash’s footsteps, and stepped confidently through the archway. I have no idea what he expected to happen, but to his disappointment there was no snap, and he was still on Hopeless with a couple of toppled trees squatting like an A frame above his head.
Lying in his bed, some two hours later, Durosimi tried to puzzle out why the portal had not allowed him in. He could only conclude that Doc had heard correctly, and maybe you really have to be a Sasquatch to get through. But hadn’t Mr Squash carried Winston Oldspot back to the island through a portal? Durosimi suddenly sat bolt upright. That was it. He had to somehow hitch a lift with the Sasquatch. There was only one possible way to achieve this. Durosimi would have to ask the Sasquatch nicely.
To be continued…
Errors and Corrections.
I have to apologise to Madame Miriele D’Illay-Washwell, having intimated in a recent tale (entitled ‘A Safe Place”) that she and her family inhabit the property known as ‘The Old Blomqvist House’. Madame D’Illay-Washwell has pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that she would never live in a house which is being maintained by some variety of hobgoblin, much less a Swedish one.
I should add that the residence to which I referred is currently the home of Mr and Mrs Bartholomew Middlestreet, and the guardian spirit, described by Madame D’Illay Washwell as a hobgoblin, is in fact a Tomte.