You may recall that the sorcerer, Durosimi O’Stoat, had persuaded Mr Squash to take him through a mystic portal to some distant location. As has been described in the previous tale, Mr Squash was less than happy to transport a frail human through a doorway which, in a less adventurous Health and Safety conscious society, would doubtless have carried a notice, proclaiming in large, angry letters:
‘DANGER – NO ADMITTANCE. HUMAN ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. SASQUATCHES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.’
Durosimi, being Durosimi, had argued that he was no mere mortal. I suspect that Mr Squash might have secretly thought that a trip through a ‘Sasquatch only’ portal would teach him a lesson. As it was, Durosimi found the whole experience to be extremely unpleasant, but managed to survive. He was unconscious when Mr Squash left him to recuperate in a cave, while the Sasquatch wandered off to visit some cousins. It was only when Durosimi felt strong enough to leave the cave did he realise who these relatives were. Even on the island of Hopeless, Maine, everyone had heard of the fearsome Yeti, who happened to live high in the Himalayan Mountains.
An icy blast chilled Durosimi to the bone. He wrapped his long coat around him and shivered uncontrollably.
“Ah, you’re awake at last!”
He turned as quickly as his ravaged frame would allow. Mr Squash was striding cheerfully through the snow, leaving behind him a trail of impressively big footprints (or should that be Bigfoot prints?)
“Have you found your relatives yet?” asked Durosimi.
“Found them? I’ve been living with them for a week,” laughed Mr Squash. “And now, it’s high time we got back to Hopeless.”
Durosimi reeled. A week? That was impossible. Had he been unconscious for all of that time? Besides, he still felt dreadful. He hurt and ached in bits of his body that he didn’t even know he possessed.
“I can’t go back yet,” he protested. “I honestly think that another trip through your portal, at the moment, would kill me.”
“I hate to say I told you so,” said Mr Squash, “but I did warn you… and I really need to get back today. There’s more to being a Sasquatch than rescuing Night-Soil Men and giving free rides to sorcerers.”
“Then you’ll have to go without me,” said Durosimi. “Would your cousins put me up for a few days until you can come back?”
Mr Squash frowned.
“I’m not sure,” he said at last. “And it might be more than a few days. I usually only come to the Himalayas once every ten years, or so. These high altitudes play havoc with my sinuses.”
“Ten years!” exclaimed Durosimi, aghast.
“I’ll do what I can,” said Mr Squash, “Now let me go and talk to my cousins.”
The two made their way through the snow, Mr Squash striding unconcernedly, Durosimi stumbling.
“It’s here that we part company,” said Mr Squash, when they reached a spot that looked worryingly similar to every other location in that hostile terrain.
At first Durosimi thought that he was being abandoned in the mountains. There was nothing to see but huge rocks and endless snow.
“You need to look properly, and you will see them,” said the Sasquatch, in as low a tone as he could muster.
“I am looking!” said Durosimi crossly. “And there is nothing to… Oh!”
They were indistinct at first, but little by little Durosimi could see them.
“Oh! indeed,” said Mr Squash.
The creatures were suddenly all around them, huge, white and shaggy, dwarfing the Sasquatch.
“The Tibetan people refer to my cousins as The Spirits of the Glaciers,” he carried on, “and have revered them for thousands of years.”
“I can see why,” replied Durosimi. It was extremely rare for him to feel awe-struck, but awe-struck he was. We can only put it down to his being weakened by the journey through the portal.
“I will arrange for one of them to take you to a nearby monastery. You will find it more comfortable there.”
Durosimi breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t particularly fancy spending any time alone with these massive creatures, however revered they might be.
Much later, when the moon over Hopeless Maine was, as usual, fighting a losing battle with the fog, Mr Squash met up with Reggie Upton and Winston Oldstone, the Night-Soil Man.
“So you’ve left the old rogue up in the Himalayas,” said Reggie. “It must be tempting not to bring him back.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that. After all, I made a promise of sorts,” said Mr Squash. “Besides, the monks wouldn’t thank me if I lumbered them with Durosimi for the rest of his days.”
“So when do you intend to rescue him?” asked Winston, hefting the lidded bucket onto his back.
“I’ll give it a week,” said Mr Squash. “I imagine that after several days on a diet of nothing but tsampa and butter-tea he’ll be more than ready to come home.”
The three ambled off into the foggy night, chatting amiably.
Meanwhile, almost half a world away, Durosimi O’Stoat dozed in the chilly eyrie of a mountain monastery. Despite himself, he felt almost content, listening to the hypnotic chanting of the burgundy-robed monks, while the afternoon sun lit his simple room and gilded the highest peaks and snowfields of the majestic Himalayas.