The number, and variety, of people turning up unannounced, to the island of Hopeless, Maine, never ceases to amaze me. As I have often mentioned, the relationship that Hopeless enjoys with Time and Space is, to say the very least, complicated. This becomes apparent when you notice that the majority of those deposited by shipwrecks seem to be restricted to arriving from an age when sailing ships breasted the seas, and steam was still something of a novelty.
Others, like Reggie Upton and the late Marjorie Toadsmoor, came to the island in vastly more mysterious circumstances; one minute they were minding their own business, then, with no warning whatsoever, found themselves suddenly gazing out over the foggy Atlantic, thousands of miles away from home. This sort of thing seems to be a fairly recent phenomenon, as I have found no reference to it in early editions of The Vendetta.
You will have noticed that there has been a lot of talk in these pages, lately, about portals, and one can only assume that such accidental visitors to the island must have inadvertently stumbled through one of these mysterious doorways. This theory, however, begs several questions:
(1) Are portals becoming more common? (2) Are they some sort of terrestrial black hole? (3) Why do most of them lead to Hopeless? and (4) the most important, and worrying of all: Are any of us safe? Any lapse in concentration could mean that a hundred-yard trip down to the corner shop, for a newspaper and bottle of milk, could, in the blink of an eye, find you wandering around Scilly Point, Ghastly Green, Creepy Hollow or, heaven forbid, 40 Second Street, where the restless ghost of Clarissa Cockadilly dances her victims to death (see the tale ‘Dancing on a Sunday’).
The only reason that I bring this subject up is the recent appearance on the island of one Benjamin Bencombe, an apparently eccentric, middle-aged man who gives the impression of being permanently stooped, like a question mark; this is the unfortunate result of his life-long habit of examining tiny flowers at close-quarters.
It was Philomena Bucket who first came across him, high on the Gydynap Hills. When asked, he politely informed her that he was looking for Early Gentians. Such had been Benjamin’s concentration on the task in hand that he had no idea that he had somehow managed to leave the gentian-friendly and wonderfully chalky Wiltshire Downs, to accidentally stray into the decidedly gentian-unfriendly environment of the Gydynaps.
“Well, good luck with that,” said Philomena hurriedly, “and if I should be spotting one of them early genitals, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Benjamin gave Philomena an odd, somewhat worried smile, doffed his straw hat and handed her a small business card, which she quickly pocketed before leaving him to his search.
It was later that day, when the first of the evening customers were trailing into The Squid and Teapot, that Philomena related to Septimus Washwell and Reggie Upton her strange conversation with the middle-aged man on the Gydynaps.
“He told me that he was searching for early genitals. I was happy to get away from him; I can tell you.”
Reggie raised a quizzical eyebrow at this, but said nothing.
“He sounds like a strange one,” said Septimus. “What was his name?”
“Sorry, I’ve forgotten,” said Philomena, then she suddenly remembered the business card in her pocket.
“Ah… it says here Benjamin Bencombe, BSc, Botanist… I wonder what BSc stands for?”
“Bat-shit crazy?” suggested Septimus, hopefully.
“Hmm, it would fit,” said Philomena, “but I don’t think ‘bat-shit crazy’ is the sort of thing that people tend to advertise on their calling cards.”
“He is a Bachelor of Science,” said Reggie. There was a world-weary tone to his voice. “And I imagine that he was looking for specimens, not of genitals, but of Early Gentians, the Gentianella anglica, if I am not mistaken, which only grows on British chalk downs.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth before a dishevelled, stooped figure rushed into the bar, slamming the door behind him. His straw hat was battered, his shirt was hanging out, and his bow-tie dangled loose.
“Thank goodness,” he gasped. “Civilization at last!”
“By Jove, you must be Bencombe,” said Reggie, proffering a hand. “Sit down old chap. You look as though you need a drink.”
“What are those evil looking things scuttling about out there on cutlery?” asked Benjamin, terror-stricken. The wild look in the newcomer’s eye suggested to Septimus that his own interpretation of BSc might not have been too far off the mark.
“Spoonwalkers,” said Reggie. “Take it from me, they’re absolutely harmless… just as long as you don’t let them corner you or catch you with their gaze, you’ll be fine.”
“They chased me all the way here,” Benjamin wailed. “Oh gosh, I need to get home. Does anyone know what time the next bus to Marlborough arrives? My wife will be worried.”
“I thought you said that he was a bachelor,” said Philomena to Reggie.
“There might be a slight problem with that, old chap,” said Reggie gently, ignoring Philomena. “Have another drink, my friend, and I will endeavour to explain.”.
Benjamin opened his mouth to say something, but was rendered speechless by the sight of Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, who burst spectacularly through the door and filled up more than his fair-share of the available space.
“Good evening all,” he boomed. “I’ve just brought Durosimi back from the Himalayas. He’s just about survived the journey, but don’t expect to see him around for a week or two, he’s out for the count.”
“Is that..? Is he a..?” Benjamin gulped, unable to finish his sentence.
“I think you will find that he is,” confirmed Reggie.
With a pallor that would not have disgraced a week-old corpse, Benjamin looked at Reggie, and then at Philomena, and said, with a tremor in his voice.
“There won’t be a bus going to Marlborough any time soon, will there?”
It wasn’t really a question.