Reggie Upton picked up the fallen candle-lantern, which by some miracle had stayed alight, and looked down at the prone form of Doc Willoughby, sprawled in the mud. The last thing that the Doc had said to him was, “I think I’m dying,” and, to all intents and purposes, had proceeded to do exactly that.
“Surely not,” thought Reggie.
To the accompaniment of a series of grunts, wheezes and winces, he managed to drop to his knees and, dredging up some dimly recalled instructions barked out by Surgeon-Major Shepherd, of the Royal Herbert Military Hospital in Woolwich, he rested three fingers just below the fallen physician’s jawbone to check for a pulse. The tiny flutter of life that he felt was not encouraging, but at least it proved that the Doc was still in full receipt of his mortal coil, though only just.
“How the devil am I going to get him any help?” Reggie muttered to himself. It was long past midnight, and the mean streets of Hopeless, Maine were dark and deserted. Only one lonely light glimmered some distance away from, what might be laughingly referred to as, the island’s main thoroughfare.
Reggie groaned inwardly.
To say that Durosimi O’Stoat was somewhat annoyed by the rapping on his front door would be an egregious understatement. While I have no idea what he might have been up to at such a late hour, it is safe to assume that it was unlikely to include any plans designed to benefit his fellow islanders. Finding Reggie Upton standing upon his doorstep did nothing to improve his mood.
“What?” he barked, with a ferocity that made the veteran of the Siege of Ladysmith quake in his boots.
“It’s Willoughby,” said Reggie, who went on to give a brief account of his meeting with the Doc, and all that followed.
“Blast the man,” growled Durosimi, dragging on an overcoat. “We’d better get him inside before something eats him, I suppose.”
Luckily, Doc Willoughby had been considered decidedly indigestible by any predator who may have been passing, and remained, as far as could be ascertained, totally intact.
“Why is it,” puffed Durosimi, “that the only corpulent man on the island decides to play dead in the middle of the night?”
He and Reggie had taken an arm and a leg each, and were carrying the Doc up the hill to Durosimi’s house.
“He’s certainly no lightweight,” conceded Reggie, ‘but we’re nearly there old chap. Chin up, and all that.”
It was fortunate that the darkness concealed Durosimi’s scowl. No one had before said – or even dared to contemplate saying – ‘Chin up’ to the sorcerer, much less referring to him as an ‘Old Chap.’
Doc lay on a vast leather sofa that took up most of one wall of Durosimi’s parlour.
“It’s beyond me,” admitted Durosimi, scratching his head. “The answer might be in some grimoire or other, but to be honest, healing is really not my forte.”
“No, I can imagine,” thought Reggie, but wisely decided not to say it aloud.
“I could go and fetch Philomena,” he suggested. “She’ll still be up. It was James Weaselgrease’s birthday bash in The Squid and Teapot last night, so you can guarantee that there’ll be plenty of mess to be cleared up.”
“Very well,” said Durosimi, resignedly, seeing all hope of completing his night’s work rapidly disappearing.
In less than half-an-hour Philomena was in the parlour and looking down at Doc with concern. She had never liked the man very much, but she had never wished him harm… Well, not real harm, anyway.
“It is as though his spirit has left him,” she declared, after a cursory examination of the Doc’s aura.
“Are you sure?” queried Durosimi. “The only spirit I associate with that man is my whisky, which he seems rather too fond of.”
“He’s not drunk… for once,” said Philomena. “Something is very amiss, though. I fear that it’s beyond my ability to cure him.”
Durosimi looked thoughtful.
“We could ask Mr Squash to take him to the monastery where I stayed,” he said. “If anyone can work miracles, those monks can.”
Philomena looked at him approvingly. Since his couple of weeks recuperating in Tibet he seemed to be a changed man. He was still as dangerous as a viper, but somehow more human than he allowed people to believe.
“Mr Squash looked in at young Weaselgrease’s party earlier on,” she said.
‘Looked in’ just about summed it up. There would have been little enough room for Mr Squash’s bulk in the bar last night.
“I’ll go and see if I can find him,” said Reggie. “I know all of his usual haunts.”
Mr Squash scratched his enormous head and regarded Durosimi with puzzlement.
“What makes you think that the monks would be able to cure him?” he asked.
“They know things that I can only dream of,” said Durosimi. “If they can’t do it, no one can.”
Philomena looked at him in astonishment; for once in his life Durosimi was actually showing some humility.
“He’s very weak; the journey there could kill him,” warned the Sasquatch. “Remember how it affected you?”
“Oh, I remember well enough,” said Durosimi, wincing at the memory. “The thing is, if he doesn’t go to the monastery, to my mind he’s as good as dead anyway.”
Philomena nodded her head, then felt shocked that she was actually agreeing with Durosimi. The day was still only a few hours old, and it was becoming weirder by the minute already.
“Very well,” said Mr Squash, “but someone should stay with him; I refuse to leave him there alone. You know what he can be like. He could try the patience of a saint, and while those monks might be religious, believe me, they’re not saints.”
“I don’t mind travelling back,” said Durosimi. “Going through your portal last time nearly killed me, but it was worth it. I would relish the opportunity to visit Tibet again.”
“Even with Doc Willoughby?” asked Philomena.
Durosimi shrugged.
“Every silver lining has a cloud,” he said.