Doc Willoughby blinked and gazed warily around the room. It certainly looked like his home, but life had been so strange these last few weeks that he was inclined to trust nothing and no one.

“Ah, you’re finally awake.”

The Doc strained to see who was addressing him, but he seemed to be alone.

“Who’s there?” he asked nervously.

The grey early-evening light took on an ominous shimmer as the ghostly shape of Granny Bucket slowly materialised before him.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, grumpily.

Under other circumstances Granny might have swiftly fired back a barbed comment but, with great restraint, she let it pass today.

“How long have I been unconscious?’ he asked.

“I don’t know,” confessed Granny, “But you were discovered by Mrs Beaten a few nights ago.”

“Mrs Beaten?” Doc looked aghast.

“Yes. You were sitting in her privy,” said Granny, deciding not to go into details, but only because she had promised not to.

“The last thing I remember was being scooped up by something that looked like a huge, hairy snowman,” said the Doc. “Then everything becomes hazy.”

“Things must have been hazy long before that, if you think you were abducted by a snowman,” said Granny.

Her knowledge of the fauna peculiar to the mountainous regions of the world began and ended with the denizens of MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, so, unsurprisingly, she had never heard of the Himalayan Yeti.

Doc didn’t reply. Maybe she was correct and he had been hallucinating.

“I think I need some air to clear my head. A brisk walk to The Squid should do it.”

 Doc was barely ten minutes down the road when a surprised Mr Squash crossed his path.

“You’re back!” he exclaimed.

“So it would seem,” observed the Doc, drily.

“Ah… it must have been The Spirits of the Glaciers,” said Mr Squash. “My cousins are good sorts, and they have saved me a trip back to Tibet.”

“Maybe not,” replied the Doc. “Durosimi is still there. He’ll need rescuing.”

He related to the Sasquatch how Durosimi had wandered off, hoping to talk to some hermit fellow or other, and had not come back.

“Knowing Durosimi, I can only imagine that he went looking for the gomchen, Dawasandup,” growled Mr Squash, “and if he finds him, that is not good news.”

“Why not?” asked the Doc.

“Anyone crossing Dawasandup is likely to be chewed up and spat out, possibly literally. Durosimi is little better than a child with a magic set compared with the gomchen. On the other hand, if he acquires even a fraction of Dawasandup’s power we could all be sorry.”

“So what are you going to do?” asked the Doc.

Mr Squash frowned at him.

“Absolutely nothing,” he said. “ I have no intention of scouring Tibet in search of him. If he wants to come back, he can find his own way.”

‘But…” began the Doc.

“But nothing,” said the Sasquatch coldly. “If, by some chance, Durosimi is still alive it means that the gomchen has wished it so, and in that case Hopeless will be better off without him.”

*

Seth Washwell was holding court from his favourite chair, in the snuggery of The Squid and Teapot, relishing the fact of his having been the sole witness of Doc Willoughby returning to the island in the arms of a Yeti.

“They were big,” he said to his audience. “They must have been twice the size of old Squashy.”

“Careful he doesn’t hear you call him that,” said Philomena, “or you might end up being a bit squashy yourself.”

“They sound just like the chaps Frankie Younghusband encountered,” said Reggie Upton, enthusiastically, recalling the expedition his friend led to Tibet in 1903.

Seth took a long swig of Old Colonel. “I hear that they eventually put the Doc in Mrs Beaten’s privy,” he said.

“The less said about that the better,” said Philomena, who had been sworn to secrecy, as had everyone else whom Mrs Beaten had encountered.

*

Meanwhile, half a world away, Durosimi squatted uncomfortably in the small dark chapel that Dawasandup called home. The single room was lit at one end by a tiny window. Incense sticks burning in a niche mingled their fragrance with that of tea and melted yak butter. The gomchen sat upon a pile of threadbare, faded cushions, and gazed at  Durosimi with cold eyes. The young monk, Tenzin, who had agreed to be Durosimi’s translator, stood trembling in a corner.

“If you seek wisdom, do not expect explanations,” said the gomchen. “Learn through experience.”

Durosimi nodded, keen to know more.

“There is a place, not far from here, haunted by a demon,” said Dawasandup. “Only by defeating him will you gain his power.”

“I can deal with demons,” thought Durosimi. “There are plenty on Hopeless.”

“You must put a rope about your neck and tie yourself to a tree, remaining there for three days and three nights, without food or water. Be warned, only the strong will survive this encounter, but the rewards are great.”

In Durosimi’s experience, while demons might look ferocious, they held little sway over a magician such as himself.

“I can do this,” he said, “but how will I recognise the demon when it comes?”

“Oh, you will recognise him,” said Dawasandup, with a smile that was less than reassuring. “He always chooses to take the shape of a tiger.”

Durosimi had never seen a tiger in the flesh and, due to their complete absence on the island, he had displayed no interest in learning anything about the creatures. He vaguely recalled that one of his books referred to them as ‘big cats’. That didn’t sound too daunting. What could possibly go wrong?