“At least, with Mr Squash out of the picture,” said Rhys Cranham,
”there won’t be any more to-ing and fro-ing through his portal to
Tibet.”

“Yes, it will certainly put the brakes on Durosimi’s current
obsession,” agreed his wife, Philomena Bucket. “I’ll miss Mr Squash
being around, though. The island won’t be the same without him. But
until he returns, life goes on, and we will be needing another barrel
of ‘Old Colonel’ brought up.”

Being the landlord of The Squid and Teapot meant that there was always
some job or other to be done. With a sigh, Rhys made his way down the
steps to the cellar.

With the exception of Durosimi O’Stoat, the islanders of Hopeless,
Maine were convinced that they had heard the last of life in the
distant Himalayan mountains. There was, however, at least one person
in Tibet who had not forgotten the name of O’Stoat.

The anchorite, Dawasandup, was as angry as any Tibetan lama ever gets
(and, contrary to popular belief, they have been known to get more
than a little hot under the Shen* when sufficiently provoked). This
was a man who was reputed to have dominion over demons, could fly
through the air and be able to kill an enemy at a distance. In short,
he was not someone to be trifled with.

“This wretch, called O’Stoat, has cheated me,” he raged. “I owe a
tribute to Tagsan, the tiger demon, and he was the unwitting fool who
was chosen for that honour. Now he has fled, and it is all your
fault.”

The recipient of Dawasandup’s ire was a young monk named Tenzin, who
cowered, terrified, beneath the icy gaze of the anchorite. Tenzin, you
may recall, had found himself in the unhappy position of being the
reluctant translator in Durosimi’s dealings with Dawasandup.

“I explicitly told him to tie himself to a tree and wait for the demon
to appear,” raged the anchorite, “and I expected you to ensure that
this happened. Now you leave me no choice; I need to find a sacrifice,
and so it will be you who must feel the claws and teeth of the demon
Tagsan.”

Although Dawasandup was indeed powerful, despite his terror, Tenzin
trumped this by being youthfully nimble. Before he could be grabbed,
the young monk slipped out of reach, and dashed blindly away,
following whatever direction his sandalled feet chose to bear him.

“There can be no escape, ” roared Dawasandup fiercely. ”I will find
you and Tagsan will have his tribute.”

Tenzin ran until there was no more breath left in his body. At last he
fell exhausted to the hard earth, allowing  the shadows of night to
wash over him, and bathe the surrounding rocks and boulders in deep
darkness.

When his breathing finally steadied and his senses grew accustomed to
his surroundings, Tenzin felt more at ease, but then a figure shambled
from between the rocks and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Could it be Dawasandup? Or the demon, Tagsan, himself, maybe?

But no, it was certainly not any human; the shape was not right.
Besides that, whoever or whatever this newcomer was, everything about
it was too big; much too big, even for Tagsan, unless the demon walked
on his hind legs.

Suddenly the creature was standing before him, blotting out the stars,
and Tenzin gasped in awe.

“You must move, little monk, this is no place for you to rest.”

The voice, although deep and sonorous, sounded strange to his ear.
While It was known that the Spirits of the Glaciers were fluent in his
language, he never dreamt that one would ever choose to speak to him.

“I have nowhere to go,” said Tenzin, timidly, and to his own surprise,
he poured out the story of how he came to be in this predicament.

“Then you are in great danger,” said the Yeti (whom, I trust, will
forgive me for referring to him by his not-particularly complimentary
nickname).

 “I know of this Dawasandup,” he continued, “and he has allowed great
darkness into his soul. There is no doubt that he will pursue you, and
your death will not be pleasant.”

“Then where can I go to escape him?” wailed Tenzin, a cold sweat
breaking out all over his body.

The Yeti said nothing for what seemed to be an age. Then he spoke.

“I know of a place, and although the journey will be brief, it will be
hard on your body. You will escape, but most probably, never be able
to return to Tibet.”

“That is fine by me,” said Tenzin. “How do I get there?”

“Do you trust me?”

“More than I do Dawasandup,” was the reply, and with that the Yeti
scooped the surprised Tenzin up into arms and strode towards a cleft
in the rocks.

Two weeks had passed since Billy (or possibly Willy) the Yeti had
rescued Durosimi from the clutches of the demon Tagsan, and dragged
him through Mr Squash’s mysterious portal. Durosimi had no idea of the
danger in which he had placed himself, and decided that his recent
indisposition had been caused by no more than having to spend time
under a Yeti’s armpit. By now he felt sufficiently recovered to
contemplate indulging in a spot of rough magic, in the hopes of once
more getting back to Tibet and learning all that he could from
Dawasandup.

For the past few days he had been in the habit of wandering to the
portal, which was formed by two innocuous looking ash trees learning
drunkenly into each other’s branches. There he tried every opening
spell that he could remember, in the forlorn hope that one of them
might provide the key that unlocked the entrance. So far,
unsurprisingly, his success rate had been precisely nil.

“I’ll give it one more go,” he muttered to himself as he made his way
through the early morning fog.

Not many islanders were inclined to venture abroad at this hour, and
Durosimi could feel confident that his persistent failure to penetrate
the portal would not have been witnessed. Today, however, he found
himself to have company. While the realisation came as something of a
shock, the fact that the aforementioned company was lying on the
ground was a comfort. This person was obviously either dead or drunk,
and therefore unlikely to trouble him.

Durosimi, being Durosimi, could not help himself taking a look as to
who his prostrated companion might be.

“I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed.”That’s young Tenzin, my
translator, and he has somehow managed to get himself through the
Sasquatch’s portal. I need to know how he managed to do that,
although, by the looks of things, I don’t think that he’ll be in any
condition to talk to me just yet.”

Elated by this recent turn of events, a tumble of thoughts flashed
through Durosimi’s mind.

“Except for Doc Willoughby, I am the only person on the island who he
will have met. He will need a friend, and somewhere to stay. Certainly
not at The Squid and Teapot – I’ll keep him well away from the
influence of that witch, the Bucket woman. No… he can live in my
outhouse and teach me how to get back through the portal without the
help of that blasted Sasquatch, or his relatives.”

With no more ado, the sorcerer hooked his hands beneath the young
monk’s armpits and dragged him unceremoniously across the rough
ground, all the way back to Chez Durosimi.

*Author’s note: A Shen is the shoulder wrap worn by a Tibetan Buddhist
monk, under which, in the absence of a collar, an irate lama might get
hot.