It is possible that readers of these Tales from the Squid and Teapot will be surprised to learn that Durosimi O’Stoat is in possession of something resembling a sense of humour. I agree, it’s hard to countenance, but don’t take my word for it – just  take a look at the picture attached to this tale. 

“That isn’t Durosimi O’Stoat,” some of the more astute of you may say. “That’s Samuel Liddel MacGregor Mathers, a British occultist,” and you would be absolutely correct. So, bear with me, and all will be revealed. 

You may remember that Durosimi had discovered an ancient parchment which apparently detailed, in the long dead Etruscan language, how one might open a portal to other lands. While Durosimi was confident that he could successfully translate the document, he had to bear in mind that there is always a danger when dabbling in such arcane matters, inasmuch as uttering a spell even slightly incorrectly might prove somewhat detrimental to the speaker. This might possibly entail turning him inside-out, or doing something similarly disagreeable.

Such danger would have deterred lesser men, but Durosimi has never been one to flinch from risks in the pursuance of knowledge or wealth… but he is, however, a pragmatist at heart.

“Why put yourself in danger, when you can get some sucker to do it for you?” 

This had long been his motto, and, on this occasion, the sucker in question was to be Doc Willoughby. 

It had taken half a bottle of single malt whisky and most of the day to convince the Doc that he was perfect for the job in hand. Although Willoughby professed to be a man of science and learning, Durosimi had always been aware that he was an out and out Quack, and, when it came down to it, not a particularly bright one, either. But Durosimi was not the sort to hold such failings against him. Besides, it made the Doc extremely easy to manipulate. 

“I can’t see why you’re asking me to cast the spell,” complained the Doc, not unreasonably. “After all, you’re the sorcerer.”

“I have other responsibilities,” replied Durosimi, importantly. “It is necessary that I observe the spell unfolding from a safe dist… I mean from a sensible distance. After all, we can’t be certain exactly where the portal will materialise. Besides, the regalia doesn’t fit me properly.”

“Regalia? What regalia?” Doc Willoughby looked puzzled.

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” said Durosimi, airily. “But wearing it is a crucial part of the ceremony.”

This, of course, was total rubbish, but it amused Durosimi, and gave him the great satisfaction of making Doc look ridiculous. I have no idea how the photographic representation of MacGregor Mathers,  one of the founder members of The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, came into Durosimi’s keeping, but this was the inspiration for the costume that Doc was to be wearing when he cast the spell.  It was, Durosimi reasoned, no more than the old fool deserved for being so gullible. 

“So where is this regalia?” asked Doc. “Perhaps I should try it on. After all, it might not fit me either.”

“Oh, I can promise you, it will fit,” said Durosimi. “But you shouldn’t see it before the ceremony, or the magic won’t work properly.”

Doc was far from happy about this, but held his tongue. It is never very wise to argue with Durosimi.

According to the Etruscan parchment, the most auspicious time to open a portal is at the rising of a full moon. Durosimi had calculated that this would be at precisely 4pm on the following Monday, just two days away. Although being in daylight made the possibility of being seen much more likely, this was offset by the delicious prospect of Doc standing in his ridiculous costume in full view of anyone passing by. Durosimi almost smiled with glee. 

“Have I really got to wear this?” Doc looked aghast at himself in Durosimi’s full-length mirror. The leather helmet was not too bad, he had to admit, but the moth-eaten fur stole, the faded blue cummerbund and a lady’s nightgown, pink and shapeless, were not the clothing he had envisioned himself to be wearing that day. 

“Being on this wretched island means that we have to compromise here and there,” said Durosimi. “Make do and mend, and all that. It’s the intention that’s important, Willoughby old friend.”

“And why do I have to carry a skunk-cabbage stuck on the end of a broom handle? I’ll be a laughingstock.”

“Nonsense,” replied Durosimi, employing his best poker-face. “Anyway, no one will see you, and carrying the plant is an important part of the ceremony. It represents…um… growing life, and other such things. Now come on, it’s time for us to go… have you got the words to the spell?”

Doc looked furtively about him, keen not to be spotted, as the two made their way from Durosimi’s house to the nearby clearing where the portal was to be situated. 

“Stand in front of these two trees, and when you hear the church clock strike four, carefully say those words that I have written,” said Durosimi, pushing Doc forward.

“Where will you be?”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” replied Durosimi, then hurried off to shelter behind a large rock, some fifty yards away. 

The church clock struck four, and Doc Willoughby began intoning the spell in the way that Durosimi had instructed. It was then that Mireille D’Illay, of Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge, chose to wander past. She stopped and stared at the spectacle before her in disbelief, then, with a dismissive shake of her head and a Gallic shrug, she said

“Mon Dieu, he is as mad as the English,” and continued on her way.

“Nothing seems to be happening,” Doc called to Durosimi.

“Then do it again, man. That blasted French dancer must have distracted you.“

Doc repeated the spell, this time without interruption, but the result was the same.

“I don’t know what’s gone wrong,” fumed Durosimi. He hadn’t even had the pleasure of seeing Doc being turned inside out. “I need to study this further… and for goodness sake, get those ridiculous clothes off.”

It was some hours later, and Winston Oldspot , the Night-Soil Man, ventured out on his rounds, accompanied by his friend, Mr Squash. 

“Look,” he said, pointing to the night sky. “It’s the first full moon of the year.”

Mr Squash was about to reply, but suddenly stopped walking, at the same time resting his hand on Winston’s shoulder.

“Stay where you  are, lad,” he said in a gruff whisper.

No more than a dozen yards in front of them, a thin sliver of vertical  light rippled from between the trees, like torchlight shining through a gap in some very long curtains.

“What do you think is causing that?” asked Winston, not a little alarmed. 

“I have no idea,” replied the Sasquatch, “but whatever it is, I don’t think I want to get any closer.”

Even as he spoke, the gap widened a little, bleeding a sickly-green mist into the Hopeless night…

To be continued.