Screaming Point has always been one of Hopeless’s more trying (not to say bloody annoying) features. Most aspects of the island offer a vague sort of comfort, or at least predictability. You can always rely on the tar pits bubbling on schedule, spoonwalkers pilfering cutlery with a sort of professional courtesy, and even the odd poltergeist only occasionally rearranging one’s furniture. Screaming Point, however, is an entirely different sort of nuisance.
It doesn’t just scream, though that is bad enough, being a sound somewhere between a banshee giving birth and a foghorn with indigestion, but it has the irritating habit of wandering about. One can almost believe that the headland entertains ideas above its station, lifting up its skirts of shingle and trudging about the island as if looking for better company.
Doctor Pyralia Skant awoke one raw morning to discover that her lighthouse, her pride, her magical workshop, her fortress, and when she remembered to light the lamp, her beacon, now stood atop of Screaming Point, and the screaming began at dawn. It was like being shaken awake by a sackful of dying bagpipes.
“Really,” Pyralia muttered, stuffing two cloves of pickled garlic into her ears (the only remedy she’d discovered thus far, though it left her smelling like an angry delicatessen). “This will not do.”
She staggered out onto the gallery and glared down at the land itself, which gave a particularly smug wail in reply. The shingles shuddered with self-satisfaction.
The problem was not just the noise. When Screaming Point shifted, it dragged all manner of geographical features with it. The once-reliable horizon now appeared to dip sideways. The sea, never the politest neighbour, slopped in odd directions. A family of limpets had come unmoored from their rock and were shuffling about indignantly in a tin bucket by her door.
After three sleepless nights, and hurling no fewer than fourteen items of kitchenware at the cliff with no discernible effect, Pyralia gave up. She stuffed her belongings into a trunk, locked the lighthouse door, and marched along to the Squid and Teapot.
At the inn, Rhys Cranham was trying to convince Drury, the skeletal hound, that sleeping on the cellar steps while barrels were being shifted was not a good idea. One can only conclude that Rhys was not well enough to attend school on the day that the proverb containing the words ‘Old Dogs’ and ‘New Tricks’ was taught.
Philomena Bucket looked up from her morning cup of nettle tea to see an harassed looking Pyralia Skant come clattering in. Her white lab coat was flapping angrily around her calves, and she trailed an embarrassing twist of bladder-wrack, which had caught around the heel of one of her trademark stiletto shoes.
“I require a room,” she declared, dropping her trunk, which seemed to emit a muffled oath.
“For reasons beyond my comprehension this wretched island seems to have grown tired of the geography it was blessed with, and decided to deposit some of its less desirable bits under the lighthouse, and the damned thing keeps screaming.”
“Ah, that would be Screaming Point,” said Rhys, wondering where the smell of garlic was coming from. “It hasn’t been on the move for ages. Don’t worry, it doesn’t scream all the time.”
“No, I’ve learned that,” said Pyralia, bitterly. “It usually waits until I’m asleep, or engrossed in some particularly difficult problem.”
“I can only think you’ve done something to attract its attention,” said Rhys, unhelpfully.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Pyralia, then added, “How long does it normally hang around before it gets bored?”
Rhys pondered for a moment, then said,
“A week, a month, a year…? Twenty years if it’s really taken a shine to the area.”
Pyralia’s face dropped.
“Oh, it’s taken a shine alright,” she said. “It’s not only screaming, it has started singing to the lighthouse, would you believe? The worst of it is that the masonry has started to hum along. I caught the stairwell whistling last night.”
“That’s awkward,” said Rhys, as though discussing the weather.
Drury wagged his bony old tail, clearly approving of the situation.
“Well, you’re more than welcome to stay,” Philomena said, avoiding Rhys’s disapproving glare. “Though you may find our walls no quieter at the moment. Lady Margaret’s been shrieking in the privy lately. Apparently there is some unwritten expectation that headless ghosts will shriek from time to time, and she’s scheduled hers for the next three weeks. She’s always been a stickler for the rules.”
“Oh let her shriek,” Pyralia sighed. “Anything is better than a headland trying to sing harmony with my lighthouse.”
And so she moved in, taking a small room overlooking the Atlantic, or it would have, was it not for the heavy sea mist which obscured everything except an even heavier sea mist following in its wake.
“Life isn’t going to be the same with Pyralia living here indefinitely,” said Rhys, later that day. “But if nothing else, it will please Reggie, the old goat that he is. He’s trimmed his moustache and ironed his regimental tie twice today already, all the time muttering ‘Dashed fine looking woman’ to himself.”
Pyralia sat in the snuggery of the Squid and Teapot, sipping her absinthe and basking in the comparative peace, while Drury laid his skull on her stiletto shod feet, and Philomena cheerfully explained the local menu.
“I can’t live on Starry-Grabby Pie, darling,” Pyralia said, after a short silence. “I’ve said often enough that the diet on this island is lacking one or two essentials… such as flavour and nutritional value, for instance. No… things are definitely going to have to change in the kitchen, Philomena.”
“I can only work with what we have,” said Philomena, a hint of irritation in her voice.
“I know that, and you come close to working miracles with those ingredients,” said Pyralia, patting the other woman’s wrist. “But I’m here now…”
“And what difference will that make?” asked Philomena, suddenly confused.
“Because darling,” said Pyralia, with a grin and a slightly worrying glint in her eye, “I really can work miracles…”