It was a morning of suspicious tranquillity.
The sky hung pale and featureless over the island of Hopeless. It was a sky so bland that it looked almost embarrassed to exist. The wind didn’t moan. The sea didn’t belch up relics. The fog was abnormally thin, as most of it had elected to stay politely offshore, like a guest who knew better than to arrive early.
Philomena Bucket stared through the kitchen window of The Squid and Teapot, teacup in hand.
“Something’s not right,” she murmured.
Reggie Upton stroked his moustache and regarded the day with suspicion.
“This is dashed rum,” he muttered.
“It’s actually nettle tea,” replied Philomena in slightly hurt tones.
“No, m’dear,” explained Reggie. “I meant the day… there’s something dashed rum about the way it is not doing anything. It brings to mind a particularly sticky incident in Poona, back in ninety-three…
Unfortunately, before Reggie had the chance to regale Philomena with some possibly risqué reminiscence of the Raj, Granny Bucket appeared. She seemed slightly more transparent than usual.
“Child,” she said gravely, “I sense a disturbance in the island’s… um… lack of disturbance.”
“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Reggie, who had long since become used to Granny’s unannounced manifestations.
Before anyone could theorise further, Pyralia Skant wandered into the inn, looking unaccountably smug, which, in fairness, was not particularly unusual, though today she wore the look of someone who had just put a recalcitrant universe in order and was rather pleased about it.
“Ah,” she said, stretching as if emerging from a long nap. “You noticed.”
“Noticed what, exactly?” asked Granny, with spectral hands on hips. “That the island appears to have taken leave of its senses?”
“Oh no,” said Pyralia. “Quite the opposite. I’ve simply paused things. A little housecleaning, you might say.”
Philomena blinked. “You’ve done what?”
“I have temporarily unmade the chaos.” Pyralia smiled serenely. “I thought you could use a day off. No hauntings – present company excepted of course.” She gave Granny a withering look.
“There will be no unexpected horrors, no peculiar seafood incidents. Just one spotless, uneventful day.”
Reggie looked alarmed. “But… won’t the island notice?”
“It’s trying not to,” said Pyralia. “I told it to take deep breaths and count to infinity.”
Outside, Septimus Washwell caught a fish with the proper number of eyes. Mrs Beaten posted a ‘Polite Notice’ on her front door that remained obediently affixed. Even Drury, usually incapable of restraint, was playing fetch with an honest-to-goodness stick instead of a misplaced femur.
The islanders, however, were not at ease. Reverend Davies distributed pamphlets entitled ‘Is Calm the New Sin?’ Neville Moore was seen outside his mausoleum-like cottage at Ghastly Green, shaking his head in wonder at the unnaturally placid behaviour of his pet raven, Lenore, and Doc Willoughby briefly considered patenting boredom as a curative tonic.
By late afternoon, Hopeless had grown fretful. The fog arrived on time but declined to whisper. The spoons stayed unmolested in the cutlery drawer. Somewhere, a whistling kettle boiled without shattering the windows.
Philomena turned to Pyralia. “This feels unnatural.”
“My dear,” said Pyralia, “natural is a matter of habit. You’ve simply become accustomed to calamity.”
“Perhaps,” said Philomena, “but we like a certain amount of calamity. It gives the place character.”
“Character,” said Pyralia with a sigh, “is no more than a euphemism for mess.” She snapped her fingers, and time itself gave a small, weary hiccup. “Very well. Tomorrow, you may have your bedlam back.”
Granny Bucket gave a cynical cackle.
“Of course they can have the usual chaos back tomorrow,” she said. “The truth is that you can’t control it for any more than a day, can you? You’re arm-wrestling with an island, girl, and you’re not going to win.”
For the briefest of moments Pyralia looked sheepish, then, composing herself said,
“Of course I can control it. I’m just not choosing to. These things have to be done a little at a time.”
And so the island of Hopeless passed the remainder of the evening in oppressive serenity. In The Squid and Teapot the fire crackled politely. The ghosts haunting the flushing privy were silent. Nothing screamed, hatched, or cursed anyone by name.
When morning came, of course, Hopeless had returned to normal. The fog returned with a vengeance, spoonwalkers scuttled along on pilfered cutlery and Mirielle D’Illay made rude remarks about Reggie Upton in particular and the English in general.
Pyralia, standing in the gathering fog, smiled to herself.
“Yes, Granny Bucket was absolutely right,” she said to Drury, confident that he could keep a confidence, and that Philomena’s ghostly ancestor was nowhere within earshot. “I can’t control the island… not yet at any rate. But I’m getting there.”
With that, she looked down at her latest choice of workwear. The stiletto heels and white lab coat had now been discarded in favour of garments more in keeping with the environment.
“But getting there in wellington boots was never part of the plan,” she said, miserably.