Five or so years ago, before he was a landlord, a husband, or a respectable member of anything at all, Rhys Cranham was the island of Hopeless’ Night-Soil Man, a position which, as regular readers will know, comes with a shovel, a lidded bucket, and an intimate knowledge of everyone’s diet and habits.

It was during one of the winter tides –  the sort that rearrange the shoreline when no one is watching – that Rhys uncovered a box in the marsh at the far end of the island. A recent storm had scoured the ground, peeling back years of rot and rushes to reveal an old midden beneath. Although delving into antique latrines was not technically in his job description, the Night-Soil Man’s natural curiosity was irresistibly drawn to its murky depths.

Leaving his bucket at home and slipping a slice of Starry-Grabby pie (left on his doorstep by the pretty, but extremely pale, new barmaid at The Squid) into his knapsack, Rhys took his spade and candle-lantern and went to investigate before the island properly woke.

By first light,  with his boots sinking and his breath steaming,  he was beginning to regret the entire notion, when his spade struck something that was most certainly not compost.

It was a dressed stone, about eighteen inches square, with a single mark etched into its surface. Rhys thought it might be a rune, though to his eye it resembled nothing more than a few straight lines, arranged with quiet intent.

He knelt and cleared the muck away with his hands until the stone came free. Beneath it lay what had once been an elegant wooden box, its lid carved with intricate knotwork. When Rhys tried to lift it, the wood fell apart at his touch. The shape of the box remained, however, pressed into the mud as clearly as a memory, and in its centre lay an ornate horn, perfectly preserved after untold centuries.

The box had clearly been sealed to withstand time and tide, and whoever had placed the horn there had not meant it to be lost; only to be left alone.

The instrument was beautifully made, tipped with a brass mouthpiece and bound with bands of the same metal along its curved length and flared end. The brass had greened with age, but otherwise, if the horn truly was a relic of the well-documented Viking settlement, it had no business being in such remarkable condition.

Rhys lifted it and felt, immediately, that he had done something he would one day have to account for.

He wiped it on his sleeve and peered into the mouthpiece. Inside, faint but unmistakable, was a single mark, scratched by a hand that had not been in any hurry. He was tempted to blow it, but some sixth sense stopped him. The very air around the thing seemed to be waiting for him to make that particular mistake.

Instead, he placed the horn carefully in his knapsack, picked up his spade and lantern, and returned home with unusual care, as though the island itself might be listening.

By the time the sun rose and began its losing battle with the mist, the marsh had already started to reclaim the place where he had found it.

Rhys kept the horn on the mantelpiece. On the third night after its discovery he arrived home in the early hours, exhausted from a particularly busy round, and fell into a deep sleep and dreamed of dragon boats. The following night, the boats returned, but  this time spilling spectral warriors onto the beach. Each night thereafter, the dreams grew worse. Soon he dreaded going to bed at all.

Certain that the horn was responsible, he wrapped it in a leather pouch and stowed it in an old outhouse at the end of his garden, near the sinkhole. If it troubled him again, he resolved, he would drop the cursed thing straight down the hole.

In the event, the dreams ceased. And, as time passed, Rhys forgot all about the Viking horn… until this week.

Winston Oldspot had been Hopeless’s Night-Soil Man for just over a year. In his late teens, and full of youthful confidence, he was nonetheless grateful for Reggie Upton’s occasional company on his rounds. Having lost his sense of smell while serving with the British Army in India, Reggie was in the unique position of being able to endure the occupational burdens of the Night-Soil Man’s role without complaint.

So when Winston announced that his New Year’s resolution was to clear out all the unnecessary clutter from the House and Poo Corner and its outbuildings, Reggie was more than happy to help. That was when the leather pouch and its ancient contents came to light.

“What is it?” Winston asked. “Some kind of musical instrument?”

“No, lad,” said Reggie, carefully taking the pouch from him. “And it’s not a hunting horn either. This, I believe, is a lúr – a ceremonial horn. I saw one once, years ago, in the British Museum. Not in anything like the condition of this, though.”

“Can I give it a blow?” Winston asked eagerly.

“Certainly not,” said Reggie. “You never know what these things are capable of, especially somewhere like Hopeless. I’ll speak to Rhys, I imagine he knew it was there.”

“Oh yes,” said Rhys when told. “I remember it well. It gave me bad dreams for a week.”

“As I suspected,” said Reggie. “We’ll bung up the mouthpiece so no one’s tempted, and bequeath it to the Hopeless Museum. It should be safe enough there.”

“Yes,” said Philomena, uneasily. “What can possibly go wrong?”

To be continued.