You may remember that Winston Oldspot, the Night-Soil Man, had found an ornate horn which Reggie Upton insisted was of Viking origin, and called a lúr. Winston was keen to find out what sound it made when blown, but Reggie warned against it, suggesting that it should be stored safely in the Hopeless Museum.

There was, of course, no chance that rumour of the find would pass unnoticed. Indeed, patrons of The Squid and Teapot could talk of little else. After all, it was not every day that a genuine Viking ceremonial horn was unearthed on the island.

It was inevitable that this news eventually reached the ears of Durosimi O’Stoat. The speed with which Doc Willoughby raced up the hill to impart the information was impressive – or would have been, had it not taken him a full ten minutes to get his breath back.

“Seth Washwell’s very excited,” he said at last, with the air of a man passing on intelligence of great strategic importance. “They’ve acquired a Viking artefact for the museum. A proper one, apparently. Found in the marsh.”

Durosimi, who had been listening with his usual lack of interest, looked up.

“A what?” he asked.

“A horn,” said Doc. “Upton called it a lúr. Ceremonial, he says, from the Viking period. Seth’s put it in a glass case with a little card. He’s terribly pleased with himself.”

Durosimi’s expression did not change, but something in the room shifted slightly, like a tide that had intended to go out, then thought better of it.

“Has anyone tried playing it?” he asked.

Doc laughed nervously.

“That superstitious fool Upton specifically said no one was to blow it. Something about bad dreams and spectral boats.”

Durosimi nodded thoughtfully. Although he had little time for Reggie Upton, he recognised that there was more to the old soldier than he chose to reveal. His years in India, hob-nobbing with fakirs and theosophists, had left their mark. Durosimi knew a fellow mystic when he saw one.

Leaning across the table, he said conspiratorially,

“You should volunteer at the museum.”

Doc blinked.

“What for?”

“To help Seth.”

“I don’t have the time.”

“You have all the time.”

Doc considered this, which was unwise.

“What would I do?”

“Label things. Count things. Dust things.”

“And steal a Viking horn?” said Doc.

Durosimi smiled faintly.

“Well, now you come to mention it…”

Seth Washwell ran the Hopeless Museum on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and any other day on which he felt that history required his personal supervision. The building itself was small, pokey, and unhygienic, containing an assortment of objects whose only common feature was that they had been found on Hopeless and no one had been able to think of a better place to put them.

Seth greeted Doc with the enthusiasm of a man who had been waiting years for someone to ask.

“I’ll just show you the new acquisition,” he said, ushering him toward the far wall.

“Reggie Upton identified it, you know. Viking, by all accounts, ceremonial, and very important.”

Behind the glass, resting on a velvet cushion of questionable age, lay the horn.

Even in the dim museum light, it seemed wrong. Not damaged. Not sinister. Simply misplaced, like something that should never have been brought indoors.

Doc swallowed.

“It’s in remarkable condition,” he said.

“Yes,” said Seth proudly. “We’re calling it Object 142: Ceremonial Horn (Lúr). The card was my idea.”

Before Doc could muster an entirely insincere expression of approval, Seth’s wife Mabel burst through the door.

“Seth! Seth! There’s a fire in the foundry!”

Regular readers will recall that, when not rearranging exhibits in the museum, Seth was the proud owner of the island’s iron foundry, now run – in theory – by his seven sons.

“Of course there is,” said Seth testily. “That’s what’s supposed to happen in a foundry.”

“No, there’s a fire in one of the outhouses,” Mabel replied, panic edging her voice. “And I can’t find any of the boys.”

With considerable tutting and harrumphing, Seth handed Doc the keys and instructed him to lock up when he left.

Durosimi arrived ten minutes later, with the air of a man who already knew how the afternoon would end.

“Was that fire your doing?” asked Doc, alarmed.

“It’s only a small fire,” said Durosimi. “Not much damage.”

“And Seth’s boys?”

“A simple sleeping spell,” said Durosimi, smiling thinly. “Now, come on, let’s get the artefact.”

Doc fumbled with the display case.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t…”

Durosimi shook his head once.

“Washwell won’t be back today. We can make it look like an overnight burglary.”

The horn was lighter than Doc expected. Warm, too, which made no sense at all.

They wrapped it in cloth and left the museum, locking the door carefully behind them.

At Durosimi’s house, they went straight to the kitchen. The bundle was laid on the table and unwrapped. The horn emerged slowly, its brass fittings dulled by centuries of waiting, its curve still graceful, still certain of its purpose.

Doc lingered by the door.

“I don’t like this,” he said.

“Of course you don’t,” said Durosimi.

He fetched a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and a small brush, and began to clean the horn with a patience that suggested he had done this sort of thing before. Mud and salt lifted away. The knotwork brightened. Inside the mouthpiece, the rune revealed itself fully. It was a single mark, deliberate, and not a little unnerving. 

The room grew colder.

“We should stop,” said Doc.

Durosimi paused.

“We should,” he agreed.

Neither of them moved.

Doc leaned closer. The horn felt smooth beneath his fingers, the metal faintly warm, as though it had not quite finished remembering the last hand that had held it, either in anger, or in hope.

He raised it, intending only to look inside once more.

He blew.

The sound was not loud. It did not echo. It did not behave as a sound should.

The air tightened. The windows filmed with frost on the outside. The candle flame bent, though there was no breeze.

Durosimi closed his eyes.

Doc lowered the horn, his heart hammering.

“What have I done?” he whispered.

Durosimi did not answer.

That night, Doc Willoughby did not sleep at all well.

He heard water in the walls. The slow creak of oars. A distant chanting that belonged neither to the living nor the dead. By morning, the horn was no longer on Durosimi’s table, nor, indeed, was it anywhere in his house.

When Doc awoke from his troubled sleep, he was surprised – not to say aghast – to find it lying at the foot of his bed, like a faithful hound.

To be continued…