Doc Willoughby, you will remember, had blown an ancient ceremonial horn (which, according to Reggie Upton, was called a lùr) that he and Durosimi O’Stoat had stolen from the Hopeless Museum. Ever since, Doc had not been able to rid himself of the infernal instrument, and as a result, was not sleeping.

This was not, in itself, unusual. Unless anaesthetised by alcohol, Doc had never been what one might call a natural sleeper. He had always been inclined to wake in the small hours with a head full of half-finished thoughts and dimly remembered conversations. Lately, however, even the best that the Gannicox Distillery could offer was not enough to deliver him safely into the arms of Morpheus. 

Doc had taken to going to bed fully dressed. Not out of prudence, exactly, but more from the sense that if something were to happen, it would be better to be prepared for it. Shoes by the bed. Jacket folded. A candle-lantern burning all night. The horn, which he had tried unsuccessfully to return to Durosimi on three separate occasions, was never where he left it. It seemed to have a need to be close to Doc at all times.

On the third morning following the unfortunate blowing incident, Doc found it standing upright at the foot of his bed. He stared at it for a long while before doing the only sensible thing available to him, which was to make some nettle tea and pretend nothing was wrong.

Indeed, nothing was wrong, except for the constant sound of water. This was not loud, and did not drip or splash. It was simply present; a slow, rhythmic movement somewhere just beyond hearing, like oars dipping into a sea that was not, by any reasonable measure, anywhere near his house.

By mid-morning, Doc had decided that matters had gone far enough.

He climbed the hill to Durosimi’s place with the horn wrapped in a scarf.

The sorcerer listened to his account in silence, nodding occasionally, his expression growing less thoughtful and more concerned with each detail.

At the end of it all, he sighed.

“This problem of yours, Willoughby,” he said at last, “is totally beyond me.”

Doc felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

“But… but you stole it,” he stammered. “You cleaned it. You told me it would be all right.”

“And I also told you that we should not blow it. Remember?” said Durosimi firmly. “Those are different things.”

Doc opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally said the one name he had been carefully avoiding.

“We’re going to have to tell Philomena.”

Durosimi grimaced.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I hate to admit it, but if anyone on the island has a chance of sorting this out, it is her. Unfortunately…”

He glanced towards the door, as though sensing a draft from somewhere much further away.

“…I’ve heard that Granny Bucket is visiting.”

Doc sat down very heavily indeed.

–◊–

Philomena listened without interruption.

She had developed this habit, having learned that when people arrive at The Squid and Teapot looking as though they have not slept, what they most require is not reassurance but space in which to finish some often alarming sentences. She leaned against the dresser, arms folded, while Doc spoke, his account punctuated by pauses in which he clearly considered leaving out certain details and then, to his evident regret, included them anyway.

When he had finished, there was a long silence.

“That,” Philomena said at last, “is a complaint.”

Doc blinked.

“A what?”

“A complaint,” she repeated. “You’ve woken something up, and it is dissatisfied with the way you’ve handled it.”

“I didn’t handle it,” said Doc weakly. “I blew it.”

“Yes,” said Philomena. “That would be the handling.”

From the corner of the room came a small, pleased sound; it was somewhere between a sniff and a chuckle.

Granny Bucket, who had been sitting very quietly, knitting something ectoplasmic that appeared to have no obvious end use, looked up.

“Well,” she said. “That explains the horse.”

Everyone turned.

“I’ve been hearing nothing but watery noises. I expected something a bit more nautical than a horse,” said Doc. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yes,” said Granny cheerfully. “A great big thing and black as a coal cellar. Stamped its foot twice just before dawn.”

Philomena closed her eyes for a moment.

“Granny,” she said carefully, “why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“I wanted to see how long it would take you to catch up,” Granny replied. “You did all right, girl.”

Doc swallowed.

“Is it…” he began. “Is it here?”

“Not yet,” said Granny. “But it’s been summoned, and then ignored, which is worse. Much worse.”

She set her knitting aside and looked at Doc with frank curiosity.

“You’re not the sort they usually turn up for,” she said. “Too many words and not enough backbone. No offence.”

“I take great offence,” said Doc faintly.

“You would,” Granny agreed.

Durosimi cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, “what do we do?”

Granny considered this.

“Well,” she said, “you’ll have to blow the horn again.”

There was a collective intake of breath.

“No,” said Doc immediately.

“Yes,” said Granny just as firmly. “You don’t leave a door half-open and hope whatever’s knocking gets bored.”

Philomena straightened.

“If he blows it again,” she said, “something will arrive?”

“You can bank on it,” said Granny, pleased.

“And if we don’t?” Philomena asked.

Granny smiled, not unkindly, but with unmistakable relish.

“Then it keeps coming anyway,” she said. “Only less politely.”

Doc looked at the horn, which had been resting against the leg of his chair and which he was quite certain had not been there a moment before.

“Where?” he asked hoarsely.

Granny’s eyes flicked briefly to the ceiling.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s the least of your worries. It’ll make room.”

To be continued…