Nobody in Hopeless ever asked Mr Squash where he had been. Experience had taught them that the answer would either make no sense whatsoever, or would make perfect sense only to Reggie Upton, who had seen more of the world than anyone else on the island. Besides, Mr Squash invariably returned with a cheerful smile and a bag full of objects that belonged nowhere anyone had ever heard of.

Philomena was running a mop across the floor of the bar as the bell above the door tinkled.

“Oh,” she smiled. “You’re back.”

The sasquatch ducked his enormous head beneath the lintel.

“I am.”

“Did you have a nice time?”

Mr Squash considered the question.

“I did, thank you. There were mountains.”

“That’s nice.”

“And a lake.”

“Very nice,” said Philomena, then added, “So I take it, from that, you took the wrong portal again?”

“They tend to move when I’m not looking,” said Mr Squash sheepishly.

Just then, Rhys appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray of fresh bread.

“Mr Squash!” he exclaimed.

“Hello, Rhys.”

“When did you get back?”

“Just now.”

“And did you get to visit your cousin in Russia, as you planned?”

“Ah, dear old снежный человек? Yes, I did eventually.”

Rhys frowned.

“Eventually?”

Mr Squash smiled his broad, gentle smile.

“I took the wrong portal to begin with and ended up in Wales. It happens occasionally.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Reggie had been rummaging in the attics when he heard the sasquatch’s voice, and came hurrying downstairs, eager to see his old friend. 

“My dear Squash!” he beamed. “I trust your travels were enlightening?”

“They were damp.”

“Ah,” said Reggie. “Wales again, was it?”

“Only to begin with,” Mr Squash replied. “I was aiming for Russia.”

The sasquatch looked about the room, expectantly.

“Where’s young Tenzin?” he asked. “I’ve something for him… if it survived the journey.” 

Mr Squash had always held a soft spot for Tenzin, having organised some of his other relatives, the Yeti, to bring the young monk from Tibet to Hopeless. The journey, undertaken to escape the evil lama Dawasandup, was short and brutal – not that Tenzin remembered much about it. Humans travelling through Mr Squash’s portals were always rendered comatose, which was just as well, for ensconced beneath a Yeti’s armpit is not the most salubrious place to find oneself.

At that very moment, Tenzin wandered in, as if on cue.

“Mr Squash!”

The Sasquatch grinned and proudly emptied his knapsack onto the bar. Out rolled three smooth blue pebbles, something that resembled a brass acorn, a feather with seven distinct colours and what looked suspiciously like half a balalaika.

Philomena picked up the fragment.

“What happened to the rest of it?”

“It didn’t make it,” Mr Squash said sadly. “Those portals can be unforgiving.”

Nobody spoke.

Finally Tenzin nodded.

“But you’re back with us, that’s the main thing.”

Philomena quietly hung the broken balalaika behind the bar. It seemed as good a place as any. Lenore fluttered down from the hatstand and inspected the colourful feather.

“Nevermore,” she suggested.

“Quite,” agreed Neville.

Mr Squash looked around the familiar room.

“I’ve missed everyone.”

“We’ve missed you too,” said Philomena.

“The Tomte hasn’t.”

Sure enough, the little fellow stood in the doorway with folded arms. He regarded the sasquatch for several long moments, then marched across the room and pointed accusingly at a muddy footprint on the floor and muttered something fierce in Old Norse.

Mr Squash looked embarrassed.

“I’m sorry.”

The Tomte’s expression softened immediately. It was difficult to remain angry with somebody who apologised before being asked.

“I’ll help,” said Mr Squash, seeing the mop and bucket Philomena had left in the corner.

The Tomte looked horrified. Within moments there was considerably more water on the floor than there had been before. Philomena gently removed the mop from the sasquatch’s enormous hands.

“He’ll be offended if we don’t let him clean it up,” she said.

Mr Squash smiled apologetically.

“I was making it wetter.”

“We noticed,” said Philomena.

As evening settled over Hopeless, the regulars gathered around the fire. Reggie settled down to read, Neville stroked Lenore and Drury – being Drury – slept. Mr Squash was nowhere to be seen.

The chair in the corner creaked.

“You’ve been quiet, Trickster,” observed Philomena. “You’ve hardly said a word all day.”

“I’ve been listening,” he replied, allowing his smoky, faintly human shape to flicker into view.

“To what?” Philomena was suddenly interested.

“The pathways.”

Trickster tilted his head.

“They’ve been moving again.”

Philomena nodded.

“Yes, Mr Squash told me that they do that.”

“He knows?” Trickster sounded surprised.

“I always know,” said the sasquatch, suddenly appearing at the front door. “If I don’t keep an eye on what’s affecting the old ways, my portals can become unmanageable.”

He lumbered into the bar and filled the old oak settle, the only seat that would take his weight. For just a moment the room seemed unusually still. Even Trickster’s smile faded.

“There are fewer of them than there used to be,” Mr Squash said quietly.

Nobody replied, as outside, the wind sighed through the trees. Then, just as suddenly, the moment had passed. Mr Squash reached into his knapsack and produced a small paper bag.

“I brought pryaniki.”

Philomena looked inside.

“They’re still warm.”

“I took a shortcut.”

Reggie chuckled.

“Of course you did. I must say, as cakes go, they look decidedly foreign, old chap.”

“And they smell just like Christmas,” added Rhys.

Nobody asked where the bakery had been. Some questions, everyone agreed, were far less satisfying than the mysteries. And somewhere, not very far away at all, a path that nobody had noticed that morning quietly ceased to exist, while another appeared beneath the roots of an old tree, waiting patiently for the next traveller to wander by.