Something moved in the fog.

Reggie held his breath as a small shape burst from the mist and skidded to a halt in the middle of the lane.

It was a spaniel, shimmering and ghostly in the moonlight. The dog stared at Reggie and wagged its tail. Then, from somewhere in the night, there came a tremendous and prolonged eruption of flatulence, which was immediately answered by another. And another.

Reggie slowly removed his hat.

“Oh,” he said. “I think I know what we have here.”

Tenzin looked at him.

“What?”

Another thunderous report rolled through the fog.

Reggie smiled.

“Thankfully, it’s not the Wild Hunt.”

The horn sounded again, and through the moonlit mist, something was coming.

At first Reggie could make out only shadows. They moved slowly through the fog, accompanied by the steady clopping of hooves and the occasional impatient bark.

Then the first riders appeared.

They were two pale, rather severe-looking ladies, each in a long dress, with spectacles perched upon their noses. They were sitting astride a mule which appeared less than enthusiastic about the doubling-up arrangement.

Behind them came another mule carrying two more ladies. And then, through the fog, yet another.

There were six ladies altogether, distributed somewhat precariously between three mules, with a second spaniel trotting behind.

The first spaniel bounded towards Tenzin.

“Hello,” he said, crouching to greet it.

The animal immediately put two muddy spectral paws upon his coat.

“Tenzin,” hissed Reggie.

“What?”

“It’s a ghost. You shouldn’t encourage it.”

The spaniel licked Tenzin’s face.

Reggie sighed.

The leading lady raised a hand and the procession stopped.

“Good evening,” she said.

“Good evening,” replied Reggie, with a wave of his hat.

There followed an awkward pause.

Reggie was aware that some form of introduction was required, but he had never been entirely certain of the etiquette involved when meeting six dead ladies riding three flatulent mules on a foggy road.

Fortunately, the one who appeared to be their spokeswoman solved the problem for him.

“You are Brigadier Hawkesbury-Upton, are you not?”

Reggie looked surprised.

“I am.”

“We have heard of you.”

“Good things, I hope,” said Reggie.

The ladies exchanged glances.

“Mostly.”

Tenzin sniggered. Reggie ignored him.

“And you, presumably, are the Ladies of the Mild Hunt?”

The effect of this was remarkable. Several of the ladies smiled. One giggled. Another fluttered a handkerchief.

“We are,” said their spokeswoman. “How very gratifying to be recognised.”

One of the mules farted. The moment was somewhat diminished.

“I hope you won’t think me impertinent,” said Reggie, “but I’ve often wondered how you came to be…”

He hesitated.

“Dead?” suggested one of the ladies.

“Well, yes.”

“Riding around the sky on mules?” offered another. “Accompanied by spaniels?”

Reggie glanced down. The second spaniel had now discovered him and was sniffing enthusiastically at his trousers.

“The whole business, really,” he said.

The ladies looked at one another.

“We should be delighted to tell you.”

There was another flutter of handkerchiefs.

Tenzin leaned towards Reggie.

“They like you.”

“Nonsense.”

“They do,” Tenzin insisted, with a grin.

“Be quiet.”

The spokeswoman adjusted her spectacles.

“We set out from England to seek religious and intellectual freedom in the New World. We had little money, and our only possessions were three mules, a pair of springer spaniels and enough paper and ink to keep ourselves occupied during the long sea voyage, which was largely uneventful. We spent our days sitting upon the deck, laboriously writing improving pamphlets which we intended to distribute amongst the grateful inhabitants of New England when we eventually reached our destination.”

“What were they about?” asked Tenzin.

The ladies looked faintly offended.

“Improvement.”

“Of what?”

“Why, people of course.”

“Ah.”

Reggie gave him a warning look.

“Sadly,” continued the lady, “just as we sighted the coast of Maine, a terrible storm arose, seemingly from nowhere. The wind howled. The sea rose. And every one of our pamphlets was swept into the air.”

All six ladies sighed.

“It was dreadful,” said one.

“Weeks of work,” said another.

“Some of them had footnotes.”

Reggie bowed his head respectfully.

“You have my sympathy.”

“Thank you. Of course, we scuttled around the deck trying desperately to retrieve them, but it was hopeless. Before long, near one of the many small islands which cluster around the coast, our ship struck an outcrop of rock.”

“And sank,” said another lady.

“Very quickly.”

“With every living creature aboard.”

The spaniel at Tenzin’s feet gave a small whine.

“Yes, dear,” said one of the ladies. “Including you.”

She resumed her story.

“As far as we know, the drowned crew subsequently retired to a happy eternity drinking rum in Davy Jones’ locker.”

“Could be worse,” said Reggie.

“Indeed. We, however, were less fortunate. So distraught were we at the loss of our painstakingly handwritten pamphlets that we vowed we would not rest until every last page had been recovered.”

Reggie looked upwards.

A sheet of paper drifted slowly across the face of the moon.

He began to understand.

“Our ghosts rose into the heavens,” continued the lady, “together with those of our faithful animals. We mounted our mules…”

“Two to a mule,” said Tenzin. That must be uncomfortable.”

“You get used to it.”

One of the rear mules gave a particularly resonant blast.

The two ladies upon it closed their eyes.

“You do not,” said one of them, “get used to that.”

Reggie coughed discreetly.

“And so,” the spokeswoman continued, “we ride eternally across the skies, searching for our lost writings.”

“Have you found many?” asked Reggie.

“Quite a few.”

“How many are left?”

“We don’t know.”

Reggie frowned.

“Then how will you know when you’ve found them all?”

The ladies looked at one another. This possibility had evidently not occurred to them.

“Oh dear,” said one.

There was a lengthy silence. Eventually their spokeswoman gathered the reins.

“We shall cross that bridge when we come to it.”

The horn sounded.The spaniels immediately began barking.

“Come along, ladies.”

The mules moved forward.

As the procession passed, one of the ladies leaned down towards Reggie.

“It has been a great pleasure meeting you, Brigadier.”

“The pleasure was entirely mine.”

She smiled.

Tenzin waited until she had passed.

“She definitely likes you.”

“Tenzin.”

Another lady waved.

Reggie raised his hat.

Then another waved.

Reggie raised it again.

“You’ll wear your arm out.”

“Will you kindly shut up?”

The Mild Hunt disappeared slowly into the fog, the clopping of hooves growing fainter until there remained only the occasional bark, the melancholy note of the horn and, at increasingly lengthy intervals, the distant report of equine gas.

Tenzin and Reggie stood listening. Eventually Tenzin said,

“Nice ladies.”

“Yes.”

“Shame about the mules.”

“Yes.”

Sitting in the snug of The Squid and Teapot, Reggie recounted the story that the ladies of The Mild Hunt had related.

“That reminds me of a song that has been popular with Night-Soil Men, for generations.” said Rhys, getting to his feet.

“And I imagine you intend singing it to us now,” said Philomena warily.

“I do, indeed,” replied Rhys, and burst into song before anyone could object. 

“A night-soil man went strolling out across the darkened land,
Upon a ridge he rested, his bucket in his hand.
For all at once he spied some paper flying through the air,
Ghostly pamphlets, by and large, littering everywhere.

The edges of these pamphlets burned with a fiery glow
The ink was black and shiny and the paper white as snow.
A bolt of fear went through him as they fluttered through the sky,
For he saw the riders plodding up and heard their mournful cry.

Dearie me, oh,
Dearie me, oh gosh!
Ghost writers in the sky.

Their faces gaunt, their glasses blurred, their skirts all creased and stained,
With wraith-like spaniels at their heels they clung on to the reins.
They’ve got to ride forever across the Hopeless skies,
On flatulent old mules – you can often hear their cries.

Dearie me, oh,
Dearie me, oh gosh!
Ghost writers in the sky.“

(As if summoned by the lyric, there came from somewhere high above the Squid and Teapot a long, unmistakable rumble. Everyone looked at the ceiling. Undaunted, Rhys continued.)

“As the riders loped on by him he heard one call, “Yoo-hoo!
If you want to help us out, young man, there’s something you can do.
If you should see some pamphlets a-fluttering in the breeze,
Stick them in your bucket, lad, and put the lid down, please.”

(By now everybody was singing.)

Dearie me, oh,
Dearie me, oh gosh!

Ghost writers in the sky!
Ghost writers in the sky!
Ghost writers in the sky!

The final chorus died away. There was a brief silence, then something white fluttered down the chimney and landed in Reggie’s lap.

He picked it up. It was a pamphlet.

Across the top, in elaborate handwriting, were the words:

ON THE MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL IMPROVEMENT OF GENTLEMEN

Reggie stared at it.

Tenzin peered over his shoulder.

“That one’s definitely for you.”

Outside, somewhere high above Hopeless, six ladies laughed.

And a mule farted.