“Six more gates!” fumed Durosimi. “Six more! When am I going to wake up from this nightmare?”

The sorcerer had found himself lost in the pages of a long-dead alchemist’s handbook, an infamous volume entitled ‘The Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz.’

If Rosenkreutz himself had been there to jump through these particular hoops, Durosimi would have been a happy man. The problem was that the only guest who seemed to be the centre of attention at this wedding — the alchemical marriage of the sun and the moon — happened to be Durosimi O’Stoat.

“Much more of this,” he thought to himself, “and whatever tattered shreds of my sanity are left will be gone completely.”

Even his most ardent enemies (and there are many) would not dispute the truth of this. Over the past couple of days Durosimi had been exposed to enough absurdities and paradoxes to satisfy even an absinthe-addicted surrealist with Zen sympathies. Just when the end seemed to be in sight, he was informed by the hooded, faceless creature, who offered him a steaming mug of hot chocolate, that there were six more tests for him to endure. It was all too much.

But what was there to do, other than drink his hot chocolate and wait to see what happened next?

So he drank his hot chocolate, and what happened next was that Durosimi lost consciousness.

He awoke to find himself no longer in the topmost chamber of the tower, a room that had been apparently shaped by architecture and a certain amount of reason. Now the world seemed to have suddenly flattened. The colours were somehow too clean, and the shadows all hatched at curious angles. Trees stood still as etchings; a brook sparkled in fixed droplets, unmoving.

Durosimi gulped. If he did not know better, he could swear that he had woken up inside an illustration.

The grass beneath his feet was ink. The sky appeared to be some etiolated watercolour wash, too perfect to be real. There was an aspect to it that suggested that it may have been painted by a hand that had grown bored halfway through. In an attempt to make sense of his surroundings, Durosimi gingerly turned and saw, drawn with exquisite precision, a castle perched upon a hill. Above it was a caption in Gothic script: The Castle of the Soul.

Durosimi squinted at a curlicue in the foreground, where something had obviously gone wrong. The ink had pooled. Curious, he leaned closer. That was when the ground gave way beneath him, and he tumbled sideways into the margin.

Margins can be the strangest of places. It is here that readers and writers alike allow their brushes, pens and pencils to wander, doodling and annotating as they will and, when the need arises, erasing. The only problem with this is that nothing is ever entirely erased. Everything that has been set loose in the world will always leave a memory of itself behind, and the figures who inhabit the margins are no exception.

That is why Durosimi’s stumble was not into a clean, white space. The margins were alive, with forgotten notations, botched angels, and errant scribbles that writhed like worms in a scholar’s nightmare. Half-erased faces leered from unfinished medallions. A doodle of a jester whispered lewd limericks at him in Latin. Worst of all were the small spidery squiggles that patrolled the edges ceaselessly.

Attempting to escape into the relative sanity of the illustration, Durosimi’s cloak snagged on a thorn that had been sketched hastily in charcoal. Blood (real blood) welled from the tear in his arm, despite the fact that the thorn was two-dimensional.

“Oh! So not content with humiliating me,” he muttered, “the book is now trying to kill me. How charmingly baroque.”

And that was when Philomena saw him in the lower right-hand corner of the page, jammed in among curious symbols. He was a tiny figure tangled in marginalia, waving furiously, and mouthing something that looked remarkably like, “Help! Help! Get me out of here.”

Durosimi also mentioned something about avoiding the margins, but by then she had slammed the book shut.

Philomena and Drury drifted through the silent, sleeping Squid and Teapot and into the snuggery, where the ancient grimoire, guarded by Reggie Upton, awaited them. Being in a state of lucid dreaming, Philomena was able to direct the way in which the dream unfolded, and being the faithful hound that he was, Drury followed her. Leaving the inn behind, they entered the book, landing upon a flat, yellowed expanse that stretched out in every direction; it was an endless sea of parchment. Above them, the sky was an oppressive grey, filled with strange, swirling calligraphy that rearranged itself if stared at for too long.

In the distance, they spotted Durosimi, trapped inside a cramped, woodcut-style scene. They could see a castle on a hill, which overlooked an ancient gatehouse. A forbidding path twisted down, and through the knot of twisted trees that kept Durosimi trapped in the margin of the page. He appeared as a stiff, almost caricatured figure, the ink lines twitching slightly around him as if alive.

Philomena quickly realised that the margins were hazardous. They shifted and squirmed like a living tide, filled with small, spidery creatures made of ink. They skittered and snapped, trying to tug Durosimi deeper into the border where he would be lost forever in decorative oblivion. It seemed obvious to Philomena that the only way to extradite Durosimi would be with magic; she hoped that her Rough Magic would be enough. Battling with enchanted books was not something she had any great wish to do, but her witch-senses told her that, if she were to succeed, this would have to be written magic — something the book itself would recognise and respect. Remembering her grandmother’s teachings, she bent low, pressed her hand to the parchment, and began writing with her fingertip, creating a spell in rough, crooked cursive, shaped from her will alone.

Drury, meanwhile, snapped and barked at the inky beasts, scattering them with glee. He had rarely had so much fun while sleeping.

Slowly, Philomena’s words formed a path, a thread of golden letters stretching across the parchment toward Durosimi’s prison. She beckoned to him. Confused at first, he eventually staggered out of the illustration, stepping carefully along the luminous trail. As he moved, the woodcut image behind him folded in upon itself with an audible snick, like a trap closing.

Just as the last of the margin-creatures lunged towards him, Durosimi stumbled onto the thankfully safe area of parchment beside Philomena and Drury. With a final swirl of determination, Philomena slapped the book shut, and in a nauseating whirl, reminiscent of the worst fairground ride in the world, snapped Philomena and Drury back into their sleeping bodies.

A few minutes later, Philomena, now fully awake, walked into the snuggery to find Reggie, who had given up guarding the now closed grimoire, snoring contentedly. Drury wagged his skeletal tail. What a dream that had been.

She gazed down at Durosimi, sprawled out in a state of collapse, and gasping on the floorboards. He was still ink-streaked and bewildered.

“You needn’t thank me,” she said, with a grin. “But that’s the last time I’m giving you a book to look after.”

Philomena Bucket and Drury, the skeletal hound, drifted through The Squid and Teapot in a state of lucid dreaming, in order to enter the pages of a mysterious grimoire. Their only reason for doing anything quite so reckless was to rescue Durosimi O’Stoat, who had somehow managed to get himself trapped within the book.

Before I reveal whether the pair succeeded in their mission, it is worth recounting exactly how the sorcerer got himself into this mess in the first place.

Durosimi was sitting in candlelight, cradling the magical tome recently gifted to him by Philomena. While the two could hardly be described as friends, Philomena would only have entrusted him with such a thing if she believed that it demanded mastery, but over which she herself could exercise no control. Durosimi grudgingly accepted that Philomena was his superior in the application of Rough Magic, traditionally the province of witches. This particular book, however, required the attention of one schooled in High Magic, and the practice of High Magic has never been the business of a witch, however powerful she might be.

It was in the deepest hour of the night when he heard it.

“It is time,” someone – or something – whispered – and with those words, Durosimi knew that the book was allowing itself to be revealed to him.

Only then did he notice the illustration gracing its cover, which must always have been there, yet somehow Durosimi had not seen it until now. The cracked leather was embossed with a faded sigil that resembled nothing so much as a confused octopus attempting yoga.

Gingerly, he opened the book, half expecting it to complain violently, but it behaved in very much the way that any self-respecting book might.

“The Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz,” he read aloud, with the reverence of a man about to make a terrible mistake.

One of his candles flickered ominously. The other blew itself out in protest.

“You might want to put that book down,” said a small voice in Durosimi’s head.

“Nonsense,” he replied aloud. “It’s about alchemy, and purely allegorical.”

For a moment, the book seemed to shiver – yes, shiver – and let out a soft, satisfied sigh, like a cat curling up after a large meal.

The last candle flickered… and died.

And Durosimi disappeared into the darkness.

Thus began a journey through a book that was not quite a book, in which our scholar would learn far more about the nature of truth, transmutation, and terribly awkward wedding etiquette than he had ever intended.

Day One – The Invitation

Durosimi opened his eyes to find himself lying on a floor of black-and-white marble, the sort usually reserved for palaces, ornate chess boards, and particularly ambitious bathrooms. Overhead, a vaulted ceiling stretched into darkness, strangely punctuated by mechanical stars and gilded cogs, each one ticking softly.

He sat up, groaning slightly. His robes smelled of candle smoke. The book was nowhere to be seen.

The table before him was long, ornate, and quite possibly alive. Vines of silver crept across its surface, winding around the legs of a bronze bird whose single glass eye followed Durosimi’s every movement with a look of vague disapproval.

At the table’s centre, on a silver charger, lay a vellum envelope, sealed with crimson wax. The sigil was of a rose entwined around a cross.

The paper inside was crisp and scented faintly of frankincense and foreboding. It read:

You are cordially invited to the Royal Wedding of the Century (or thereabouts). Attendance is not optional.

You are expected to bring: your wits, a willingness to transform when necessary, and a suitable offering.

The ceremony will commence at moonrise.

Failure to arrive on time will result in your possible disintegration.

Dress code: Alchemical Formal.

Durosimi blinked. The writing was elegant, looping, and faintly smug. There was no signature. After a few moments the invitation gradually faded from his fingers. 

“Well,” he muttered, “that clears absolutely nothing up.”

A polite cough echoed behind him.

Durosimi turned to find a liveried footman standing there, and holding a tray upon which lay a mask: the left half was the sun, the right half, the moon.

“For your face, sir,” said the footman in a voice that dripped like candle wax.

Durosimi sighed, and accepted the mask with a degree of resignation.

“This fellow Rosenkreutz, the one who’s getting married,” he said. “I can’t say that I know him.”

“Herr Rosenkreutz was not the bridegroom sir,” replied the footman. There was a slight hint of mocking condescension in his tone. “He was purely a guest, as are you.”

“Was?” Durosimi looked puzzled at the footman’s choice of the past tense.

“Indeed sir. Herr Rosenkreutz had his opportunity, but he made no great impression. It is your turn now.”  

“My turn…?” began Durosimi, but the footman was nowhere to be seen.

Then the great brass doors creaked open, and the wedding began.

Day Two – The Tower

Durosimi awoke in a tower.

This in itself was not entirely unexpected. Sorcerers, he reasoned, tended to find themselves in towers sooner or later. Still, he had no memory of going to sleep. The wedding, if it had happened at all, had been little more than a blur of golden light, masked figures, and a disturbing number of doves. 

Durosimi couldn’t help but wonder if he had enjoyed himself.

Now, he sat on a narrow bed beside a window that was too high to see out of, and the walls were bare stone. A spiral staircase led downwards into darkness and upwards into a shaft of brilliant blue light. 

The only furniture on the room was a small writing desk, an hourglass, and a cracked mirror that did not reflect him as he was, but as he might have been – somewhat younger, noticeably thinner, and, unaccountably, wearing a powdered wig.

There was a small notebook on the desk. Durosimi picked it up and opened it, hoping that it might provide some clue as to what exactly was going on. Inside, a single sentence stretched across the first page:

TO ASCEND YOU MUST FIRST DESCEND.

“Why does that not surprise me?” Durosimi uttered with a sigh.

He turned the hourglass on its head and began the long walk down the staircase, which narrowed with each revolution. The light dimmed. Symbols began to appear on the stone. Some were alchemical, some anatomical, and one in particular was a very rude graphic in anybody’s language.

He passed a door marked ‘Calcination’, behind which came the unmistakable sound of something being enthusiastically reduced to ashes. This did not seem to be the sort of place where he should linger.

The next door bore the word ‘Dissolution’. Durosimi sensed a discernible dampness seeping through its timbers. He quickened his pace.

When he reached the door marked ‘Separation’ he heard the sound of sobbing. Tentatively, Durosimi stepped inside. He found himself to be in a small room, warm and dim, and utterly silent save for the weeping. In the centre sat a figure hunched over a basin of black liquid. The figure looked up.

It came as something of a shock to see that it was none other than Durosimi sitting there.

Or rather, it was a version of him, bedraggled, tear-streaked, wild-eyed and whispering something over and over into the basin.

Durosimi took a cautious step forward.

“What is this?” he asked, confused. 

“You,” said the other Durosimi, without looking up. “The bit of you that pretends not to care.”

The real Durosimi, if indeed he still qualified for that title, stared. 

“I care perfectly well,” he said stiffly. “I just don’t like to express it.”

“Exactly.” His double offered a thin smile. “You might want to do something about that.”

The basin trembled. For a moment, Durosimi noticed several faces flicker across its surface. First of all he saw those of his dead parents, then his daughter, Salamandra. More surprisingly there followed the faces of Reverend Davies, Philomena, Reggie Upton, Tenzin, Doc Willoughby, and even Granny Bucket. People who, unaccountably, seemed to suddenly matter.

He quickly closed the door behind him and kept walking.

Confusingly, the staircase began to lead upwards again, slowly widening, brightening, and warming as it rose. The topmost chamber was filled with golden light, strange perfumes, and something that smelled faintly of breakfast.

A robed figure stood at the centre, faceless, and holding a jug of what looked like hot chocolate.

“Welcome,” it said. “You have passed the first gate.”

Durosimi, exhausted, slightly soot-smudged, and desperately hoping that this was all a bad dream, took the offered mug.

“The first gate?” he asked warily. “You mean that there’s another one?” 

“There are seven,” the figure said gently.

Durosimi closed his eyes.

“Of course there are,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Of course there are.” 

To be continued…

Author’s note: Readers with long memories, and nothing better to think about, will recall that Reggie Upton came across the “Chemical Wedding” when ransacking the attics in the tale “About Time.”

As there were no obvious mishaps when he opened it, I can only imagine that the book was hibernating. 

Despite her more-than-occasional wish that Durosimi O’Stoat would take an extended holiday somewhere far, far away – at the bottom of the Atlantic, for instance, or possibly on the dark side of the moon – Philomena Bucket could not shake the feeling of guilt that had been gnawing at her for some weeks. Was it a coincidence that Durosimi had been missing ever since she, in a moment of poor judgement (combined with a slight feeling of panic), had given him the ancient grimoire that had so demanded her attention while foraging in the dusty attics of The Squid and Teapot? Regular readers will recall that Philomena had originally tried to foist this book off on the Hermit of Ghastly Green, Neville Moore, but it was obvious that Neville would not be able to control the unruly tome. It needed someone versed in The High Magic, so who better than Durosimi?

“Don’t fret, m’dear” Reggie Upton told her, as he laced up his shoes in preparation for a spot of flaneuring. “A scoundrel like Durosimi would never do anything that he didn’t want to, so you are definitely not to blame for whatever it is that has befallen him.”

Others had said very much the same sort of thing. Even the ghost of Granny Bucket – who usually made a point of materialising at only the most inconvenient and embarrassing of times – had come to offer her granddaughter some words of comfort. Drury, the skeletal hound, had done his best but was less than helpful, his reassuring gestures mainly consisting of wagging his bony tail enthusiastically, while knocking over a coal scuttle and a bottle of Old Colonel ale.

Yet none of this seemed to assuage her guilt. The image of Durosimi’s eager, if slightly malevolent, grin as he took the grimoire haunted her every waking hour. She ought to have known better. A book that hummed ominously and occasionally snapped shut of its own accord was not something to blithely hand over to a sorcerer, much less one of the O’Stoat variety.

And then, quite out of the blue, the blasted thing had reappeared.

To her great surprise Philomena discovered that it was back in the attic, precariously perched atop of an almost complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica (it was the 1910 -1911 edition, published by Cambridge University Press, should you be interested in such trivia). It was almost as though it had never left, but something was different this time. The grimoire no longer trembled with barely contained menace. It no longer growled, or at least, not audibly. Now, it sat as demurely as any respectable tome might, slightly foxed around the edges, and its cracked leather binding sporting a distinct patina of green mould. It may have been her imagination, but Philomena fancied that once or twice she caught a faint whiff of brimstone, but otherwise the book behaved perfectly bookishly.

Philomena eyed it with suspicion.

“Behaving yourself, are you?” she said aloud.

The book, as if keen to preserve its newfound reputation, remained silent and motionless.

With great caution, and a poker from the fireplace firmly in hand, she prised it open. The action raised a small dust cloud, but it wasn’t that which caused her to catch her breath. There, etched in the corner of one of the elaborate, full-page illustrations, was none other than a tiny Durosimi O’Stoat. Unusually, at least for an illustration, he was waving frantically from the confines of an ink-and-wash landscape, looking very much the worse for wear but unmistakably alive – or at least, no worse than his usual pallor.

“Durosimi!” She gasped. “For goodness’ sake! What have you done now?”

He appeared to be shouting something, though of course no sound emerged. Philomena squinted and tried to lip-read, but all she could make out was, “Help! Help! …. Oh, and whatever you do, avoid the margins.”

Slamming the book shut with a decisive thud, she hurried down to the snuggery and made straight for the corner by the fireplace. There, Granny Bucket’s ghost lingered in her usual state of slightly disapproving semi-transparency.

“Granny,” Philomena said, not bothering with pleasantries, “I need the benefit of your wisdom.”

The ghost’s expression softened. This was the sort of thing that Granny liked to hear.

“This is about that no-good sorcerer, O’Stoat, isn’t it?” she said.

Philomena nodded.

“I think he’s trapped in the grimoire,” she confessed. “In one of the illustrations. And I mean to get him out.”

“That’s a noble aim,” Granny admitted, “but a foolish one, in my opinion. I wonder if he would lift a finger if your positions were reversed?”

Philomena had no answer to that.

“Oh well… if you must. There is a way, child,” Granny continued. “There’s always a way… for those prepared to pay the price.”

She drifted closer, peering at the book under Philomena’s arm. “Of course, it won’t be as simple as turning the page and pulling him free.”

Philomena sighed. She had suspected as much.

“You’ll need the right tools,” Granny said. “A candle blessed at both ends. A drop of ink from a cuttlefish that dreams of the open sky. And – perhaps most importantly – someone to mind the book from the outside while you go in.”

Philomena’s eyes widened. 

“Go in?”

“Oh yes,” Granny said, with a thin, spectral smile. “If you want to save him, you’ll have to step into the story yourself.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the wall. Outside, a storm was gathering, heavy with the promise of strange happenings, not to mention rain. Philomena felt a chill run down her spine, though whether this was from the draught blowing through an ill-fitting window frame, or from Granny’s words, she could not say.

But one thing was certain.

One way or another, she was going to get Durosimi O’Stoat out of that book – although, it seemed that in order to do that, it would mean throwing herself feet first into its pages.

To be continued…

When not haunting the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot, Father Ignatius Stamage generally retires to the comfort of his hat. As I have mentioned before, for Father Stamage this is far more than the old and battered Capello Romano that we might see hanging incongruously in the bar of The Squid, smelling as it does of sweat, incense and cheap brilliantine. Once inside his hat, Father Stamage is transported to the Jesuit college Campion Hall, in Oxford, where he can wander the cool deserted corridors of his old alma mater at leisure. This, of course, is Campion Hall as he would wish it, devoid of the bustle of staff, students and other annoying intrusions.

                                ……….

You will doubtless remember Tenzin, the young Buddhist monk who left Tibet under a yeti’s armpit, via one of Mr Squash’s mysterious portals. Since taking up residence in The Squid and Teapot he has always shown great willingness to help with any task that needs doing. However, having spent his formative years chanting, meditating and twirling prayer wheels, Tenzin proved himself to be supremely unqualified to be allowed anywhere near the daily running of an inn, even one on Hopeless, Maine. In view of this, Philomena decided that he would be far more useful looking after her adopted children, Caitlin and little Oswald. After all, she reasoned, he had been a child himself not so long ago, and apart from the aforementioned chanting, meditating and prayer wheel twirling, he ought to have a rough idea what might be required of him. 

Tenzin thought hard how best he might entertain two infants aged four and three. His monastery, high in the Himalayas, was not known for its penchant for merriment (unless chanting, meditation and prayer wheel twirling happens to be your idea of fun). Then he spotted Father Stamage’s hat dangling from the coat stand in the corner of the bar. Youthful inspiration suddenly blossomed, and from then on it was only a matter of time before he invented the imaginatively named ‘Tossing the Hat Around Game’.

Father Stamage was admiring the Charles Mahoney painted panels in the Lady Chapel when he realised that something was not right. To begin with it was little more than a suggestion that the whole building seemed to be on the move, but as the hat was tossed back and forth, to a chorus of giggling as it wobbled through the air, things became decidedly uncomfortable. This only stopped when ‘Uncomfortable’ slid up the scale to ‘Really Alarming’, then swiftly progressed to ‘Really Alarmingly Awful”. This was akin to a ride on a rollercoaster devoid of brakes, or being flung around in an unheated  tumble-dryer. Unfortunately Father Stamage had no knowledge of either of these examples to bring him any sort of comfort, and so he had to resort to stifling a scream, which was only right and proper behaviour in the Lady Chapel. 

Of course Tenzin and the children were blissfully unaware that with each throw, the unseen spectre within the hat was being flung about like a particularly helpless leaf in a gale. Father Stamage found himself in an unprecedented state of distress. He was used to haunting, not being haunted – by inertia, by gravity, and by the terrible indignity of it all.

The children eventually tired, as children are wont to do, and much to the Jesuit’s relief the hat was put down. With his ectoplasm churned around like milk, Father Stamage’s ghost fell into a deep slumber. 

That could have been the end of the story, but he was disturbed once more when Drury, the skeletal hound, burst onto the scene with his own, unique brand of aplomb. With unbounded enthusiasm  Drury lunged, clamped his bony jaws into the hat, and tore off through the inn and out of the front door, his wagging tail rattling noisily behind him.

Drury, being Drury, had no particular destination in mind. He enjoyed the chase, and the rushing of the wind through the holes where his ears should have been. It was only after an hour or so, when he became distracted by a spoonwalker (which offered the possibility of providing far more fun than a smelly old hat) that he dropped it somewhere along the marshy outskirts of the island.

For the first time since his demise, Father Stamage found himself utterly alone. No walls. No privy. No warm, dimly lit bar. No Lady Margaret D’Avening to preach to. Just the open moors, the distant crash of waves, and a creeping sense of abandonment.

Then the wind picked up.

The hat, light as it was, lifted and tumbled, rolling over the ground like a cursed tumbleweed. Stamage, trapped within, could do nothing but endure the indignity of being carried aloft by an enthusiastic gust, only to land in a gorse bush. Spending days, weeks or months in a gorse bush was not a particularly thrilling prospect, even for a ghost, but this became meaningless when a particularly enterprising raven decided that the hat might function as a liner for her nest, and once more Father Stamage peered out to find himself airborne. Miserably he recalled that most of Hopeless’ raven population resided up on Chapel Rock. This was also home to the ghostly Mad Parson, Obadiah Hyde, a particularly unpleasant spirit who nursed a deep and abiding hatred of people generally, and of papists in particular.

I suppose, given the circumstances, the fact that the raven dropped the hat before reaching Chapel Rock could be considered fortunate. Any celebration was short lived, however, as it rolled into a bog where it spent an unpleasant few days soaking up the smell of decomposed vegetation.

                            ……….

Reggie Upton liked to describe himself as something of a flâneur, an all-around devotee of leisurely perambulation. On such occasions he did not walk with urgency or purpose, but rather as an art form. One does not merely go somewhere; one arrives in a state of cultivated idleness.

It was in the midst of such aimless sauntering that he spotted the hat.

“By Jove,” he mused aloud. “A priest’s Capello Romano, and abandoned in the wild, I’ll be bound.”

He bent down, retrieved the sodden, slightly odorous hat, and gave it a shake.

“I say, steady on,” croaked Father Stamage, whose voice was, by now, hoarse from shrieking into the void.

Reggie blinked. “Stamage, old chap, is that you in there?”

“Of course it’s me, you ridiculous old fop!”, fumed Father Stamage! “I have been misplaced and require immediate conveyance back to The Squid and Teapot!”

Reggie considered this. “You’re certainly a long way from home. Would you say you have had an enlightening journey?”

The reply that came out of the hat was not what one might expect from a man of the cloth.

With great care (and a handkerchief to protect his fingers), Reggie picked up the hat and resumed his flânerie.

Upon arriving at the inn he presented the battered headwear to Philomena with a flourish. 

“I found this on my walk. Father Stamage seems to have been rather lost.”

She took it, gave it a sniff, wrinkled her nose, and hung it back in its rightful place. Almost immediately, a faint, deeply weary sigh emanated from within.

Thus restored to his home, Father Stamage resumed his haunting, though now with a certain wariness. He took to muttering prayers whenever Drury passed by and grew deeply suspicious of playful children.

Meanwhile, undeterred, Tenzin invented a new pastime for Caitlin and little Oswald. It was called “Tossing the Chamber Pot Lid Around Game”.

Father Stamage, disappeared into the privy and shuddered.

One could never be too careful.

Over the years The Squid and Teapot has entertained its fair share of peculiar visitors, but none quite as unsettling as the person who arrived one fog-choked spring evening. He didn’t walk through the door, neither did he knock. He simply… appeared, sitting stiffly at a corner table, his presence a gaping wrongness in the dimly lit tavern.

Philomena Bucket was the first to notice him. One moment, she was wiping a table clear of some suspiciously sentient mould, the next, a figure was simply there; pale and emaciated, and dressed in clothing that seemed a little too fashionable for Hopeless, Maine. The problem was that the fashion in question was a century or two out of date. While wearing a high-collared coat over a long, embroidered waistcoat, knee breeches, buckled shoes and faded cravat might be seen by the average islander to be reasonably respectable apparel, it is most unlikely that these would all be worn exclusively; throw in an army greatcoat, a Fair-isle sweater, a stovepipe hat, a pair of purple socks and winkle-picker shoes, and you might be nearer the mark. Hopeless fashion relies upon flotsam, jetsam and the contents of the attics of The Squid and Teapot. Haute couture it is not.

Rhys Cranham regarded the stranger warily, slightly discomfited by his expressionless eyes and smooth, waxy face. Rhys has long learned that some things are best left unacknowledged. Not everyone, however, shared his circumspection. Some patrons began whispering, and eventually Seth Washwell cleared his throat and said, “I take it that you’re new to the island.”

The stranger did not immediately respond. Instead, a slow, dry creak – a sound that held all the warmth of a shifting coffin lid – echoed through the room, as he turned head a fraction.

                ……………………………

“That character was bad for trade,” grumbled Philomena, sweeping brush in hand. “It must have been midnight before he left.”

“I can’t say that I actually noticed him leave,” remarked Reggie Upton. “One minute he was there, and by the next, he wasn’t. Gad, he was a rum ‘un, and I’m dashed well not sorry to see the back of him.”

But Reggie had spoken too soon. At sometime, during the course of the next evening, the uninvited guest arrived once more and remained until midnight. It was not as if he suddenly appeared and disappeared; it was more a case of his being in evidence, and then not. No one could later put hand on heart and say that they definitely saw him come or go.

This strange state of affairs carried on for the next few evenings. Tenzin, the young Buddhist monk who was now resident in the inn, noticed that his arrival seemed to coincide with the rising of the moon, and he would stay until exactly midnight.

Throughout all of his visits, the stranger did not move. He remained at his table with his hands folded, gazing fixedly at some unknowable point in the distance. He neither ate, nor drank; he did not even blink. And yet, every time someone looked away, he seemed… slightly different. Was his coat now a shade darker? His waistcoat a little more ornate? And his expression – inasmuch as he had such a thing – was just a touch more knowing than before.

Philomena whispered to Rhys, “I could swear that he wasn’t wearing gloves earlier.”

Rhys nodded. “I didn’t think that I would ever hear myself saying this, but this is one time I wish that Durosimi O’Stoat was here. He’d know what’s going on.”

Durosimi was the self-appointed expert in all things eldritch and unpleasant, and would doubtless have attempted to communicate with the man at the table using a variety of obscure and potentially dangerous incantations.

“Well, according to Doc Willoughby,” said Philomena, “Durosimi seems to have disappeared, so we’ll have to manage without him. We could try sprinkling salt around the windows and doorway. That might work.”

And that is what they did.

To no one’s surprise, it achieved nothing.

                   ……………………

A week passed, and by then, The Squid and Teapot had become unusually quiet. The regular patrons each found good reasons to be elsewhere. While Philomena, Rhys, and Reggie pretended not to be perturbed by their uninvited guest, Tenzin decided to indulge in some extended meditation practice in his room. The formerly convivial atmosphere in the bar had lapsed into a silence that was becoming noticeably thick, not to say oppressive. Then, finally, almost impossibly, the figure moved.

He gave a slow tilt of the head, and with a voice not unlike the rustle of the wind through dead and dried leaves, he declared,

“This is not my place.”

“You’re damned right it isn’t,” thought Reggie, but wisely kept this observation to himself.

With painful slowness, the stranger reached into its coat, to withdraw something small and round. It was an old, tarnished pocket watch, the glass at its face was cracked, and the hands unmoving.

Philomena, usually unfazed, swallowed hard.

“Y-you’re lost?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.

There followed a long, somewhat anguished, pause.

“I was not meant to wake,” he said.

And suddenly, to Rhys, it all made a dreadful sort of sense.

Trembling, he recalled an old tale that had been related on the island for generations. It told of a shipwreck, which, in itself, was not unusual on Hopeless. Among the handful of survivors was a foppish gentleman passenger who, for reasons best known to themselves, the superstitious crew blamed for their misfortune, and they wasted no time in meting out their own brand of justice by hanging him from the nearest tree.

Ironically, each of his assailants perished quite horribly within a week or so. Who says that the island of Hopeless hasn’t got a sense of humour?

When the foppish gentleman was eventually discovered, his corpse swinging gently in the breeze, the islanders cut him down and laid him in an unmarked grave.

With this in mind, Rhys said, “Then it’s high time you went back, my friend.”

The gentleman inclined his head, then slowly, deliberately, placed his watch on the table.

Events had become so strange lately that no one gave it a second thought when the glass repaired itself with a faint crack, and the hands began to move.

And suddenly, although no one could exactly swear that they saw him leave, the man was gone.

One by one the regular patrons of The Squid and Teapot gradually returned but, strangely, no one mentioned the uninvited guest. The table he had occupied remained empty for weeks, and the watch, despite Philomena’s suggestion that it should be thrown into the sea, found its way into Reggie’s pocket. 

“Just in case our gentleman wants it back,” he reasoned.

Sometimes, just before the clock strikes midnight, a faint creak can be heard in The Squid and Teapot, a sound not unlike the shifting of a coffin lid.

It wasn’t often that Doc Willoughby sought Durosimi O’Stoat’s advice; experience had taught him that the cost often outweighed any advantage. However, an unfortunate interaction between a medicinal tincture of his own devising and a patient now exhibiting luminous pustules suggested that, just this once, it might be wise. The sorcerer, for all his unpleasantness, knew a thing or two about unnatural ailments. Besides, there was always the possibility of a glass or three of single malt, should Durosimi require a quid pro quo of some description.

Arriving at Durosimi’s rambling old house, Willoughby knocked. When no answer came, he did the only reasonable thing: he let himself in.

The interior smelled of burnt herbs and something distinctly amphibian. Doc feebly called out, half-hoping for no response, but the house merely absorbed his words like a sponge soaking up a spill. Lowering himself into an armchair, he attempted to warm his bulk by the dying embers smouldering in the grate.

After a moment’s thought — and railing against his better judgment — Doc decided to take a look around. He had visited Durosimi on many occasions, but had never ventured far beyond the front parlour.

A small, nondescript door opened into what could only be described as a laboratory. Shelves lined one wall, stacked with glass jars whose nameless contents twitched as he passed. A fat, many-legged thing pressed itself against the glass and mouthed something in a language Doc did not know but instinctively disliked.

He was beginning to wish he had left the house and its secrets undisturbed while he still had the opportunity. But for good or ill, here he was. And besides, the door through which he had entered the laboratory had disappeared.

Heart thudding, he searched for another way out. His eyes fell upon a circular iron staircase neatly tucked into a corner. Closer inspection showed that, unsurprisingly, it wound its way upwards, vanishing into a recess in the ceiling.

“This house has been owned by the O’Stoat family for generations,” Doc reasoned. “They’ve all had an unhealthy fondness for the occult, but by and large, they survived. If these stairs were good enough for them, they’re good enough for me. What could possibly go wrong?”

It was, he thought, a fair point. Allowing for the dubious pastimes practiced by successive O’Stoats, it made perfect sense that if the laboratory door had a habit of disappearing, an alternative means of egress would be required.

Gingerly ascending the staircase, Doc discovered that, once through the ceiling, the steps did not immediately lead into another room. Instead, they extended through a long, unlit passageway that seemed to fold back upon itself, making the ample Willoughby stomach lurch unpleasantly. After a few dizzying moments, he found himself somewhere else entirely—perhaps a different floor, or perhaps not.

Maybe this was Durosimi’s bedroom. It looked comfortable enough, in an austere sort of way. There was a narrow bed, a wardrobe, and a full-length mirror on the door. Doc could never resist a mirror. Smoothing what remained of his hair, he sucked in his stomach and wandered over, preparing to admire the fine example of manhood it would doubtless reflect.

The image in the glass was, indeed, a fine example of manhood — but it was not Doc Willoughby. The figure staring back was taller and considerably thinner (as were most people on the island). It scowled, giving every indication that Doc’s presence was not entirely welcome.

Hurriedly turning away, Doc spotted Durosimi’s cloak draped over a chair, still slightly hunched as if its owner had just stepped out of it. But there was no Durosimi. Only the lingering sense that he had been there a moment before—and that, in some way, he still was.

Something rattled behind him. Doc jumped, heart hammering. He turned, expecting anything, but there was nothing. Only an old leather-bound book lying on a rickety card table.

This was, he decided, an excellent time to leave. If only he could find a way out.

The room appeared to be sealed, without so much as a window to offer an escape (though, in truth, Doc would never have contemplated risking life and limb by climbing out of anything higher than a couple of feet). He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his head in his hands.

“Think, Willoughby, think,” he muttered. “There has to be a way… there just has to be.”

It was then that the laughter started.

Not a happy, belly-wobbling laugh, but harsh and mocking.

Doc looked around wildly, but there was no one. Even the figure in the mirror had vanished. The laughter grew louder, swelling to fill the room—to fill his head. He reeled, clutching his temples—

And everything went black.

—

It was still daylight when Doc Willoughby regained his senses. He was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, the embers still faintly glowing.

“I must have dropped off,” he thought. “Thank goodness for that. Just a horrible dream.”

As he rose to leave, his gaze drifted to the little door in the corner. The memory of his dream made him hesitate. He smiled at the absurdity of it—jars on a shelf, eldritch tenants floating in glass, absurd nonsense.

Unable to contain his curiosity, he crossed the room and pushed the door open.

He expected a kitchen. Or a boot room.

His blood froze.

Lining the wall was an orderly row of glass jars. Something inside one bobbed to the surface and appeared to wave at him.

Doc slammed the door and stumbled outside into the welcoming chill and mist of a Hopeless afternoon.

“I need a drink,” he declared.

—

The Squid and Teapot was quiet, much to his relief. Hopeless, Maine had never been known for its afternoon drinkers (or much of anything else, for that matter), but the doors of the inn were always open to anyone in need of rest, homespun therapy, or simply a stiff drink. Today, unusually, Doc Willoughby ticked all three boxes.

Rhys Cranham placed a generous glass of the Gannicox Distillery’s finest spirit into Doc’s shaking hand. He had never seen him so distressed and wisely decided against asking why. The man seemed to be in a trance-like state.

It was only when Septimus Washwell burst into the room that he stirred.

“It’s The Anomaly!” Septimus blurted. “It’s gone. Disappeared completely!”

The Anomaly had been an ugly gash in time and space, the product of one of Durosimi’s more unfortunate experiments. It had been hanging in the air for weeks.

“The Anomaly has disappeared?” Doc repeated, his voice oddly distant.

“It seems so,” said Rhys.

“And so has Durosimi,” Doc murmured, as if in a dream.

He stared into his glass.

“Is that a coincidence, do you think?”

 

One of Durosimi O’Stoat’s earliest memories is that of his father bringing a raven into the house. He recalled that it was a cold evening, the sort that seemed to seep into his young bones, no matter how close he sat to the fire. The bird, bedraggled and glaring, dripped rain onto the floorboards as his father held it aloft, inspecting it with the cool, critical eye of a man accustomed to weighing the worth of things that should not be weighed.

“An omen,” his father declared, his voice rich with satisfaction. He turned the bird’s head from side to side, studying the glint of intelligence in its black eye. “Or a gift. Either way, it’s ours now.”

Durosimi, small and silent by the hearth, watched as his father set the raven upon the mantelpiece, where it stood, disheveled but unbowed, as if considering its next move. The boy knew better, of course, than to ask where the creature had come from; things regularly arrived at the O’Stoat house in ways best left unexamined.

The bird remained perched insolently on the mantelpiece. It did not fly, nor did it attempt to leave when doors were left ajar. It did nothing but sit and watch. It always watched, even when his father muttered arcane incantations over leather-bound books, forbidding looking grimoires that smelled of damp and age. The raven watched until, unexpectedly, one dark and dismal midnight, it decided to find its voice.

It spoke not nonsense words, nor the garbled mimicry of an ordinary bird. No, the raven spoke in whispers; whispers which slid beneath the door frames and into Durosimi’s dreams, smooth and slippery as oil. Names he did not know but somehow recognized; places he had never visited, but was able to picture with unsettling clarity.

“You can hear it too, can’t you?” his father asked one evening, catching the boy’s gaze.

Durosimi nodded.

“Good.” 

His father smiled, and it was not a comforting thing to behold. “Then we will keep it.”

And so they did.

The years passed, and the raven — whom Durosimi never named, for it felt somewhat foolish to name something older and cleverer than himself — remained. It did not age. It did not falter. It whispered secrets, and, in the fullness of time, Durosimi whispered back.

By the time he was grown, when his father had long since disappeared into whatever dark business had finally claimed him, Durosimi was well-versed in the language of the bird. He knew what lay beneath the island, what stirred in the mist, what bargains could be struck if one had the stomach for them.

Then one day, as he stood by the window of the house that had always been too large and too full of ghosts, the raven hopped onto his shoulder, close enough for him to feel the icy chill of its breath.

“It is time,” it said.

Durosimi did not ask for what. He simply nodded, reached for his coat, and stepped out into the night…

But that was years ago and, at the time, many on the island believed that he had disappeared forever, just like his father before him. Little by little, Durosimi faded from the recollection of most folk, until one day, to the surprise of all, he returned. He was not alone; in his arms he carried a child – a child named Salamandra, his daughter, by all accounts. And a wild child she was, too, but that is another tale, and not mine to tell. 

Durosimi sat in the darkness of his parlour, alone with his memories. Cradled in his arms was the magical tome, recently gifted to him by Philomena Bucket. Durosimi was no fool. He and Philomena could hardly be called friends, and she would only have given him such a prize if she knew that it was something that needed to be mastered, but over which she would never have control. It was true, she could beat him hands down when it came to the application of Rough Magic, the province of witches. This particular book, however, demanded the attention of one versed in the High Magic, and the practice of High Magic has never been the business of a witch, however powerful she might be. 

The book was quiet now, and trembled in his arms, like a hare rescued from the hunters. 

It was in the deepest hour of the night when he, at last, heard it. The book whispered to him in the way that the raven had whispered, all of those years before. 

“It is time,” it said…