Members of the Hopeless, Maine Scientific Society are excited to announce that they have successfully managed to get a photograph of the Ravenstone, thus disproving claims that it moves around. The Ravenstone is thought to be the marker for a Viking grave.
However, the astute amongst you will notice that there appears to be more than one stone in this image. According to James Weaslegrease, this explains very nicely why the stone has been described as hard to count. It’s not clear how many stones are visible in this image, or what they are, or where they came from.
He added: “I feel like the stones didn’t want to be seen, understood, counted. I fear what may result from this.”
When I pointed out that he seemed to have described what science generally does round here, he added, “yes, it is quite the conundrum.”
A wall, are there. Like Black Cat by A. E. Poe. She was inside. (Dr Abbey)
I’ve always wondered about the way old houses fall down once no one is in them. As though it is the faith of the inhabitants holding the walls up. If no one believes that these stones are a house, then the walls also forget, and crumble.
It is normal to put something in the walls, to help a building stand tall. I don’t know why old shoes are popular – perhaps simply because they are easy to come by. Sometimes when old walls tumble, they reveal bones – cats or dogs most often. I like to think these were beloved pets who died of old age and were kept in the walls to be part of the home forever. Not bloody sacrifices slaughtered in barbaric rituals.
There are stories about someone who knew someone who found the bones of a child in the walls. Perhaps these are just stories, or mistakes made with dog bones, It would be fair to say that on this island, unwanted children are as easy to come by as worn out shoes. Easier perhaps, for you have to feed children, whereas worn out shoes can be repurposed in all kinds of ways.
I am not sure how a dead child would help secure the walls. However, who amongst us has not made sacrifices of one sort or another, hoping to appease the nameless, faceless forces that hold sway over our lives?
She was in the walls.
(Story concept and art by Dr Abbey, text by Nimue.)
Even by the dubious standards of Hopeless, Maine, to have a mysterious fissure appear high up between the trees, splitting the grubby air like an annoying chink in the curtains, was more than a little odd. Even odder were the ribbons of sickly green mist that issued from somewhere deep within, mingling promiscuously with the island’s own sickly white mist.
So alarmed had the islanders been by the sudden arrival of this anomaly that a rota was immediately drawn up, and concerned citizens were recruited to keep a twenty-four hour watch over it.
To the surprise of all, Durosimi O’Stoat had shown himself to be uncharacteristically public-spirited, adding his name to the list of those volunteering to be watchers. In fact, so keen was Durosimi to help, that he insisted that he should cover those hours of darkness that no one else wanted, and referred to them as ‘The Graveyard Shift’.
As you might imagine, this arrangement made everyone very happy; everyone, that is, except Philomena Bucket.
Experience had taught Philomena that Durosimi could not be trusted. She had no doubts that he knew more about the anomaly than he was telling, and was up to no good. The fact that just about everyone else on Hopeless, even Mr Squash the Sasquatch, seemed to be convinced of Durosimi’s best intentions, left Philomena feeling isolated and alone in her suspicions. She needed advice as to what she should do; basically, she needed Granny Bucket, but this was a forlorn hope.
Although her grandmother had been dead for twenty years or more, the old lady’s ghost had invariably managed to show up and invade Philomena’s privacy at the most awkward of times, more often than not causing havoc, embarrassment and generally interfering. On the other hand, however, Granny had a habit of being conspicuous by her absence when her ghostly presence would have been a definite advantage, and this evening was one of those occasions. Granny was nothing, if not consistent.
“I’m going to have to go down to the anomaly and find out what he’s really doing,” Philomena muttered to herself.
While wandering around Hopeless in the dead of night would have been daunting to most islanders, Philomena had no such worries. She was the last, and most powerful, of a long line of witches, and wouldn’t put up with any nonsense from the assortment of ghouls, vampires, werewolves and demons who frequented the island after dark.
The anomaly looked stranger than ever when viewed in darkness; a rippling green tear in the fabric of the night. Durosimi was standing in front of it, his arms held aloft and chanting something unintelligible.
“He’s been doing that for almost an hour,” said a soft voice, no more than six inches from Philomena’s ear.
Even a witch as powerful as Philomena can be forgiven for jumping with fright, and feeling her bowels turn to water, when an apparently disembodied voice unexpectedly pipes up from nowhere in the middle of the night.
“Oh, I am sorry,” apologised Miss Calder.
She was hovering by the Ravenstone, a local landmark that reputedly marked a Viking burial, and her wraith shimmered quietly in the darkness.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.
“That’s quite alright,” lied Philomena, relieved and hurriedly composing herself. “Have you been here very long?”
“Ever since Durosimi arrived,” replied Miss Calder. “It occurred to me that he might need watching.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one with a suspicious mind,” said Philomena. “And it looks as though we’re right. What do you think he’s up to?”
Miss Calder’s pale, attractive face went briefly skeletal, a sure sign that she was either excited or agitated.
“I spotted him a few days ago, lurking around here with Doc Willoughby. It was late in the afternoon, and for some reason Doc was wearing a funny costume. They seemed to be casting a spell of some sort, but at the time it didn’t seem to work. A couple of hours later this what-do-you-call-it suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and I’m sure that Durosimi knows exactly what it is.”
Meanwhile, Durosimi was congratulating himself that he had, apparently, managed to create a portal to some other land. The fact that it was situated high in the air and well out of his reach, however, posed something of a problem. He had tried various spells to encourage the thing to slip down a few feet, to somewhere a shade more accessible, but to no avail. Nothing was working.
“You might as well go home to bed, Philomena,” said Miss Calder. “I don’t sleep, so I can keep an eye on Durosimi, and will let you know if anything happens.”
For once in her life Philomena didn’t argue.
Durosimi had been sitting on a particularly uncomfortable tree stump for thirty long minutes and staring fixedly at the anomaly, wondering what to do next. Although there were two more hours before Reggie Upton was due to take over as watchman, the sorcerer decided to go home straight away and look again at the Etruscan spell, in the hope that it would provide an answer to his problem. From her vantage point, Miss Calder watched him leave, shaking her ghostly head in disapproval of his cavalier attitude and lack of commitment.
No sooner had Durosimi disappeared from sight than the anomaly began to act strangely. It flexed wildly, bulging and bending until it formed a perfect circle. Then, belching stifling billows of the green mist, it gradually began to expand, pushing aside the trees surrounding it as easily as if they were no more substantial than reeds.
Miss Calder’s face was transformed into a grinning death’s-head as she watched a long, sinuous shape slip down from what was now quite obviously a portal, though she did not dare to think where it might lead.
Her attention was, by now, fixed firmly on the ghastly, snake-like creature slithering menacingly towards her. Although, fairly certain that it could not harm her ghostly form, Miss Calder drifted instinctively back, out of its way, then watched in fascinated horror as it crawled up the Ravenstone, all the while shifting it’s shape, and eventually assuming a malevolent and cadaverous human aspect. The odious aberration turned his head to the portal and gave a high-pitched, unearthly call. Within seconds, other shapes began dropping through the green mist; nameless, fanged horrors with writhing limbs and many eyes.
Miss Calder, agitated beyond belief and totally skeletal by now, slipped quickly away to raise the alarm.
All the while a couplet from the Scottish play, Macbeth, taunted her…
A recent gift washed in by the strange tides of the internet, Stu is an author who takes lovely, creepy photos. He responded over on Blueksy to a Hopeless shoutout for that sort of content, and will be donating a whole array of photos to the project.
Social media is either me (Nimue) or James, who likes to do his Weaslegrease thing on a Wednesday, for the alliteration.
Stu Hennigan is a writer, editor, poet and musician from the north of England. His next book, Disappear Here: Bret Easton Ellis’ America will be published by Ortac Press in 2026.
I’m sharing this wonderful plague doctor photo today because overall it’s a bit modern for a Hopeless story, but it gives you a flavour of what is to come.
We’ve had a wealth of photographic contributions and promises of more to come from a few splendid people so there should be all kinds of new energy for stories in the coming months. If you are on the writing side and are interested in picking up a photo as a writing prompt, wave your tentacles.
To say that Durosimi O’Stoat had not slept well would be an understatement. He had lain awake all night trying to fathom why his attempt to open a portal to the rest of the world had failed so dismally, despite all of his preparations and precautions. It made no sense! He couldn’t even blame Doc Willoughby, who had carried out his instructions to the letter. Something had gone wrong and he needed to know why; Durosimi did not like failure.
Daylight seemed to be fighting a losing battle, as it valiantly struggled through the fog of another Hopeless morning. Durosimi had no sooner succumbed to sleep, slipping gently into a delicious sense of comfortable numbness, and flirting with his first dream, when he was dragged rudely back to full consciousness by a serious of urgent raps upon his front door. Muttering and cursing, the sorcerer stumbled out of bed and padded his way downstairs, flinging open the door with a look that said, “This had better be good!”
Doc Willoughby was momentarily struck dumb by the apparition standing before him, resplendent in a crumpled nightshirt, hand-knitted pink bed socks, and a nightcap sitting at an angle that might have been considered jaunty, under other circumstances.
Before Durosimi could snarl an appropriately scathing matutinal greeting, Doc blurted out,
“It’s happened. We did it. We damned well did it.”
It took a second or two for the meaning of Doc’s words to sink in. Durosimi opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, then dashed back indoors to put on clothes more fitting to the occasion.
By the time Doc Willoughby and Durosimi reached their destination, a sizeable crowd had already gathered, to wonder at the strange gap that had appeared between the trees. News travels fast on Hopeless.
“What do you think this is?” asked Philomena Bucket, looking up into Mr Squash’s deep, wise eyes. “Could it be another portal opening up?”
“I can’t say that it’s anything like one that I have ever seen,” admitted the Sasquatch. “It is almost as though someone has torn a hole in the air. And I really don’t like the thin green mist that’s leaking from it.”
“I noticed that as well,” said Rhys Cranham, who, until little more than a year ago had been the island’s Night-Soil Man. “It reminds me of whatever it is that’s swirling about at the bottom of the sinkhole at Pooh corner.”
A shiver went down Philomena’s spine. Although she was no wiser than Rhys, with regard to the contents of the sinkhole in the Night-Soil Man’s garden, this did not sound at all good.
Lingering at the rear of the crowd, Durosimi looked upon the strange rip in the fabric of the morning with mixed feelings.
“I can’t believe that we really managed to do this,” said Doc excitedly.
“Be quiet, you fool,” hissed Durosimi, glaring at his companion. If looks could maim, Doc would been carried home in several small boxes that day.
“Surely…” began Doc, but was roughly silenced by Durosimi, who drew him away, out of earshot of the crowd.
“No one must know that I… that we are responsible for doing this,” he rasped. “Do you understand? If that thing really is a portal, don’t expect it to take you anywhere that you might want to visit.”
Doc looked confused, and asked, “Then where does it lead to?”
Durosimi drew a deep breath. “I dread to think,” he replied.
That evening, a council of war was held in The Squid and Teapot.
“We need to keep people well away from there,” said Mr Squash. “I can bang some stakes into the ground and fence the area off, just to be on the safe side”
”Do you really think that it’s dangerous?” asked Rhys.
Before the Sasquatch could answer, Philomena said, “Mr Squash is right. That hole in the atmosphere is a total anomaly. It’s best that we err on the side of caution.”
“In that case, maybe we should get a few volunteers to take turns keeping an eye on it,” said Reggie Upton. “Ideally we should have someone watching the thing around the clock. I could put a rota together, if you like.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” said Rhys. “You never know, we might even get Durosimi to help out.”
“Oh, yes,” observed Philomena drily. “Perhaps he could patrol the area on a flying pig.”.
Despite Philomena’s scepticism, and much to everyone’s surprise, Durosimi did indeed agree to be part of the volunteer group charged with keeping watch over ‘The Anomaly’, as everyone was now calling it. In fact, he had even put his name forward to do all of his shifts at night, secretly reasoning to himself that this would provide an excellent opportunity to study, without disturbance, and at close quarters, the result of his recent foray into Etruscan magic.
“He’s up to something,” said Philomena to Mr Squash, when she heard the news. “Maybe someone should be watching the watcher.”
I’ve never liked fantasy tropes regarding prophecies and chosen ones. Nor am I very keen on the YA trope of special people who can do the things because they were born special. It leaves most of us firmly outside of the story, with little reason to imagine ourselves having agency.
Hopeless, Maine’s Salamandra was brought into existence to serve an agenda. She’s grown up different, and mostly been told this makes her weird and unacceptable. There have also been messages about what she ought to do with her power, often from those who want to use and control her. Over the years, Salamandra has steadfastly resisted any suggestion of being a chosen one, although in the final book she does give it a go.
On the whole she’s not keen to use her power. A lot of that is about not wanting the responsibility. She doesn’t want to have to go round fixing everything for everyone. It’s Owen who has all the inclinations to fix things and rescue people. Usually Owen is the one persuading Salamandra to step up.
It’s important to note that, despite having been born magical, she’s not unique or even standout good at it. Within the graphic novels we have Annamarie Nightshade – a powerful witch, and Lilly-May, who combines making and magic. Meanwhile over at The Squid and Teapot there’s Philomena Bucket, who is remarkably powerful and rather good at figuring out when to use that, and when not to.
I’m a big believer in free will, and resistant to stories about destiny. Whatever power we have, it’s our choice about how to use that which makes most odds.
It is possible that readers of these Tales from the Squid and Teapot will be surprised to learn that Durosimi O’Stoat is in possession of something resembling a sense of humour. I agree, it’s hard to countenance, but don’t take my word for it – just take a look at the picture attached to this tale.
“That isn’t Durosimi O’Stoat,” some of the more astute of you may say. “That’s Samuel Liddel MacGregor Mathers, a British occultist,” and you would be absolutely correct. So, bear with me, and all will be revealed.
You may remember that Durosimi had discovered an ancient parchment which apparently detailed, in the long dead Etruscan language, how one might open a portal to other lands. While Durosimi was confident that he could successfully translate the document, he had to bear in mind that there is always a danger when dabbling in such arcane matters, inasmuch as uttering a spell even slightly incorrectly might prove somewhat detrimental to the speaker. This might possibly entail turning him inside-out, or doing something similarly disagreeable.
Such danger would have deterred lesser men, but Durosimi has never been one to flinch from risks in the pursuance of knowledge or wealth… but he is, however, a pragmatist at heart.
“Why put yourself in danger, when you can get some sucker to do it for you?”
This had long been his motto, and, on this occasion, the sucker in question was to be Doc Willoughby.
It had taken half a bottle of single malt whisky and most of the day to convince the Doc that he was perfect for the job in hand. Although Willoughby professed to be a man of science and learning, Durosimi had always been aware that he was an out and out Quack, and, when it came down to it, not a particularly bright one, either. But Durosimi was not the sort to hold such failings against him. Besides, it made the Doc extremely easy to manipulate.
“I can’t see why you’re asking me to cast the spell,” complained the Doc, not unreasonably. “After all, you’re the sorcerer.”
“I have other responsibilities,” replied Durosimi, importantly. “It is necessary that I observe the spell unfolding from a safe dist… I mean from a sensible distance. After all, we can’t be certain exactly where the portal will materialise. Besides, the regalia doesn’t fit me properly.”
“Regalia? What regalia?” Doc Willoughby looked puzzled.
“Oh, it’s nothing much,” said Durosimi, airily. “But wearing it is a crucial part of the ceremony.”
This, of course, was total rubbish, but it amused Durosimi, and gave him the great satisfaction of making Doc look ridiculous. I have no idea how the photographic representation of MacGregor Mathers, one of the founder members of The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, came into Durosimi’s keeping, but this was the inspiration for the costume that Doc was to be wearing when he cast the spell. It was, Durosimi reasoned, no more than the old fool deserved for being so gullible.
“So where is this regalia?” asked Doc. “Perhaps I should try it on. After all, it might not fit me either.”
“Oh, I can promise you, it will fit,” said Durosimi. “But you shouldn’t see it before the ceremony, or the magic won’t work properly.”
Doc was far from happy about this, but held his tongue. It is never very wise to argue with Durosimi.
According to the Etruscan parchment, the most auspicious time to open a portal is at the rising of a full moon. Durosimi had calculated that this would be at precisely 4pm on the following Monday, just two days away. Although being in daylight made the possibility of being seen much more likely, this was offset by the delicious prospect of Doc standing in his ridiculous costume in full view of anyone passing by. Durosimi almost smiled with glee.
“Have I really got to wear this?” Doc looked aghast at himself in Durosimi’s full-length mirror. The leather helmet was not too bad, he had to admit, but the moth-eaten fur stole, the faded blue cummerbund and a lady’s nightgown, pink and shapeless, were not the clothing he had envisioned himself to be wearing that day.
“Being on this wretched island means that we have to compromise here and there,” said Durosimi. “Make do and mend, and all that. It’s the intention that’s important, Willoughby old friend.”
“And why do I have to carry a skunk-cabbage stuck on the end of a broom handle? I’ll be a laughingstock.”
“Nonsense,” replied Durosimi, employing his best poker-face. “Anyway, no one will see you, and carrying the plant is an important part of the ceremony. It represents…um… growing life, and other such things. Now come on, it’s time for us to go… have you got the words to the spell?”
Doc looked furtively about him, keen not to be spotted, as the two made their way from Durosimi’s house to the nearby clearing where the portal was to be situated.
“Stand in front of these two trees, and when you hear the church clock strike four, carefully say those words that I have written,” said Durosimi, pushing Doc forward.
“Where will you be?”
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” replied Durosimi, then hurried off to shelter behind a large rock, some fifty yards away.
The church clock struck four, and Doc Willoughby began intoning the spell in the way that Durosimi had instructed. It was then that Mireille D’Illay, of Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge, chose to wander past. She stopped and stared at the spectacle before her in disbelief, then, with a dismissive shake of her head and a Gallic shrug, she said
“Mon Dieu, he is as mad as the English,” and continued on her way.
“Nothing seems to be happening,” Doc called to Durosimi.
“Then do it again, man. That blasted French dancer must have distracted you.“
Doc repeated the spell, this time without interruption, but the result was the same.
“I don’t know what’s gone wrong,” fumed Durosimi. He hadn’t even had the pleasure of seeing Doc being turned inside out. “I need to study this further… and for goodness sake, get those ridiculous clothes off.”
It was some hours later, and Winston Oldspot , the Night-Soil Man, ventured out on his rounds, accompanied by his friend, Mr Squash.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the night sky. “It’s the first full moon of the year.”
Mr Squash was about to reply, but suddenly stopped walking, at the same time resting his hand on Winston’s shoulder.
“Stay where you are, lad,” he said in a gruff whisper.
No more than a dozen yards in front of them, a thin sliver of vertical light rippled from between the trees, like torchlight shining through a gap in some very long curtains.
“What do you think is causing that?” asked Winston, not a little alarmed.
“I have no idea,” replied the Sasquatch, “but whatever it is, I don’t think I want to get any closer.”
Even as he spoke, the gap widened a little, bleeding a sickly-green mist into the Hopeless night…
Mrs Beaten has been quiet for a while. You should worry about what she’s up to when she’s quiet, it isn’t a good sign.
With luck and a fair wind, there will be new Mrs Beaten art along some time soon. There’s also a Mrs Beaten book that has been skulking about in the pantry for a while, eyeing the crockery skeptically and making critical remarks about the jam.
This is just a teaser really, a watch this space kind of post. Starch your collars, Mrs Beaten will be back in earnest at some point, and this time she’s got a really big spoon.
(This post is mostly Nimue’s fault although Keith took the photo.)
As we turn towards spring, it seems like a good time to remind citizens about the occasional risks of Wooden Jokers. As yet, no one has determined what manner of entity these are – tree growths? Fungi? Demonic forces? We don’t know. What we do know is that they resemble human men and women, grow out of the trunks of trees and cause nothing but trouble.
Usually they look rather attractive, and can draw the attention of the lonely and sexually destitute. If you fall into this unhappy camp then it is as well to stay out of the woods during the spring, when the sap is rising. Wooden Jokers can be strangely attractive at this time.
My personal theory is that if you find one in the deeper woods, it will probably kill you. Survivors of Wooden Jokers have tended to be on the wood margins, where rescue is feasible. If you are visible to other islanders, someone may come along and cut you free from the tree. This is never a dignified process. The more enthusiasm the tree has provoked in the victim, the less dignified the release is bound to be, if I may speak circumspectly.
It is possible that some Wooden Jokers release their victims after a time. No one has ever admitted to such an experience. I myself make a point of keeping well away from such trees and definitely have no insight into whether there is any scope for enjoying their bounty and then escaping with life and reputation unharmed. It would be unwise to try. No matter how they shake their branches at you.
Durosimi O’Stoat pulled his overcoat tightly around him, in a forlorn effort to keep at bay the icy wind that was blowing in from the Atlantic. He hoped it would be worth his while, following Mr Squash for yet another long night of apparently aimless wandering. It puzzled Durosimi why the Sasquatch should have chosen to return to The Squid and Teapot at Christmas; after all, there is no good reason why anyone should be celebrating the season here on this most miserable of islands, Hopeless, Maine. The sorcerer, who was inclined to judge everyone by his own set of standards, could only conclude that the Sasquatch must have had an excellent, and probably dubious, motive to want to return.
For night after night, Durosimi trudged around after Mr Squash, keeping a safe distance downwind, and ducking into shadows at the slightest hint of discovery. When, after a week, and the whole enterprise seemed to be fruitless, he finally decided to cut his losses. It was during that eleventh hour that Durosimi overheard a snatch of conversation which, while heralding no clue as to why the Sasquatch had returned, made his catalogue of discomforts almost worthwhile.
“If the need arises,” he heard Mr Squash declare to Reggie Upton, “I can always build another portal to Tibet, or, indeed, to anywhere I choose. They’re not difficult to do.”
Durosimi held no illusions that Mr Squash would let him in on his secrets, but it was enough to know that these mysterious portals had been man-made (or Sasquatch-made in this instance) and not some natural phenomenon that could never be replicated. Durosimi was confident that, if the business of building a portal could be achieved by some overgrown neanderthal (his words), then he, the greatest sorcerer in the Northern Hemisphere (again, his words, unsurprisingly), would, with the application of his genius, be able to produce something at least as wonderful, if not better.
With these thoughts in his head, and the metaphorical bit lodged firmly between his teeth, Durosimi was now totally convinced that somewhere in his formidable library, hidden in that vast assortment of ancient tomes, forbidden grimoires, therimoires, diabologues, spell-books and an almost complete set of farmers’ almanacs, would lie the secret words which would open a portal to anywhere in the world, or, who knows, even the universe.
Over the following week, anyone passing Durosimi’s window might have spotted him at any hour of the day or night, bent over a manuscript of some description, or wrestling with a huge, leather bound book. His candles were burning from dusk until dawn, for having embarked upon this quest, he refused to eat or sleep until he had found the treasure that he was seeking.
One grey, misty morning Durosimi burst through his front door and exclaimed to the world, in triumph,
“I have it!”
Doc Willoughby, who happened to be passing by, hoped that, whatever it was that Durosimi had, it wasn’t contagious. To be on the safe side, he looked him over with a wary eye. Even Doc’s limited medical expertise could detect that Durosimi was not quite as he should be. His tired eyes glowed with a wild light, and he appeared to have lost weight. His skin was as yellow as the parchment he held in his shaking hands.
“It’s Etruscan,” Durosimi said excitedly.
“I can’t say that I’ve ever treated a case of that…”
began the Doc, but Durosimi was too excited to hear him.
“It has been copied from a tablet, but the answer is here, I’m sure…” said Durosimi.
“Ah, so you’ve got a tablet,” said Doc. “Tablets are good. Be sure to take plenty.”
It was then that Durosimi realised that Doc Willoughby had no idea what he was talking about.
“Willoughby, come on in, old friend, and I’ll explain everything,” he said. “You might be able to help.”
Doc was more than happy to obey. Old friend, eh? That boded well, and whisky seemed to be involved somewhere or other whenever Durosimi wanted to include Doc in his plans. Even at nine in the morning.
“So, you see,” confided Durosimi “It’s not just the likes of Squash who can build these portals, and the proof is all here, on this piece of parchment. I must admit, my grasp of Etruscan is a little rusty. but …”
“Remind me again what Etruscan is, exactly,” said the Doc, tentatively.
“Oh, it’s an ancient language,” explained Durosimi. “Pre-Indo and Paleo-European, of course, but not dissimilar to the Raetic and Lemnian languages.”
“Ah, yes, the Lemon languages. Splendid,” said the Doc knowledgeably. “Sorry, they had temporarily slipped my mind.”
“Anyway, as I was saying,” continued Durosimi, “as far as I can make out, the words on this parchment have been copied from a tablet that was inscribed about three thousand years ago. I’m sure, with a bit of diligence, it can be translated.”
“How are you going to do that?” Doc asked, accepting another tot of whisky.
“Fortunately,” said Durosimi, “Etruscan is an agglutinative language, where words contain multiple morphemes concatenated together. Do you follow my meaning?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Doc, emptying his glass.
“As you’ll appreciate,” went on Durosimi, “what makes the whole process of translation easier is that the language is constructed in such a manner that each word stem can be isolated and identified as indicating a particular inflection or derivation… you know, passive suffix, causative suffix, etc. on verbs, and plural suffix, accusative suffix, dative suffix, etc. on nouns. Makes it fairly simple, eh?”
“Umm… indubitably,” replied a bewildered Doc, hoping that this was going to yield at least one more glass of whisky.
“So, that’s settled, then. You’ll help me?” urged Durosimi with a smile that he hoped was not too ingratiating.
“To do what?” asked Doc, who was beginning to wish that he had stayed in bed that morning.
Durosimi sighed and poured them both another shot of whisky.
