If you make your way along Gaunt Street, you will eventually come to the bridge of bottles, which crosses the Gaunt River. Hopeless has two towns, for there is an old town and a new town. No one lives in the old town – also known as Gaunt Town. That is not to say it is unoccupied.
Gaunt Town lies on the far side of the bridge of bottles. It is not a place for the living, or for anyone who intends to continue living. The tradition of putting bottles on the bridge is old – old enough that many people do it without knowing why they do it. This is as well for them, but only if they uphold the tradition.
The bottles keep the gaunts out.
Gaunts can only cross the river at twilight. However, like many creatures of folklore, they are susceptible to shiny things, to that which might need counting. They cannot resist checking the bottles. New things in bottles distract them. If there are enough bottles for them to check, they will not make it all the way across the river before the night settles. If they ever do make it all the way across it will not end well for the citizens of Hopeless, Maine.
Once upon a time, Gaunt Town was just the town. Further inland than the harbour, sheltered by a crook in the hills, it thrived. Briefly. The houses are empty of human life, now.
Make sure to leave a bottle at the bridge now and then. The gaunts like to be entertained. It is best if they do not cross the bridge looking for other things to shake the contents out of.
A few months ago, as you may remember, I wrote of the death of Seth Washpool (related in the tale ‘The Next to Die’). Seth was a quiet and unassuming man, but that did not prevent Philomena Bucket, the barmaid at The Squid and Teapot, admitting that she frequently called him by the wrong name, mixing him up with the larger-than-life blacksmith, foundry owner and father of seven sons, Seth Washwell, a man whom he resembled in no shape or form. As far as anyone was aware, Seth Washpool had led a very chaste and uneventful life, but the truth is somewhat different.
Seth had been raised in the Pallid Rock Orphanage, and from an early age wanted nothing more than to be out of it. As far as he was concerned, the years could not pass quickly enough. He regarded the older children with envy, knowing that they would soon be free to live as they chose upon the island. Throughout his early life his burning ambition had been to become that most revered of figures, a Night-Soil Man. In order to do this he would have to first become an apprentice, but, on the very eve of his leaving the orphanage for the bunkhouse at The House at Poo Corner, his plans changed completely. Like many a young man before and since, the direction of Seth’s life altered when Cupid chose to let fly an arrow in his direction.
There is a tradition in the orphanage that children of unknown parentage are given the surnames of notable islanders. As no one knew who Seth’s parents were, he had been awarded the name Washpool after the legendary Cosimo Washpool, the shipwrecked showman who established a fun fair on The Common. By the time Seth was born, the fun fair was long gone, but its memory, and that of the man who founded it, lived on in tales and legends. In a similar way, Annabel Selsley, who had been left in a basket on the steps of the orphanage, was named after the brave and pious Sister Mary Selsley. Sister Mary was the nun who had risked life and limb to bring to Hopeless the baby who would one day become the most famous of all Night-Soil Men, Randall Middlestreet.
In the manner of children everywhere, the orphans of Hopeless tend to play happily together for the first nine or ten years of life, until they begin to notice some apparently irreconcilable differences in the interests of the sexes. After a few years of voluntary segregation comes adolescence and all that it conveys, and suddenly some of those previously irreconcilable interests appear to be trivial in the extreme. This is exactly what happened to Annabel and Seth; they had lived beneath the same roof for fifteen years before they really acknowledged the existence of each other, and then they fell hopelessly in love.
For a year after leaving the orphanage the pair lived happily together, making a home in an abandoned cottage in Tragedy Creek. They lived simply, even by Hopeless standards, but loved each other deeply, and that seemed to be enough. Seth would often recite part of a half-remembered poem to Annabel. He had no idea who had written it, but the words seemed to sum up their relationship perfectly. This is as much as Seth knew of the poem:
‘It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee – With a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me.’
It was certainly for the best that he only knew a brief portion of the poem, for neither would have been happy had they been aware of the denouement.
On Annabel’s sixteenth birthday the pair went down to the beach, as they usually did, to search for any useful bits of flotsam or jetsam that may have been washed up on the tide. Today there was the usual fare, consisting of bits of rope, driftwood, shells and discarded bottles. Disappointingly, there was nothing of any great value to be had and they made to leave. It was then that they heard a plaintive barking, where group of harbour seals were gathered, just a dozen or so yards from the shore. Seth smiled at the sight, then his smile faded to a look of horror as he watched Annabel wade into the ocean, discarding her clothes as she went. “Annabel, come back,” he shouted, pulling off his jacket . “You’ll drown.” Annabel turned, seemingly unfazed by the icy water lashing at her naked body. She pointed to the seals and called to him, but her voice was lost on the wind. Although Seth made a valiant attempt to rescue his love, he was forced back time and time again by the angry, incoming tide. “Annabel!” he cried helplessly, as he watched her disappear beneath the waves. While he hoped that she would somehow manage to fight her way back to him, in his heart he knew that it was unlikely. If she did not freeze to death or drown, she would doubtless be taken by one of the monsters that lurked around the rocky shores of Hopeless, Maine. “Annabel, what madness possessed you to do this?” he sobbed. Then something caught his gaze. Emerging from the spot where the girl had disappeared was a young seal. For a few seconds she let her large, dark eyes rest upon Seth, before bobbing through the water towards the small group of seals patiently waiting for her. It was then that he understood. There had always been stories told on the island of the seal-people, the selkies, but he had never been inclined to believe in them. It was clear now that Annabel’s people had called her, and the lure of the sea was stronger than her love for Seth. “Goodbye, Annabel,” he murmured. “I will always love you. Come back to me one day, if you can.” But, despite his going down to the shore every day for the remainder of his life, Seth never saw Annabel again.
Seth was buried in the cold, stony ground of the churchyard. Afterwards, his friends bade him goodbye and retired to The Squid and Teapot to celebrate his life. No one noticed the woman and her grown-up son who came from the shadows to lay sea-shells upon his grave. Nor did they see them leave, making their way over the rocks before slipping quietly beneath the waves of the dark Atlantic Ocean.
Author’s note: For anyone not familiar with Edgar Allan Poe’s poem ‘Annabel Lee’, here it is in its entirety:
Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.
If Durosimi was surprised, you would have been hard-pressed to notice. This was despite the fact that he had been quietly sitting in his study, poring over a scholarly tome of some description, and feeling confident that he was quite alone.
“Well, I am indeed sorry to hear that,” he said, nonchalantly, turning to face the intruder. “And I am sure that you have your reasons.”
Durosimi had endured a frustrating and totally fruitless week. It had been his plan to conjure Anubis, the jackal-headed Egyptian god, tasked with guiding souls into the afterlife. While this was certainly ambitious, the information that the old god had apparently visited Hopeless in recent centuries, in his role of Psychopomp, led Durosimi to suppose that enticing him back was not an impossibility.
The difficulties in achieving this ambition had been purely logistical. The only clue that Durosimi possessed for summoning Anubis was contained in The Egyptian Book of the Dead, a copy of which had been gathering dust on his bookshelf for years. Unfortunately, the process required a fresh corpse and a group of people with wonderfully strong stomachs to carry out the evisceration rites. After putting out a few feelers to find if a such band of hardy souls could be found on the island, Durosimi drew a blank. He was not squeamish by any means, but, with the best will in the world, felt that he could not be expected to single-handedly perform the whole ghastly business of evisceration, store the brain and internal organs in jars and mummify the body, while simultaneously reciting the various spells necessary to invoke Anubis. It was just too much for one person to do, even Durosimi. There had to be another way.
He was in the process of consulting his library of spell-books, epigraphs, cosmologies, bestiaries, grimoires and encyclopaedias, but so far, to no avail. That was when his investigations were interrupted by the scruffily dressed young stranger who had seemingly manifested in his study.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” said Durosimi conversationally. “I have no idea who you are, but, somehow, feel certain that have we met before.”
“Yes, our paths have crossed once or twice,” conceded the stranger. “And I have always considered you to be somewhat wiser than the other buffoons inhabiting this miserable rock.”
“I am flattered,” said Durosimi, dryly. “So, who are you?”
A green mist crept into the room and swirled around the body of the stranger, which began to flex and change alarmingly.
With a mixture of fear and fascination, Durosimi shrank back as he watched the metamorphosis. The whole room appeared to shift and grow in order to accommodate the terrifying form of the god, Anubis.
“You dare seek to summon me, mortal?” growled the jackal-headed deity, in dead and dreadful sepulchral tones.
“Then you will know no mercy. I will flay your skin and set your body alight.”
Towering over Durosimi, he reached down and laid a huge hand upon the sorcerer’s throat.
“Mercy, great lord. I did not wish to offend you,” whimpered Durosimi.
Anubis drew back and regarded Durosimi for what felt like an age. Then he laughed. He laughed until the tears rolled down his jackal’s face, which dissolved back into the young stranger, once more restored to human size.
“Oh, stop grizzling, for goodness sake,” he said. “Do you honestly think, even if you were able to raise him, that Anubis would bend to your will as easily as that quack of a doctor who seems to be inordinately fond of your whisky?”
“Then who the devil…?” Durosimi stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly aware of the identity of his visitor.
“You!” he snarled. “Trickster!”
“It took you long enough,” grinned Trickster, bowing with a flourish.
“The last news that I heard, was that you were chased over the edge of a cliff in the guise of a white hare. Running from a band of irate spoonwalkers, by all accounts.”
“Hmm, that was unfortunate, especially for the hare,” admitted Trickster, “but I’ve kept an eye on this place several times since then.”
Durosimi went to a cupboard and withdrew an unopened bottle of single-malt whisky, and two Waterford crystal glass tumblers.
“I’ll be honest, old friend, there have been odd times when I have really detested you,” he said. “And today, probably ranks highest among them.”
Trickster grinned.
“We are birds of a feather, Durosimi,” he said. “And that is why I won’t ask where your whisky comes from; it is best not to know. By the way, do you like my new meat-suit? I found it slumped on a bench outside ‘The Crow’.”
Several hours, and half a bottle of whisky, later, Durosimi and Trickster sat companionably in the glow of a dozen candles.
“So, those dog-headed Psychopomps turning up over the last three hundred years. They were all you?”
“Of course they were,” said Trickster. “And you, of all people, fell for it, hook, line and sinker.”
“But why?” asked Durosimi.
“Why not? It was fun. The clue is in my name.”
“I’m surprised you fooled Drury. That blasted dog is a lot more intelligent than most of the islanders.”
“That was easy,” laughed Trickster. “I told him that all dogs are sacred, and when he was sick of the island, he could come to me.”
“So, no one was sent to Purgatory?”
“I wouldn’t know how to get there.”
Durosimi grew suddenly serious.
“Are you not concerned that you might have offended those three deities?” he asked. “I imagine they can all be horribly wrathful when they want to.”
“Gula and Xolotl are pretty much forgotten,” said Trickster, “and no one has seen hide nor hair of Anubis for a couple of thousand years. When people stop believing in the old gods, they die. It is as simple as that.”
It was a typical fog-strewn Hopeless night when Trickster left Durosimi’s home. The waning crescent mood gave scant illumination as he wavered drunkenly through the trees.
If the visibility had been better, and his young meat-suit less infused with alcohol, Trickster may have spotted the huge and ominous shape of the decidedly less-than-amused jackal-headed creature who drifted silently behind him.
There was a note of concern in Reggie Upton’s voice as he watched Drury, the skeletal hound, bounding around joyously, knocking over anything and anyone foolish enough to get in his way.
“Is that what you call it?” snapped Philomena Bucket, picking up an overturned washing-basket and regarding its spilled contents, now generously patterned with muddy paw-prints, with some dismay.
“There’s no point in putting this lot on the line, they’ll need to be washed again,” she grumbled. “Drury has got the devil in him this morning, and no mistake.”
“Do you have any idea why?” asked Reggie.
“It’s ever since that dog goddess, Gula, took a shine to him,” said Philomena. “It’s gone right to his head.”
“Ah, so that’s why he’s gambolling like a spring lamb,” said Reggie.
“I only wish he’d gambol responsibly,” muttered Philomena.
The news that the ghostly Jesuit, Father Stamage, had been rescued from Purgatory, caused quite a stir on Hopeless, Maine. After all, it is not every day that your island home is visited by a seven-thousand-year-old deity, albeit one that next to nobody had heard of. It seems that Stamage had been spared the perils of Purgatory simply because the goddess had taken a liking to Drury. The osseous old hound had been given the responsibility of protecting the priest, who, ironically, was completely unaware of Drury’s role in saving him, as he had spent the entire time hiding in his hat (if all this sounds confusing you will just have to read the previous three tales. Even then you might be none the wiser!) It was indeed fortuitous for Father Stamage that Gula was greatly attached to all members of the species Canis domesticus (even the skeletal ones), so much so that she frequently presented herself as a dog-headed deity.
How the news had spread so quickly is something of a mystery in itself but, unsurprisingly for Hopeless, several had boasted, in The Squid and Teapot that night, that they had seen her wandering around, and one or two even claimed to have actually passed the time of day with her. As Gula had made a point of being visible only to the already dead, who were, in this case, Lady Margaret D’Avening, Granny Bucket and Drury, this was blatantly untrue. It is fair to say that no one really believed them, but a tall tale is better than no tale at all. Even the tallest of tales, however, when planted in the right soil, has a habit of growing and sending tendrils far out into the community.
Not for the first time, Doc Willoughby was experiencing an emotional cocktail; a heady mixture of great pleasure and abject fear. The pleasure was found in savouring a fine and rare single-malt whisky. Its silky, slightly smoky texture, seductively caressed the Doc’s palate, enticing him along primrose paths of loquacious dalliance, and thence, into the icy shadow of his fears, in the shape of Durosimi O’Stoat.
Durosimi rarely chooses to interact with others on the island. When he does, it is with those whom he considers to be slightly superior to the general populace. Obviously, none are deemed to be, even remotely, his equal, but the Doc Willoughbys of this world are useful ciphers; they are easy enough to flatter for information, and equally easy to dismiss.
“More whisky, Willoughby?” Durosimi gestured towards the half-empty bottle.
“That would be shhplendid,” slurred the Doc, not knowing, or caring, how his host came by the spirit. Where Durosimi is concerned, it is never wise to question the provenance of anything.
“Now, tell me more about this goddess creature, about whom I have heard so much.”
Durosimi was keen to harvest as much information as possible before the alcohol rendered the physician totally unintelligible.
“Well, that Bucket woman told Reggie Upton… he’s a bit of a strange fellow, by all accounts…”
“Yes, yes, now get on with it,” urged Durosimi, impatiently.
“…She told Upton that the ghost who haunts The Squid’s privy – you know, The White Lady – claims that some defunct old god rolls up on Midsummer’s Day, once every hundred years, to drag some poor soul off to Purgatory.”
“That’s interesting,” mused Durosimi. “Do you know anything else about it?”
“Only that the three gods that The White Lady has seen have all had dogs’ heads.”
“Dogs’ heads? In a bag, or on a pole, or something?”
“No, no, silly” giggled the Doc, quite forgetting to whom he was speaking. “Their heads were like that of a dog.”
Durosimi pursed his lips and let the slight go by.
“Do you have a name for any of these dog-headed deities?”
“Upton did say, but I can’t remember what they were called. I think he mentioned that one sounded like a new something or other. Can’t remember anymore.”
Doc’s eyelids were beginning to droop.
“Well, I mustn’t detain you any longer, Willoughby. I expect that you have patients to see.”
Durosimi helped Doc to his feet and manhandled him to the door.
“Off you go… and watch your footing on the cobbles… oh, too late. Never mind, it’ll brush off when it dries. Good day Willoughby.”
Durosimi sat in silence for a long while after his visitor had left. He had not allowed Doc Willoughby to see just how excited he had become, following this latest revelation. Old gods had been visiting the island for centuries, and he had known nothing about it! The knowledge that these deities still existed, thousands of years after anyone had stopped believing in them, opened up all sorts of possibilities.
He racked his brain, trying to dredge up whatever information he could regarding dog-headed gods. There was Cerberus, from Greek myth, but he had three heads; besides, he was not a god, but a guardian. Who else was there? Which culture had gods with animal heads? Of course – the Egyptians!
He recalled that their god of the dead, Anubis, had a jackal’s head. Would that count?
Then Durosimi remembered what Reggie Upton had told the Doc. The name of one of them sounded like a new something or other. That must be it. Anubis.
A thrill passed through Durosimi. If Anubis still existed, then he could be summoned, and therefore could be controlled; but only by the right person.
Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, was surprised to see a light burning in Durosimi’s window. It was two o’clock in the morning, and being up so late was almost unheard of on Hopeless, even for Mr. O’Stoat.
Rhys did not like, or trust, Durosimi. He shuddered to think what he might be up to at such an hour.
Rhys need not have worried. To all intents and purposes, Durosimi was doing nothing more disreputable than reading by candlelight.
The tome before him had sat unopened in his library for years, covered in a fine film of dust. It had been a curiosity, as much as anything, apparently having no practical use; that is, until now.
If Anubis was to be summoned, he would first have to be located, and where better for the god of the dead to live than in his own domain.
Yes, the Egyptian Book of the Dead might yet be the very means of Durosimi getting to that old god, and teaching him some new tricks.
Reggie Upton pulled the collar of his Crombie overcoat up and shivered, watching his breath condense in the chill air of a Hopeless afternoon.
“Dashed parky for Midsummer, what?” he said to a somewhat bemused Seth Washwell, who, until now had been under the distinct impression that he and his eccentric English companion conversed in a something resembling a common language.
Despite there being no handy translation available, from the tone of Reggie’s voice, it seemed reasonably clear that a positive response was expected of him.
Hoping for the best, Seth nodded sagely.
“I used to think that British summers were a trifle poor, on the whole, but this weather is positively wintry,” complained Reggie.
Enlightened by this last remark, Seth felt fairly certain that he would be on safe ground by venturing a reply.
“I’ve never known it quite this bad in the middle of the year,” he admitted. “Even St. John’s warts have shrivelled up.”
Reggie looked about him, confused.
“St. John’s wort? I can’t say that I have seen any in bloom.”
He scanned the area in vain for the familiar, heart-warming yellow blaze of the midsummer flowers that had annually graced his Cotswold garden.
“Not St. John’s wort; St. John’s warts. They’re very common on the island,” said Seth irritably, pointing to a bedraggled plant that sported a small and withered cluster of scrotally unattractive nodules.
“The warts are usually puffed up and perky on Midsummer’s Day,” he said, adding, “but it’s too darned cold this year.”
It was, indeed, unseasonably chilly, even for Hopeless, Maine.
The wraith of Granny Bucket hovered in the kitchen of The Squid and Teapot. Today she had decided to be visible only to her granddaughter, Philomena, who was busily making a batch of starry-grabby pies.
“it won’t be long now. Can’t you feel it, Philomena?” she said.
“I feel I’ve got a lot of work to do, and worrying about the Psychopomp isn’t going to help,” Philomena replied. “We have done all that we can for Father Stamage. It’s up to Drury now.”
Father Ignatius Stamage, the recently deceased Jesuit who now haunted The Squid and Teapot, had been warned of the impending arrival of the Psychopomp, a supernatural entity, sent to drag him to Purgatory. More than reluctant to go, Stamage had hidden in his hat, vowing to stay there until the following day. It was last seen being taken to the Underland by Drury, the skeletal hound (as related in the tale ‘Midsummer’s Eve’).
“The temperature has dropped already, that’s a sure sign,” said Granny, “but you mark my words, it’ll get colder.”
Granny paused for dramatic effect, then added, ominously,
“A hell of a lot colder.”
The passage from the Gydynaps, which led steeply down into the Underland, was tight, even for Drury.
The old dog’s skeletal form barely scraped through some of the narrower parts of the tunnels, and more than once he had to give himself a shake, in order to persuade a displaced rib to return to its usual position. It was not until he had reached the main pathway, far beneath the island’s surface, that the going became easier. To Drury’s great credit, not once did he let the priest’s hat fall from his mouth.
If I said that I knew anything of the workings of Drury’s mind, I would be lying. Often his actions are so typically canine that, if it was not for the fact that he appears to be no more than a collection of bones, it would be easy to regard him as being a fairly run-of-the mill, bog-standard dog. The fact that he is literally brainless, and has nothing in his skull other than the occasional fly, might lead the unwary to believe him to be dim, but this is definitely not so. Whatever force it is that animates Drury, it seems to have endowed him with greatly heightened dog senses and a depth of understanding beyond our knowing. Or, there again, he might just be lucky in his choices. Whatever the reason, it is sufficient to say that he reached the Crystal Cave without mishap.
As regular readers will recall, the Crystal Cave acts as a portal to a variety of random locations. Those who visit, however, have no control over what they find when they get there, not even Drury. His mission had been to get Father Stamage safely away from the Psychopomp, thereby avoiding condemning the priest to purgatory. Where better than the Crystal Cave? In this Drury had succeeded beyond all hopes. It was just unfortunate that the Crystal Cave was in a playful mood on that particular day, for when the dog bounded into its depths, the priest’s hat firmly clamped in his powerful jaws, he was greeted by a cheerless, grey landscape, peopled by the shadowy figures of equally cheerless and wailing grey wraiths. Unperturbed, the osseous hound wandered up the rough, cobbled street and raised a defiant, but ineffective, leg against the base of a rotting wooden boundary sign. It was weather-bleached, with flaking paint and faded lettering, declaring to any desolate soul unfortunate enough cross its path: “PURGATORY WELCOMES CARELESS SINNERS”.
It was too foggy for any to see the pallid, midsummer sun as it slipped silently into the turbulent ocean. Similarly, Gula, the dog-headed deity who drifted into the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot, was completely invisible to human eyes.
“I haven’t seen you before,” said Lady Margaret D’Avening, resting her head on the washstand. “Are you new?”
The cynocephalous goddess regarded the ghostly White Lady with some curiosity, not sure whether to address the head or the body, which stood a few feet distant.
“I am not that new,” she said. “I was first worshipped in Sumeria over seven thousand years ago, so that makes me considerably senior, by several millennia, to all of those young upstarts who call themselves gods.”
“That is impressive,” said Lady Margaret with a ghastly smile, “but it has not stopped you from being landed with this job. You dog-headed deities seem to get lumbered with it every time.”
“We like the exercise,” said Gula, pleasantly. “Now, where is Father Stamage?”
“Far away and somewhere safe. You won’t find him,” said the White Lady.
Gula smiled a doggy smile. “We’ll see,” she said.
The ancient goddess drifted through the privy wall and out into the crowded bar, where only the shade of Granny Bucket noticed her passing.
“It might warm up a bit now,” she muttered to herself.
Father Stamage’s hat – the Capello Romano – lay on the floor of the cave, guarded by Drury, while the anguished wraiths of Purgatory milled around, keen to see who the new arrival might be.
Just when Drury was wondering if it was safe to return home, the awe-inspiring figure of Gula manifested before him. The wraiths immediately receded into the shadows, and Drury bowed his head, crouching down in reverence. Had any of the Hopeless islanders witnessed this, they would have rubbed their eyes and imagined that they were dreaming. Drury was famously subservient to none, and never had been, but here he was, bowing.
Gula knelt before Drury and held him to her. Despite himself, the bony old dog looked up in wonder.
“Most valiant hound. You have braved all of this for your friends,” she said. “You should be rewarded.”
Gula was famous in her time for her attachment to dogs; indeed, they were sacred to her. That is probably why she chose to be seen as dog-headed, occasionally.
Whatever passed next between the dog and the goddess, I do not know, but after a while she sighed, and rose to her feet.
“Very well,” she said kindly, “walk with me now… and yes, you can bring the priest. You obviously think a lot of him. I’ll release him of his obligation, on condition that you make sure that he does not have a totally comfortable time over the next hundred years.”
“I can do that,” thought Drury, happily.
The two walked through the mists of Purgatory together, until, to Drury’s surprise, he found himself in Creepy Hollow, the Capello Romano still clamped between his teeth. Night had fallen and a full moon was riding high in the sky.
“One day, people will realise that Purgatory is closer than they know. It is only ever just around the next corner,” said Gula.
She turned to leave, then paused.
“When the day comes that you are weary of this island, come and find me,” she said.
Indistinct as the mist that surrounded her, Gula disappeared into the darkness.
Drury wagged his tail, gave a joyful bark and cantered off towards the welcoming lights of The Squid and Teapot.
In the aftermath of broken bottles and stamped on night potatoes no one was entirely sure what had happened. No one even admitted to having been there. The most anyone would admit was knowing someone who knew someone who had been there. There were no witnesses because no one was willing to admit to having been there and witnessing the event and by mutual unspoken agreement those who had seen others in attendance and been seen themselves never spoke of it directly.
Everyone one was however more than happy to apportion blame, as ever.
In this case though that blame was easy enough apportioned. It was the fault of the newcomer. The man in the red-tailed jacket who had washed up on the shores of the island less than a month before in most unlikely circumstances. Barham P Bingley. Just how he had washed up in a old but well maintained circus wagon bearing his name in salt damaged, peeling paint, no one was entirely sure. The residents of Hopeless were also unsure just how he had convinced them to help tow his wagon up from the beach to a small meadow just along the road from the bridge of bottles. Other things of which they weren’t entirely sure of included why they had parted with coin, food stuff and other odds-n-sods to sit on uncomfortable wooden benches and watch ‘The World’s 2nd Greatest Showman’s’ put on his somewhat limited show for several nights on the trot. Mostly the audience just left each evening feeling a little sad and in no small part sorry for the little man in his faded red coat, with his battered top hat and painted smile.
The shows were however over by early evening and the audience could all repair to the squid and teapot for a couple of pints afterwards. Also the little man and his show was the kind of thing the residents of Hopeless expected to come to some tragic end. If it wasn’t for the fact his name was boldly escribed upon his wagon, it would have had pathos written all over it. And while they might deny it, the folk of Hopeless could never resist watching another calamity happen before their eyes. As such it became something of a vogue to attend the makeshift show for the first few weeks of what the locals laughably referred to as early spring. Which was one of those dismal fog laden moist springs that never quite got the hang of not been a late winter.
After the first couple of shows, and the merger takings from ‘the passing of the hat’ Barham himself began coming to the pub as well, mostly to get out of the fog for a while and nurse what could, if you were being kind and had never tasted the real stuff, be called a small brandy. Whence he would further ‘entertain’ the locals with talk of the many strange places and strange things he had seen. The wonders of his shows in Paris, Milan, New York , London and Dulwich. He also took pains to explain how once his circus once consisted of a dozen elephants, a trio of trained sealions, A pair actual lions and a tiger name King Stripentooth the third.
What had happened to King Stripentooth the second and first he would not say but King Stripentooth the fourth was one of the few animals that had remained in his circus when he arrived, a small domestic tomcat who’s fur had been badly dyed with orange stripes, much of which had washed out by ocean spray. King Stripentooth IV had run off after their second night and not been seen by Barham. However, he took heart in the appearance of the occasional rodent corpse presented at the foot the caravans step each morning which suggested the cat was thriving on the island.
The residents chose not to dissuade him of this notation or mention something else leaving the corpses of dead rodents for the showman to step into each morning was equally possible. This was Hopeless after all.
Late one evening in a near empty bar, after his least successful show so far, Barham was lamenting his lot. The veneer of outgoing upbeat cheerfulness had been chipped away earlier that day when the matinee performance had netted him the princely sum of a half rotten turnip and two carrots that had seen better days. He would not have minded so much if this pitiful return for his endeavours had been placed in the hat in the traditional manner, but hurling rotten vegetables at him seemed both ungracious and somewhat ungrateful of his audience, most of whom for the matinée had been children from the orphanage.
“They must have like the show.” One of the other drinkers, sagely told him. “Poor sods don’t have much to eat up there, though Davies does his best by them.”
There were nods all round at this latter comment. Barham chose to let it pass. His only interaction with the islands resident man of god had been when the Reverend turned up to condemn the painted ladies and heathen gypsy fortune tellers that he knew frequented the circus. He had some wondered off somewhat aggrieved when he had discovered there were none.
Barham suspected Reverend Davies was disappointed by the absence of fallen women he could condemn. He had met such men before.
“I am sure the little scamps were delighted.” Barham said, working up the courage to drink some more of the local brandy.
“Well a whole turnip, that’s fair reward I’m sure,” said another of the sage drinkers.
“Yes well… I would not mind so much but I’m sure one of the ‘delightful little scamps,” nicked the spoon form my coffee mug as well while my back was turned.”
“Now Mr Bailey, there no need to accuse the kids of stealing, poor sods have naff all but they would nay nick a man spoon I’m sure, not around here.” The older of the sages said.
“Nar, that would be one of them spoon-walkers.” His younger compatriot put in.
Several nervous laughs issued forth from other drinkers. The kind of mocking laugh you get from people who know what has just been said is ridiculous and the kind of local legend parents tell kids to make them do the washing up and put the cutlery away. But while they all knew that’s all it was , all of them also knew spoons went walkabout all the time. And everyone had seen a spoon-walker at some point in their life, often after too much night-potato vodka…
“Ha, Spoon-walkers, you gonna tell him about dustcats next?” laughed the older sage.
“Dust-cats..?” Barham half inquired but then said, “No one thing at a time, spoon-walkers, what pray tell is a spoon-walker?”
“Well, they’re like, squidgy things than nick spoons so they can walk about on land without damaging there tenacles.”
“Really?” Barham said, showing more interest in such things than you might expect. But Barham P Baily was a Showman born. Strange creatures were his stock in trade, a stock he was woefully short of at this time. If this miserable island had some interesting fauna then being stranded here for some time may not be the worst thing to have happened after all.
“Aye, and they are dangerous too.” The young sage said, to more bouts of laughter
“Get off with yourself, nothing dangerous about spoon walkers.” The old sage piped up.
“You say that but I heard tell about a huge one a few months back, stamping around causing havoc over on the other side of the island.
“Oh that bat droppings. It was a Walloping Jenny not a spoon walker.” Another drinker put in.
“No I heard it was Spoon-Kong reborn.” Laughed a fourth.
And argument ensued, but Bailey wasn’t listening anymore, he was having visons of strange beasts walking about like stilt walkers. Towering beast. If they walked on spoons naturally then he could train them to walk with larger thing. If they weren’t scary he could make them so, Spoon-walkers, why if he could capture a few of these beasts and teach them to walk with knives… Stand amid them with a bullwhip and a chair, as you always needed a chair. Why lion taming was old hat, it had been done a hundred times over, but a knife-walker tamer. The crowds would flock…
The argument in the squid and teapot was raging for a while before Barham managed to cut through the din with his ringmaster’s voice…
“So tell me, just how exactly would one go about capturing one of these ‘spoon-walkers’?” he asked.
This, it was determined afterwards by the sage drinkers of drink, was the point at which things started to go wrong for Barham P Bailey.
Father Ignatius Stamage was not happy. This, in itself, was unsurprising, his having been killed some eighteen months earlier; events of that ilk were bound to cause a fellow to feel out of sorts, occasionally. To his credit, he had been amazingly stoic about the matter, and quickly became absorbed into the ghost community of Hopeless, Maine. In an effort to encourage him to feel at home, Bartholomew Middlestreet, the landlord of The Squid and Teapot, had magnanimously offered to hang the priest’s battered hat – his Capello Romano, if we want to be pedantic – in the bar of the inn, thereby enabling the deceased Jesuit to haunt a reasonably sized area in and around the aforementioned headwear. This, fortunately, gave him access to the flushing privy, and the companionship of Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady who haunted its walls.
Lady Margaret had warned Father Stamage of the impending visit, on Midsummer’s Day, of a Psychopomp, the entity sent to escort him to Purgatory – and here we have the source of his misery. As any reader of ‘The Vendetta’ will readily appreciate, the island of Hopeless is not without its drawbacks, but Father Stamage had come to quite love the place. After all, the many horrors walking abroad that held countless terrors for the living had little sway over those who had already died. The threat, however, of being carted off to Purgatory was another matter. Ignatius Stamage was terrified. He had petitioned Granny Bucket for help, but after an anxious week, there had been no word from the ghostly witch. Things were looking bad.
On the morning of Midsummer’s Eve, Father Stamage, convinced by now that he had offended Granny’s sensibilities with a flippant remark, decided to disappear into his hat, and wait for the worst. Miserable as this sounds, it was not the retreat into some dark, felt-lined hole, reeking of old incense, sweat and cheap brilliantine, that you might imagine. When Stamage was in his hat, he was once more within the cool, hallowed walls of Campion Hall, in Oxford, where he had happily studied as a young man. *
“It’s a pity,” said Granny Bucket, “that you had to go and block up the paths to the Underland. We could have taken Father Ignatius’s hat to the Crystal Cave and he would have been out of harm’s way.”
“I had no choice, it had become too dangerous,” replied Philomena, glumly recalling how Marigold Burleigh had wandered into the tunnels and disappeared forever. “But maybe the cave really is Father Stamage’s only hope. Is there no other way in?”
Granny shrugged.
“Possibly. There is a small crack in the rocks, up on the Gydynaps, not much more than a spoonwalker track, really. I could drift in through there. It’s not much use, though; I can’t carry the Father’s hat, and he won’t get very far without it.”
“Can’t we open it up a bit?” asked Philomena, hopefully.
“You can try,” said Granny, “but I’ve travelled that path once or twice, and even if you could get on to it, the way would be far too narrow for you to squeeze through.”
Philomena’s pale features reddened slightly, but she held her tongue and ignored Granny’s less than subtle intimation that she was something other than sylph-like.
Then a thought struck her.
“Could Drury do it?”
“He could have a go,” said Granny, doubtfully. “But don’t build your hopes up too high. You know what he’s like.”
Philomena did, indeed, know. The osseous hound, who had been a presence on the island for longer than anyone could remember, and stubbornly refused to acknowledge the fact that he had died many years earlier, was certainly up to the task. Whether he could be relied upon not to be distracted, however, was another matter.
“Well, Father Stamage has got nothing to lose if we give it a go,” said Philomena. “But first we need to widen that crack in the rocks, at least enough for Drury to slip through.”
It was a strange and somewhat unsettling procession that made its way up into the Gydynaps, later that afternoon. The translucent shade of Granny Bucket shimmered faintly at its head, followed by Philomena carrying a shovel, and the press-ganged landlord, Bartholomew Middlestreet, armed with a pickaxe. Drury clattered along happily in the rear, with Father Stamage’s hat held firmly in his jaws.
“This is madness,” said Bartholomew, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. “We have been at this for ages, and we are getting nowhere. How long before sundown? I don’t fancy being up here after dark.”
“We’ve still got a few hours of daylight left,” replied Philomena.
“Is there nothing magical that either of you can do to help?” quizzed Bartholomew. “Can’t you prise it open, somehow, if you work together?”
The shade that was Granny Bucket shook her head.
“We work with the elements, not against them,” she said. “We can show off with a few spectacular bangs and flashes, but blasting through granite is beyond even our combined power.”
Bartholomew turned Granny’s words over in his mind.
“We need Reggie Upton,” he said, suddenly. “He’ll know what to do.”
“Are you sure?” asked Philomena. “He’s getting a bit long in the tooth to be swinging a pickaxe at his time of life.”
But Bartholomew had already left, haring down the hill at a rate of knots that surprised everyone, especially himself.
An anxious two hours passed before Philomena spotted several figures toiling up the hill. She immediately recognised Bartholomew and Reggie. As they drew closer she saw that they were accompanied by three of the Washwell boys, Egbert, Hubert and Wallace, all strapping lads who each carried a bulging sack upon his back.
“Whatever is in there?” asked Philomena, eyeing the sacks with some suspicion.
“Dust, mainly,” said Reggie, signalling to the boys to put the bags down. “We had to go over to Creepy Hollow. Young Egbert here tells me that it is where the dustcats like to go to regurgitate their dust. It is not the most pleasant job any of us have had, gathering it up. Now, without more ado, if you will lend a hand, m’dear, we need to get it through that hole…”
Philomena looked on, not entirely convinced that three bags of dust were going to solve their problem. However, after years of military experience, Reggie seemed to be able to see through most difficulties, so there was no reason to doubt his judgement.
“Granny, we need your help here,” she said.
No sooner had the words left her lips than a gentle wind arose from nowhere and blew the dust very precisely into the cleft in the rocks.
“I’ve no idea what you’re up to, young man,” said Granny, “but I hope it works.”
Reggie grinned. No one had called him ‘young man’ for about fifty years.
“So do I, Granny. So do I.”
When all of the dust had been blown into the cavity, Reggie pulled a bottle of Gannicox Distillery vodka from his jacket pocket.
“It’s a bit premature celebrating just yet,” said Philomena, crossly. “Let’s finish the job first.”
“That, dear lady, is what I am just about to do,” said Reggie, and with that he stuffed the end of the bottle with a piece of rag, and pushed it firmly into the cleft in the rock.
“Right, everyone. Step well away, and cover your ears,” he said, setting fire to the rag.
For a few moments nothing happened. Philomena looked at Bartholomew and rolled her eyes despairingly. Then there was a sharp crack, followed by a huge explosion, which sent shards of rock and billows of smoke and dust high into the air. Even Drury yelped and ran for cover.
When the smoke eventually cleared, a gaping hole filled the spot where, previously, there had been just a modest crack in the rock face.
“How did that happen?” asked an incredulous Bartholomew, checking that his eyebrows were still there.
“Dust is wonderfully explosive, given the right conditions,” said Reggie, unable to conceal his pleasure at the violence of the outcome. “There has been many an explosion in coal mines, flour mills and ammunition factories over the years, all due to dust in the atmosphere. It reminds me of the time in Jaipur, when…”
But his anecdote was cut mercifully short by the rattle of bony feet on rock as Drury raced along the path and into the newly-formed cavern, taking Father Stamage’s hat with him, hopefully to the Crystal Cave.
The watery sun, barely visible through the all-pervading mist, was sinking into the western ocean, and Midsummer’s Eve was drawing to a close.
“There’s nothing more for us to do here,” said Philomena. “It’s all up to Drury now. Let’s get back to The Squid, while we can.”
“Where there will be a few tankards of ‘Old Colonel’ for all concerned,” promised Bartholomew.
Nobody argued.
To be continued…
*Author’s note:
You may remember that the privy walls of The Squid and Teapot had once comprised part of Lady Margaret’s home, Oxlynch Hall, as related in the tale ‘The Jacobean Manor House’. The White Lady liked nothing better than to return to her old abode, which seemed very real in that other, liminal realm.
Sadly, the very fact of being a ghost entails having an obligation to fulfil various proscribed activities, such as wailing, rattling chains and generally frightening people. Spending eternity lounging around in comfortable and familiar surroundings is definitely not encouraged.
Lady Margaret D’Avening, the ghostly White Lady, doomed to haunt the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot, placed her head on the washstand and said, in conversational tone,
“Do you realise, Ignatius, that we’re only a week away from Midsummer’s Day?”
Father Stamage, the ghostly Jesuit, frowned. She did not usually refer to him by his Christian name. Something was afoot.
“That’s not much good to us, is it?” he said, somewhat snappily. “One season is very much like another on this confounded island, and besides, as we’re both indisputably dead, I can’t see either of us being in the business of getting a tan anytime soon, can you?”
“Tanning the skin is vulgar in the extreme,” announced Lady Margaret, haughtily, “but I was drawing your attention to the imminence of midsummer for reasons far more serious than besporting yourself in unbecoming, not to say inadvisable, beachwear.”
“I never have!” protested the priest, indignantly. “But tell me, what is this serious matter? I’m dying to know.”
It was not, maybe, the best choice of words, under the circumstances.
“The coming of the Psychopomp,” she said. “Once, every hundred years, he, she or it will turn up on Midsummer’s Day without fail, and next week will be it.”
“You’ve lost me,” said Stamage. “Who or what is a Psychopomp?”
“You don’t know? The Psychopomp is the entity who will escort you to Purgatory.”
“Purgatory? I don’t understand. I was under the impression that this place is Purgatory.”
“I can see why you might think that, but it is not” chuckled Lady Margaret. “However, you being a man of the cloth will be seen as being fair game for the undivided attention of the Psychopomp.”
“What about you? Aren’t you coming too?” asked Stamage, taken aback.
The head sitting on the washstand laughed heartily, while Lady Margaret’s body, some three feet away, shook with mirth.
“They gave up on me, and all the other old ghosts on the island, ages ago. For good or ill, we’re stuck here for eternity. I am very much afraid that you alone will be grabbed this year, just you mark my words.”
“But.. but what about Miss Calder and Miss Toadsmoor, up at the orphanage? They haven’t been around as ghosts for very long. Won’t the Psychothingy be after them too?”
“They were Protestants when they were alive,” replied Lady Margaret. “And Protestants don’t believe in Purgatory.”
Had Father Stamage been in receipt of breath, he would have sworn under it. As it was, he uttered a few unpriestly oaths and disappeared sulkily into the bar. A few seconds later he returned, a worried look upon his face.
“You called this Psycho-whatnot he she or it. What did you mean?” he asked.
There was a degree of nervousness in his tone.
“Well, the last time we had a visit, it was from the Aztec dog-headed god, Xolotl. He was a bit disconcerting. The time before that, it was Anubis. I liked him, I must admit. There’s just something about a jackal-headed deity that I find strangely attractive.”
“Anubis? Xolotl? These are all a bit pagan for my taste,” said Stamage. “And do these things always originate from the canine family? I like dogs well enough but… I don’t want to be taking one for a walk to Purgatory.”
“By what I have seen in the past, you won’t be walking, that’s for sure,” laughed Lady Margaret, unkindly.
Father Stamage, ashen-faced, even for a ghost, said nothing; he drifted back into the bar, in search of Philomena Bucket.
The relationship between Philomena Bucket and Father Stamage had always been prickly, both before and after the priest’s untimely death at the hands of Obadiah Hyde, The Phantom Mad Parson of Chapel Rock (as related in the tale ‘The Exorcist’). While both parties had always been polite to each other, Philomena’s low opinion of organised religion, coupled with Stamage’s fear and loathing of anything to do with witches or witchcraft (as personified by Philomena and her spectral grandmother) had been, so far, an insurmountable block to their forging anything resembling a cosy bond. Now, however, Father Stamage suddenly realised just how much he really wanted to stick around and haunt The Squid and Teapot, and not be exiled to Purgatory. It was time to eat the proverbial Humble Pie* and go, Capello Romano in hand, to avail himself of the mercy and wisdom of the formidable Bucket women. He knew that if he was to be spared, there would be none better on his side than the ghost of Granny Bucket.
“Now, let me get this right, Father Ignatius,” said Granny Bucket, enjoying herself immensely. “You’re telling me that you have at last seen the error of your ways and you’ve decided to embrace the Old Religion… the Pagan Path?”
“I did not say that, Mistress Bucket, I merely asked…”
“Ah. I’m pulling your leg, you great Lummox. I’ll help if I can, but tell me, what does a good Catholic lad like yourself have to fear from the afterlife?”
Ignatius Stamage looked uncomfortable.
“To be honest, Mistress Bucket…”
“Call me Granny. Everybody does.”
“To be honest… Granny… I really thought this island to be Purgatory, and that I am paying penance. Now I find that I’m about to be dragged to somewhere even more ghastly by some dog-headed demon. Are there no Christian psychopomps?“
“They draw straws for the job,” said Granny. “Somehow your lot always arrange things so that one of the dog-headed brigade ends up drawing the short straw. It’s no more than I’d expect. Anyway, old Anubis is alright. I’m not so sure about the other fella, though.”
“I fully expected that, by now, I would have been raised to the glory of heaven by Saint Michael himself,” said Father Stamage, miserably. “As it is, nothing seems to be turning out in the way that I thought it would.”
“Well, in the words of a great and famous sage, also called Michael, I believe,” said Granny, “you can’t always get what you want.”
“But can you help? Please?”
“I’ll think of something. Just give me a few days.”
“Thank you,” said the priest. “But don’t forget, the clock is ticking.”
Granny gave him a withering look, and disappeared into the ether.
You cannot pressurise Granny. It probably had not been the wisest thing to say.
To be continued…
*Author’s note: Humble pie, or more correctly, umble pie, was originally a pie made from deer offal. It was considered to be an inferior food and was only consumed by the lower-classes. Although the words umble and humble have absolutely no etymological connection, someone, somewhere must once have thought that ‘eating humble pie’ sounded a lot better than just saying ‘bootlicking’
I think that I have previously mentioned in these tales the existence of the Hopeless, Maine, Museum. It is a small and unimposing building, housing a selection of artefacts which have invariably proved to be of only slight interest to most of its infrequent visitors. The earliest exhibits, comprising of bits of charred bone and a small, badly dented, cauldron, date from the period when a flotilla of awe-inspiring dragon ships arrived, noisily disgorging several bands of fierce Viking warriors and their extended families. With characteristic Nordic efficiency, the invading Danes took little time in establishing a thriving settlement upon the island. This, of course, happened in the time before the all-pervading fog and feeling of gloom and despondency completely enveloped Hopeless’ rocky shores.
Most other items in the museum are representative of the early days of the current population, when the founding families brought their own culture to what was, by then, a less than hospitable environment. Pride of place goes to the original lidded-bucket, used by Killigrew O’Stoat, the very first Night-Soil Man. A family bible bearing the name of Gruffyd Davies comes a close second in popularity, but this is because both the O’Stoat and Davies clans are still very much a presence on the island. Strangely, the most colourful and interesting exhibit lies in a wooden chest, stowed away for no other reason than to keep it safe from the attentions of clothes-moths, thieves and, with outrageous optimism, sunlight. So, you may ask, what can this fragile and valuable wonder be?
Quite simply, it is a cherry-red uniform frock coat, resplendent with gold double buttons and a black collar and cuffs. Sitting on top of it is an imposing black top-hat.
“What sort of soldier, do you reckon wore this?” Seth Washwell asked Reggie Upton.
Seth had been the key-holder and custodian of the museum for years. He was delighted that, after more than a decade of indifference, someone at last wanted to see the various specimens on display.
Reggie peered at the long red jacket that Seth held aloft, then at the top-hat, which he had placed reverently on a chair.
“None that I can name,” replied Reggie, scratching his head, “and I can’t think of any regiment unlucky enough to have to wear toppers. It reminds me, however, of the get-up of a chap whom I once knew, a fellow who rejoiced in the name of James Moses Nobbs. He was quite old when we met, and had been a Royal Mail Coach Guard. I seem to recall that he wore a uniform jacket very much like the one that you’re holding up.”
“Darn, you got it in one,” growled Seth. “I guess you might be interested in reading this.”
Seth took a leather-bound notebook from the depths of the chest and handed it to Reggie. Inscribed on the inside page were the words ‘This journal is the property of Tom Long, Postman.’
“This is fascinating stuff,” said Reggie, brandishing the journal at Philomena Bucket, later that evening. “This chap Long came over to Hopeless years ago, with the first wave of O’Stoats, Davieses, Chevins et cetera, et cetera. Apparently he set up a service called Tom Long’s Post. It seems that he had been a Mail Coach Guard back in Blighty, and dashed well kept the uniform.”
“Blighty?” frowned Philomena.
“It’s how the Indians – Bengalis and suchlike – used to refer to England. The actual word they used was Vilayati, I believe, but something was lost in translation along the way. Strangely, it soon caught on with the army, and England has been Blighty ever since.”
“What a fund of information Reggie is,” Philomena reflected to herself. “And what a pity that most of it is totally useless.”
“Anyway, according to his journal, Tom Long set up a postal service on the island, and would dress up in his uniform and transport letters and parcels hither and thither.”
“How did he manage that?” asked Philomena. “I can’t imagine that it was any safer travelling around then than it is now. And wearing that red jacket would have been as good as saying ‘come and get it’ and waving a menu.”
“Ah, but he was crafty,” said Reggie, “and delivered his letters at night, using Killigrew, the Night-Soil Man, as protection… and before you ask, he got away with it because Tom Long was just like me, and had no sense of smell whatsoever.”
A familiar glint suddenly sparkled in Reggie’s eyes.
“By Jove, that gives me an idea,” he said, twirling his moustache.
“I know exactly what you’re going to say, and for a man of your years I don’t think it would be wise,” said Philomena, sternly, adding, “besides, I would not have thought that there was much need for a postal service on the island these days.”
“Nonsense,” said Reggie, “I am sure that if I asked around someone would want a delivery made, now and then. And it would make me feel that I was contributing something to the community.”
“Not to mention having the chance of getting back into a uniform again,” muttered Philomena, cynically.
“The thought had never entered my head,” protested Reggie, secretly crossing his fingers behind his back.
“Well, I must admit, you do look dashing,” said Philomena, the following afternoon, as Reggie pirouetted around the room in the postman’s livery.
“How did you manage to persuade Seth to lend you the uniform?”
“He was happy for me to wear it, providing I don’t get it covered in blood.” he replied. “And he’s asked me to take a package over to ‘The Crow’.”
“Just you be careful going there,” warned Philomena. “There are some strange folk who get in ‘The Crow’.”
“Unlike the strange folk who get in ‘The Squid’,” thought Reggie, but wisely said nothing.
“… So you see, because of their red jackets, postmen were given the nickname ‘Robins’, and that’s why you find robins on Christmas cards; they represent the postman who delivers it,” said Reggie.
“I’ve never received a Christmas card,” said Rhys Cranham.
There was a sadness in the Night-Soil Man’s voice which Reggie immediately detected.
“Then I shall rectify that as soon as December comes around,” he promised.
The two were preparing to leave the House at Poo Corner and start the Night-Soil Man’s round, which tonight would include visiting ‘The Crow’. Rhys had his bucket strapped firmly to his back, and Reggie carried the small package that Seth had entrusted to him.
They had only walked a few hundred yards when Drury came rattling out of the bushes, making an angry beeline for Reggie. Some primeval instinct, common to virtually every dog who has ever lived, had stirred within him, when sensing the presence of a postman.
“Steady on old chap,” cried Reggie, “don’t you recognise me?”
But it was too late. There was an ominous ripping sound as the osseous hound’s powerful jaws made contact with the frock-coat.
“That’s torn it!” said Reggie.
“It certainly has,” agreed Rhys. “How are you going to explain that away to Seth?”
“Maybe Philomena can tidy it up with a bit of needlework. It’s a tad deceitful, I know, but hopefully I can put it quietly back into the chest, say nothing, and hope that no one wants to look at it for another ten years, or so.”
“And what about the postman’s job?”
Reggie looked down at the shamefaced Drury.
“Can I trust you not to attack me again if I promise to wear civvies next time?” he asked.
Drury wagged a bony tail, happy that he had been forgiven.
Reggie smiled weakly at the old dog.
“But it won’t be the same without the uniform,” he sighed.
Author’s note: The picture at the head of this page is a watercolour, painted in 1890 by H.E. Brown (no relation).
The subject of the painting is none other than the aforementioned James Moses Nobbs, who served in the Royal Mail from 1836 -1891.
You may remember that Reggie Upton’s tulpa – the thought-form he had created twenty years earlier, while serving as an army officer in India – had detached itself from him, and was now leading a separate existence. The tulpa, which he referred to as Annie, was invisible to all, except Philomena Bucket and Reggie himself. When Philomena consulted the ghost of Granny Bucket, as to how Annie might be banished, she recommended a few chosen spells and, in order to sufficiently anaesthetise Reggie, enough absinthe to make the process painless.
“Is it supposed to be that colour?”
Philomena regarded the liquid with some suspicion.
Norbert Gannicox held the bottle up to the light, viewing it with the practised eye of a master distiller.
“It’s pale. That’s probably because we used dried wormwood, rather than fresh,” he said. “Besides that, making it as I did, and using a spirit base, this is really no more than an infusion. It will be more than strong enough to help Reggie, while you do your magic, though.”
“I must say, I’m a bit disappointed,” said Philomena. “I was hoping that the Green Fairy would be there to help him through it.”
“He’ll have to make do with a yellowish one this time,” Norbert said with a grin. “But I admit, although I won’t be tasting it myself, this has certainly given me the bug for making more absinthe, but properly distilled, next time.”
“You will make Reggie very happy,” said Philomena.
“And me,” said Mirielle D’Illay, coming in on the arm of her fiancé, Septimus Washwell. The idea to distil absinthe had originally been Mirielle’s, who had fond memories of her days in the Moulin Rouge, where the notorious spirit had flowed freely.
She was keen to sample the first batch.
“It is better with a sugar-lump,” she declared, pulling a face, “but it won’t hurt that Englishman. He is mad, anyway.”
As Granny had predicted, the tulpa was reluctant to be returned to whichever bit of Reggie it called home. Fortunately, thanks to the powerful effects of the absinthe, which he happily consumed, the old soldier was completely unaware of the battle raging around and within him.
Reggie opened his eyes to see a sallow-faced man looking down upon him with a vague, non-judgemental gaze, and exuding an air of complete indifference.
“Il faut être toujours ivre,” he said.
“I’m sorry old chap, my French is a bit rusty,” said Reggie, “but I’m fairly fluent in Bengali, if that helps.”
The Frenchman rolled his lugubrious eyes, ran a hand through his thinning hair, gave a Gallic shrug and said, in perfect English,
“One should always be drunk.”
“Do you really think so?” said Reggie. “I remember we had a chap in the regiment who made a point of …”
“It is the only way not to feel time’s horrible burden,” said the other, sensibly ignoring Reggie’s anecdote. “Which bends your shoulders and grinds you into the earth. You should get drunk continuously…”
“Jolly good,” said Reggie, warming to his new companion.
“But on what?” asked the Frenchman.
“On wine?” ventured Reggie.
For the first time the Frenchman smiled a little, and said.
“On wine, on poetry or on virtue, as you choose.”
“Well, I know a bit of Kipling…”
The poet – for poet he was – opened his arms theatrically and suddenly the pair seemed to be inhabiting an oil painting of a bar. It was clear that this was definitely not part of The Squid and Teapot. It was pure Degas; Reggie could make out each brushstroke, each touch of the palette-knife.
The patrons, sombre looking men and women painted in the drabbest of colours, sat perfectly still, gazing blankly at the bottles that graced every table. A haze of tobacco smoke hung motionless above them.
Compared with the many watering-holes that Reggie had frequented over the previous five decades, this place looked lifeless and melancholy… except for the Art Nouveau picture on the wall before him. This depicted a beautiful, flame-haired young woman in carefree abandon, holding aloft a tall glass of pale green liquid. She was dressed – if dressed is the right word – in nothing but a diaphanous length of cloth, which she had draped casually over one shoulder.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world when she turned and looked at Reggie. Stepping from the frame, she offered the glass to him, and as he accepted it, the bar came to life, with music and laughter.
“I am Fée,” she said, in husky tones. “Dance with me, mon amour,” and before Reggie knew what was happening, he found himself dancing a polka with this almost-naked beauty, who looked young enough to be his granddaughter.
“I’m getting too old for this malarkey,” thought Reggie to himself, then he realised that he was no longer the elderly but dapper chap who greeted him in his shaving mirror each morning, but a dashing young captain once more, resplendent in his regimental dress-uniform.
The pair whirled around the room, which spun like a carousel. The music grew louder, the dance faster and the colours of the artist’s palette flowed around them like a dizzying rainbow river.
The Frenchman, standing in the centre of the spinning room, was unmoving, like one caught in the eye of the storm.
“What time is it, mon ami?” he called, holding up a pocket-watch.
“It is time to get drunk,” replied Reggie, and the room dissolved into a blur.
“Mon dieu, it has not worked. He is not waking,”
The voice, unmistakably French and feminine, reached down into the depths of Reggie’s mind and he stirred.
“Fée,” he mumbled. “Lovely Fée, is that you?”
“Non, it is not Lovely Fée, it is Lovely Mirielle, you mad English fool!” said Mirielle, with undisguised relief. “We have been worried about you. You have been sleeping there for almost a whole day.”
“Really,” said Reggie, sitting up. For some reason Norbert, Bartholomew, Septimus, Philomena and Mirielle were all standing around his bed with worried expressions on their faces. There was a disconcerting pile of bones in the corner. It was Drury, dozing contentedly, obviously confident of Reggie’s recovery.
“We thought we’d lost you for a while there, old friend,” said Norbert.
“I’m fine,” declared Reggie, “although, I had some rum dreams. There was this French poet chap telling me that I should always be drunk.”
“Ah, I think I know who you mean. He is incorrigible,” said Mirielle, proudly.
“And did you get to meet the Green Fairy?” laughed Philomena.
“Do you know m’dear, I really think I did,” said Reggie, stroking his moustache. “And a dashed fine looking woman she was too… but she wasn’t particularly green, come to think of it.”
