The storms often bring something strange. Giant sea monsters wash up on our beaches, dead and dying, to become food for the crows. Small, broken things litter the high tide mark, tiny glimpses into other worlds tangled through strands of seaweed. In the violence of nature there is bounty for the scavengers, human and other.
I have never seen her like before. I watched her twisting out of the sky, fighting the rage of a late afternoon that meant to slaughter what it could. Beauty comes this way so seldom, and I do not know how many times I have seen some lovely thing die here, cast onto these hard shores.
She fought the wind, this bird, even as she came careening down from the clouds. I could see her struggle, a wild fight for life that refused despair or defeat. My heart ached for her desperate plight. I did not want to watch her die, and yet I could not bring myself to look away.
As she came closer I realised how big she was, the span of her wings far wider than my open arms. She passed over me, beyond my reach, every feather visible to me. There was a lustre in her, a brightness that even this foul weather could not dampen.
While the wind toyed with her, she slowed her fall, and came down onto the clifftop, stumbling but not wounded. Her landing disturbed a horde of screaming geese, and I was half afraid they might take their ire out on me, but they calmed under the gaze of the newly arrived bird – a thing I would not have thought possible had I not seen it myself.
Then she sang. An inhuman voice, with something of the flute in it and something of the shore on a gentle day. I swear the waves softened at the sound of it, and the wind dropped away. Even the ferocious stormclouds above us seemed less menacing somehow. She sang, and I remembered moments of sweetness from the past, and times when I had almost been happy. I wept for lost companions and for my own loneliness, and I was not ashamed of the weeping.
When at last she left me, I felt strangely peaceful. The heavy clouds thinned above me, and the sea tossed with far less anger than before. Her flight was as lovely as her song, full of the delicacy of her wondrous feathers, and for a while she filled the sky.
Only as she left did I understand that she had chosen to come to this inhospitable place. She had not been falling out of control as I first believed. She had journeyed here to share a little of herself, and had then travelled on to some other place, or time or soul where her song was needed. I felt honoured, humbled by this idea. I do not know why she chose me, for I see nothing in myself that could be worthy of her. There is only one response I can therefore make, which is to become something more, something filled with those feathers and haunted by that song.
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There had been no small amount of panic when it was discovered that Septimus Washwell had disappeared. No one had spotted hide nor hair of him for three days. The ever-resourceful Philomena Bucket had deduced that, by using the combined talents of Drury and Father Stamage, it should be possible to track the young man down and bring him safely home. And so, while Father Stamage haunted the depths of his Capello Romano (in which he was able to serenely wander the venerable corridors of his Oxford College, Campion Hall) Drury steadfastly followed Septimus’ trail to a cavern, its slender opening almost lost among a barren scattering of rocks. For every step of the way he had carried the priest’s hat firmly between his teeth. The plan, from then onwards, was that the ethereal wraith of Father Stamage would be able to find Septimus, bring news back of his whereabouts and alert a rescue party.
Bartholomew Middlestreet had never seen Drury looking quite so dejected. The skeletal hound slunk into the bar of The Squid and Teapot, where he dropped the slightly-chewed black hat that he had been carrying.
Bartholomew picked it up and hung it on the coat stand.
“I take it that there was no sign of Septimus” he said, doubt in his voice.
“Not at all,” the hat replied.
A second or two later the wispy figure of Father Stamage began to materialise from the depths of his beloved Capello Romano.
“I ventured into the cavern as far as I was able,” said the phantom priest, “But there was no sign of the lad – but I would bet my boots that he was in there somewhere. Drury is too good a tracker to have made a mistake.”
Hearing this compliment, the old hound cheered up visibly, and rattled off to his favourite corner, where he settled down on an equally favourite blanket, and immediately fell into a deep, and somewhat noisy, sleep.
Durosimi O’Stoat was sitting at his desk, deep in thought, his eyes closed and his mouth lightly resting upon his steepled fingers. He had no qualms about ensnaring those young men, now toiling far beneath the earth. If they were gullible enough to be taken in by his flattery and empty promises, then they deserved whatever fate befell them. It had been straightforward enough to dull their minds with drugged ale and a simple spell or two, but less easy had been the task of concealing their whereabouts. There would be a hue-and-cry when their absence was noticed, and doubtless that blasted abomination, Drury, would be enlisted to sniff them out. The cloaking spell that Durosimi had cast would only be effective for a dozen yards or so, but hopefully that would be enough to baffle the eyes and nose of Drury.
There was a flaw in Durosimi’s scheme which not even he could have foreseen. I have mentioned, in an earlier tale, that, with fatherhood on his horizon, Septimus had become unusually uxorious. His every thought and action had been with Mirielle and their unborn child in mind. It was inevitable, therefore, that when Mirielle reluctantly eschewed all alcoholic refreshment, for the sake of the baby’s wellbeing, Septimus felt duty-bound to follow suit. Since his capture this had been especially difficult, in the thirsty confines of Durosimi’s mine. It was hard to resist drinking from the barrel of ale which had been left for all to enjoy. But resist he did, and within a few days, clarity dawned in his addled mind once more, releasing him from the drugs and binding-spell with which Durosimi had hobbled him. There seemed to be no hope for his fellow captives, however, now reduced to little more than blank-faced automatons, toiling unceasingly in the greasy lamplight. Bidding them a silent farewell, Septimus staggered into the pale, foggy embrace of a Hopeless dawn, little knowing that Durosimi had one more trick up his sleeve; with each step, all memories of his captivity, and its causes, were erased from the young man’s mind.
If Septimus had expected to receive a hero’s unconditional welcome upon returning home, he was to be disappointed. While Mirielle was pleased, and not a little relieved, to see her husband, she made it more than clear that she could not accept his claim of temporary amnesia, and having absolutely no idea of his recent whereabouts. His parents were equally sceptical, and only Philomena Bucket regarded his story with any credibility. Whenever anything suspicious occurred on the island, she was inclined to attribute it to the devious deeds of Durosimi O’Stoat.
It was just a day or so later, when talking to Reggie Upton, that Philomena became even more convinced that the sorcerer was once more up to no good. Reggie had been out and about, on one of his flâneuring expeditions. He had wandered aimlessly, in the best tradition of what Philomena insisted on calling ‘flanneling’, until he eventually found himself sampling the ale on offer at ‘The Crow’. The talk in the inn that day had been of five young men, who had mysteriously gone missing a week earlier.
“Dashed rum affair, if you ask me,” said Reggie. “I know that it’s not unusual for chaps to go awol from Hopeless, but five at once from ‘The Crow’ is seriously out of order.”
Philomena nodded,
“If only Septimus could remember where he was for those few days, it might explain things,” she said, then added, “it’s a pity Father Stamage didn’t know where Drury had taken his hat.”
“Wouldn’t Drury remember?” asked Reggie.
They looked at what appeared to be a pile of bones snoring raucously in the corner.
“The trail would have gone cold by now,” said Philomena, “and if I know Drury, he’s forgotten all about it.”
The bones made a few soft whimpering noises, and an osseous leg emerged from the pile and began twitching furiously. Drury was busily dreaming of chasing spoonwalkers.
“Is there anything we can do,” asked Reggie.
“Those lads are somewhere on the island,” said Philomena, “and I’m fairly sure that Durosimi O’Stoat knows where.”
“Then that is where we will start to look, m’dear,” said Reggie, twirling his moustache. “The game is afoot!”
Mirielle D’Illay barked the words at her husband as he stumbled over his dance routine for the third time.
“Sorry,” stammered Septimus. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Well, move it off your mind and concentrate on the dance. We’ll be performing in front of an audience in a few days, and it needs to be perfect.”
“A few days?” said Septimus, paling.
“Yes – it’s your mother’s birthday party, or have you forgotten?”
“But I won’t be able to…”
“You won’t be able to do what?” Mirielle regarded him darkly. “I hope that you’re not going to say you won’t be dancing at Mabel’s party.”
Septimus had recently agreed to help Durosimi O’Stoat complete some mysterious task or other, and had, that very morning, received a message from the sorcerer informing him that he would be required to start work on the following day. Septimus had been reminded to tell no one.
“So where will you be?” Mirielle demanded.
Septimus, who had become suddenly and unaccountably uxorious since learning that he was to become a father, was reluctant to lie to his wife. Durosimi, however, had sworn him to secrecy, and Durosimi was not the sort of person you wanted to disobey.
“It’s just something I’ve been asked to do at The Squid and Teapot,” he said, not totally untruthfully. A few days earlier Septimus had delivered a firkin of ale to Durosimi. That was when the offer of a job had arisen. The firkin was now, apparently empty and needed to be returned to the inn, and another one taken to Durosimi. How the sorcerer had got through nine gallons of ale in such a short time, and now needed a further supply, was beyond Septimus’ comprehension.
“So you would rather mess about in the cellar of The Squid than going to your mother’s party and dancing with me?”
“Of course not, but I really have to…”
“I don’t know why you don’t move into The Squid and Teapot, like Reggie Upton,” Mirielle broke in angrily. “You might as well be married to that mad Englishman. You two deserve each other.”
“That’s just being silly…” began Septimus, but he was talking to himself. Mirielle had already left the building.
“It is a simple enough task,” said Durosimi. “I just need you to break up few rocks. It is easy enough work for a youngster such as yourself.”
Septimus gazed into the gaping mouth of the cavern with some disquiet. It was all very well Durosimi seeing him as being a strong young man. No one had said anything about needing to be brave.
“That looks a tad creepy in there, Mr O’Stoat,” he said, nervously.
Durosmi smiled a mirthless smile that was meant to be reassuring.
“Nonsense, lad,” he said, laying a hand on Septimus’ shoulder. “You will have a lantern, and it is perfectly safe, I can assure you, and you won’t be alone. There are some other fellows in there, all willing recruits like you. They seem very happy. I would do the job myself, but alas, I am not as young as I used to be.”
Septimus wondered what that had to do with anything. True, Durosimi certainly had a few years under his belt, but surely, he was no older than Septimus’ own father, Seth, who was still as strong as an ox.
Holding his candle lantern aloft, Septimus gave a sigh. His shoulder tingled, where Durosimi had touched him, and his mind was growing foggy.
“They seem very happy,” he said dreamily, and wandered, like a sleepwalker, into the cavern.
“I thought he’d never go,” muttered Durosimi.
“He has been gone for three days,” wailed Mirielle. “I was too harsh with him, what have I done? Mon Dieu, what have I done?”
“Whatever it is that has happened, it is not your fault,” reassured Philomena Bucket. “I checked with Bartholomew, and he said that the last time he had seen Septimus, he was in the cellar of The Squid, and about to swap Durosimi’s empty firkin for a full one.”
“Durosimi?” said Mirielle, aghast. “Durosimi O’Stoat?”
Philomena nodded. She did not know anyone else called Durosimi, and did not imagine that Mirielle did, either.
“I am uneasy if Septimus is associating with that man.”
“Me too,” said Philomena, wishing that Granny was around, so that she could at least to ask for her advice. True to form the ghost of Granny Bucket made a point of turning up when you least wanted her but failed to appear when needed.
“If only we could find where he is gone,” whimpered Mirielle.
“Maybe we can,” said Philomena, after some thought. “I think I know who can help.”
Philomena Bucket had always been wary of the priesthood, but, in recent months, Father Stamage had become the exception. It helped that, since his unfortunate death, his views on the afterlife had been drastically revised.
“Septimus is lost?” said the ghostly Jesuit. “Of course, I would be very happy to help, but I can’t really see what use I would be.”
“You do yourself a disservice, Father,” said Philomena. “You’ll help no end, as long as you’re happy to team up with Drury for a spell.”
Father Ignatius bridled a little at the word ‘spell’. He was only too aware of what the Bucket women were capable of when it came to spells. Then he realised that this was no more than a figure of speech.
“With Drury?” he said, his curiosity roused. “Why, yes, I get on with the old chap quite well these days, but I can’t really see…”
“You will,” said Philomena with a grin. “Leave it to me.”
Had you been standing outside The Squid and Teapot, later that evening, you may have spotted a skeletal hound slip out from the shadows, with a bible-black hat firmly held between his jaws. Drury was notorious for stealing various items of discarded clothing, but his usual tactic would be to dash away with it, causing as much mayhem as possible in the process. This evening, however, he slunk along, his bony nose firmly fixated upon the ground. Occasionally he would put the hat down, sniff the air, then finding his bearings, pick up the hat once more and continue with his mission.
As I have mentioned in other tales, you and I might find no more than the odours of sweat, cheap brilliantine and faded incense in the priest’s somewhat battered Capello Romano. For Ignatius Stamage, however, to haunt his hat was to walk, once more, through the cool, venerable corridors of his old alma mater, Campion Hall, in Oxford.
It was less than an hour later that Drury found himself standing at the forbidding mouth of a dark cavern. The ground was thick with scents, but he could easily distinguish that of Septimus from the others. Laying the hat upon the ground, he gave a low bark, intended to summon the ghost of Father Ignatius. Without a word, the ghostly priest drifted from the comfort of his hat and Campion Hall, and into the gloom-laden cavern, unseen and unheard by any who might be watching.
Dan Crow worked a farm a short way inland, it was a meagre living, but with serious effort and a canny eye, he compelled the begrudging land and its crops to give up enough of their harvest to afford him his house and his living. This was an impressive endeavour, as there are very few plants or animals on the island of Hopeless, Maine that are not incredibly dangerous and probably out to kill you. But some could be handled if you knew how, and Dan’s family had been farming this land for generations now and had handed down a wealth of ancient knowledge and expertise. His craggy face, keen eyes, rough hands and ever-present straggly beard, marked him out as a worker of the land, along with the solid wooden staff he always carried. He was big man, not unkind, but tough, and if he spoke, which was a rare event, it was quietly and with dignity.
Nathanial Veldt, or Nathan to his friends, fished off the shore of Hopeless. There were few more hazardous professions on the island than fishing. The sea creatures in the waters were like no other anywhere in the known world, a mass of vicious, spikey, multi-mouthed, tentacled bundles of hate and spite with more teeth than a saw making factory. The range and number of aquatic killer beasts generally deterred any sane person from venturing onto the beach, let alone into the water. After all, the island’s inhabitants knew only too well the treacherous nature of the seas having arrived there by shipwreck. Nathan, however seemed to be immune to attack or harm, and fished the seas without undue trouble, although this was still a formidable task as the seas and rocks around the island were challenging to the inexperienced sailor. Inexperienced Nathan was not, he had an almost mystical relationship with the sea and which allowed him to catch enough fish to sell in the town. This provided him with a modest living and a reasonable sized shack on the shoreline. Many said of Nathan that he had a witch’s protection, others that he was a benign demon – if there were such a thing – whereas the more fanciful said he was made of the sea itself – whilst not stopping to explain exactly how that might work. Broad shouldered and always wearing his tough sailor’s jacket, he had a mass of hair upon his head, which was mostly hidden under a woolly cap – except for his bushy eyebrows and even bushier beard. He kept himself to himself and was never known to harm anyone.
One afternoon whilst Nathan was casting his net, he noticed a huge commotion on the sea in the distance. An enormous bird, the like of which he had never seen before, was diving down into the water again and again. It was a raptorial beast with sharp angled wings and a beak like a huge spear, it’s end serrated and slightly curved. Suddenly, something rose out of the water and snapped at the bird, clipping a wing and the bird flapped backwards out of range before going in one last time in a fast focussed dive. Nathan could just make out a spreading of red on the surface of the water and the sudden frenzy of a hundred smaller denizens of the sea feasting on fresh flesh. The bird emerged from the water in a great plume of water, clutching a huge chunk of… something, in its beak. Nathan watched transfixed as it flew inland passing directly over his boat.
The bird was struggling to fly and hold onto its prize at the same time. The faltering motion of the bird jarred something loose, which dropped from the sky and landed in the boat. Nathan stooped down to see what he had just gained. The bottom of the boat was a mix of water, fish guts, fish oil and bits of rope, so Nathan had to look hard and close to see. As he peered into the murk, something shot up, tugged at his beard, and seemed to crawl inside. Nathan reeled back, cursing himself for his foolishness. Likely he’d be dead in minutes he thought. But as he sat in his vessel pondering his fate, he realised that nothing seemed to be happening. Cautiously, he felt inside his beard, he could feel nothing untoward – it seemed like just his beard and nothing more. Perhaps he had imagined it? But then, there seemed to be something slightly strange about the texture of his beard hair now.
Dan was out in the fields when he spied a large bird flapping in from the coast. It appeared to be in some trouble, a damaged wing causing it to falter. It was getting lower and lower, and Dan realised it would be down in the next field before long. He kept his distance, but approached the bird carefully as it flapped gracelessly down. At that moment, the bird saw him, struggled a bit and falteringly took off and flew towards the trees on the edge of the farm. Where it had been, Dan could just make out something small lying on the ground. Being a cautious man, Dan took his staff and moved it towards the object. Suddenly there was a rapid movement, and something ran up the stick across his body and into his beard. Dan yelped and pulled at his beard, running his finger through to try and locate and lose the foreign creature. But there didn’t seem to be anything there, just a change in the texture of his beard. In response to such a troubling incident, Dan did the only reasonable thing – he headed for the pub.
Nathan had sat in his old armchair for a while just considering his experience. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders, grabbed his coat and headed out. He needed a drink. As he stepped through the threshold and into sight of the bar he was warmly greeted by the barman – always glad of a customer, “Hello, Mr Veldt.” This was an affectation, the barman knew his first name, but always addressed them by surnames as in a traditional manner. “Pint of Green Heron’s Legs please” requested Nathan. Beer in hand he made his way to a booth near the back of the establishment – not his normal habit, he usually sat at the bar – but he felt like brooding, and that was going to be difficult surrounded by the pub’s custom.
“Hello Mr Crow” the barkeep cheerily shouted across as Dan entered the pub. “Will it be the usual sir?” “Yes, thank you” responded Dan. “Pint of Tine’n’turp, coming up”. Dan picked up his glass and looked around the bar – he felt a strange tingle in his beard and a slight tug, seemingly directing him to the back of the pub. He tried to ignore it, but nevertheless found himself walking back and sitting down at the very same booth as Nathan, taking a chair across the small table. “May I join you?” Dan asked, and received a nod in reply. “Evening”, they both said, almost simultaneously. “Dan Crow isn’t it?’ Asked Nathan. “Yes, and you’re the fisherman – Nathan…” Dan struggled to find the surname. “Veldt” offered Nathan helpfully, and they shook hands.
They sat for a while, two hard-working loners, who seldom said much and for whom small talk was a foreign language. They both sensed they should say something to start a conversation but struggled to find the means. Eventually Nathan spoke, “I, er, had a rather strange experience today…” he offered. Dan looked up, “Oh, so did I actually. Most strange. What happened to you?”
Nathan looked around conspiratorially, he didn’t want too many people thinking he was going mad after all, “Well, I was fishing off the coast this morning…” he said quietly. Rather too quietly, “What?” queried Dan and leaned in closer to hear. At that moment as the two men faced each other, a couple of inches away at most, something emerged from each of their beards and met in the middle, like fine filaments from a spider’s web. They spun around each other and pulled tight. “Weargh!” exclaimed Nathan as his head bumped against Dan’s. “Sorry,” Dan automatically replied without thinking, although the sudden closeness was no more his fault that Nathan’s. The threads pulled tighter bringing the two beards together and then intertwining them. By this point Dan and Nathan were beard to beard, mouth to mouth, nose to nose, and terrified eye to terrified eye. The beards stretched tighter and then, seemingly reaching an equilibrium, they relaxed slightly, but not quite enough to separate the two men’s faces. Some of the other customers were looking over at them, and from the other side of the room, the flamboyant Jason Tredagaire threw them a knowing wink. But then, after a while, it became obvious to the other customers that something wasn’t right. Perhaps it was the awkward body language, or the untouched beer, or maybe it was the muffled noises coming from the mouths of the entrapped pair.
Doc Willoughby was summoned and spent what he felt was a suitably appropriate amount of time scratching his head before pronouncing that he had never seen anything like it, and as they were not dying he would be off to see to some patients who might be.
The two men’s beards could not be separated no matter how hard people tried, or what they tried. And they had to go back to Dan’s farmhouse together.
Over time Nathanial Veldt and Dan Crow became used to their weird Siamese life. They fished together and farmed together, the extra pair of hands making the work easier. Somehow their sentient beard dwellers knew to allow them some respite and loosened their grip enough to let the pair eat and drink when they needed. But sleeping and other activities were always awkward and strained.
At some point they both realised they had a lot in common, that they shared many experiences, and living so close together they developed a relationship and eventually a gentle love began to blossom between them. In the fullness of time, they saw their affliction as a blessing, for never would they have found true companionship without it, and would forever have lived alone.
They became a byword on the island for true love, after all, the two men were literally inseparable, so much so, they became known by just the one name, VeldtCrow.
he reality of his situation was gradually dawning upon Septimus Washwell. At twenty-one years of age he was a married man with a child on the way. Had you told him, just a year ago, that he would be saddled with such responsibility in such a short time, he would have laughed in your face. The Septimus of last year was a confirmed bachelor, a free spirit, with a reputation for fighting his way in and out of trouble with monotonous regularity. And then Mirielle D’Illay, of the dance troupe Les Demoiselles de le Moulin Rouge, had come into his life, and his world was turned upside-down. Mirielle had transformed Septimus’ aggressive tendencies into a passion for dancing, much to the surprise of his parents and the amusement of his six brothers.
“Why do you worry so? The baby is not due until just before Christmas. Everything will be okay.”
Mirielle did not like to see her husband quite so distracted.
“But I do worry,” said Septimus. “Having a baby is big. Really, really big.”
“It will be fine,” reassured Mirielle. “Just keep that drunken quack, Doc Willoughby, well away from me, or I will not be responsible for my actions. Philomena has promised to take care of everything.”
“That’s just as well,” said Septimus, “she has helped deliver a few babies since she’s been on the island. What bothers me is how we’re going to manage.”
“The way everyone else does,” said Mirielle, sounding exasperated. “Mon Dieu, your mother had seven children. Do you think she worried about having to manage?”
“Well I want my kid to have the best of everything,” said Septimus.
Bartholomew Middlestreet stood in the cellar of The Squid and Teapot, surrounded by a variety of barrels of all sizes.
“I’m not used to people asking if they can have a barrel of ale,” he said, “especially people like Durosimi O’Stoat. I can’t imagine why he wants one so much – he’s not known for throwing parties.”
“How big a barrel does he need?” asked Reggie Upton, whose encounters with Durosimi, to date, had not been memorable for their cordiality.
A firkin – that’s nine gallons, and as small as I’ve got,” replied Bartholomew.
“What was it that my prep school teacher used to tell us? A pint of water weighs a pound and a quarter… why, that’s ninety pounds, plus the weight of the barrel,” said Reggie, doing a rapid calculation.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to lug it along to chez Durosimi,” he added. “I am not the man I once was, y’know. I recall an occasion, just after the battle of Spion Kop…”
“No, of course not,” broke in Bartholomew, keen to derail any long anecdote that Reggie might be planning to inflict upon him. “I’m going to ask young Septimus if he’ll wheel it along in the barrow, later.”
“Good show,” said Reggie, “It will give the lad something to do. He’s been moping around a lot lately. Worried about the trials of parenthood, I’d imagine.”
Septimus stood on Durosimi’s doorstep, plucking up the courage to knock on the door. Like most of those who lived on Hopeless, Maine, he regarded Durosimi with a mixture of fear and awe. What was it that people called him? Sorcerer, or something similar. Warlock as well. Septimus knew what they meant. But Philomena had used words he had not heard before; thaumaturgist and necromancer. Were they good or bad?
While contemplating this, Septimus had not noticed that Durosimi had noiselessly opened the door and was standing in front of him.
“Yes?” it was surprising how much menace could be invested in a single syllable.
“Sorry, Mr O’Stoat. I’ve got your ale from The Squid. Sorry.”
“Why are you sorry that you have my ale?”
“Oh, sorry.”
“For goodness sake, stop apologising man, and bring it along to the kitchen.”
Septimus looked at the mud-splattered barrow and decided that wheeling it through the house might not be the popular thing to do.
Cradling the firkin in his arms, he dutifully followed after Durosimi.
Over the years, Septimus had visited several houses on the island. There was very little variation in their décor and furnishings. Out of necessity islanders depended upon anything that they could salvage to make their homes as comfortable as possible. This often led to some very odd combinations of furniture and fixtures, but these were generally functional and fulfilled a need. Durosimi’s house, however, was like none he had seen before. There were no sea-stained tables and chairs, upturned orange-boxes or cracked plates and mugs. Everything was pristine. Everything looked new and expensive. Septimus gazed, open mouthed; he had no idea that such opulence existed on Hopeless.
“Come on lad. Put the barrel down in the corner,” said Durosimi, then paused.
“You’re not even breaking a sweat,” he said. “That barrel must weigh eighty pounds, at least.”
“A hundred, according to Reggie Upton,” said Septimus, then paled visibly. He would not want Durosimi to think that he was trying to correct him.
“Indeed? You’re a strong fellow, I’ll give you that,” said Durosimi, sounding uncharacteristically pleasant. “You wouldn’t be wanting a job, by any chance?”
“A job? What sort of job.”
“Working for me occasionally. I could use someone like you,” said Durosimi.
“Someone like me?” said Septimus, warily.
“Someone with a bit of strength. I am not as young as I used to be, and some of my transactions… “
He let the sentence trail off, as though he had said too much.
“Look,” he went on. “I know you’ll have a growing family to support soon…”
“How do you… ?” began Septimus, but Durosimi held up his hand to silence him.
“Just hear me out. I saw you casting covetous eyes over the modest possessions I have in my parlour. Things like those could be yours, for no more than a few hour’s work occasionally.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” said Durosimi. “But you must tell no one. Not even that pretty little French bride of yours.”
The hair on Septimus’ neck prickled. Durosimi seemed to know more about him than he was comfortable with. But all the same…
“What do I need to do?” he asked.
“Nothing at the moment. I’ll send for you in a few days… and yes, I know where you live. I will be in touch with you soon, and remember – tell no one.”
“He will do nicely,” Durosimi thought to himself, with a mirthless smile, as he watched Septimus make his way down the hill. “Strong in the arm, and not too much in his head. Perfect!”
It was around 300 BCE, give or take a year or two, that Ptolemy I, and his son, unimaginatively named Ptolemy ll, founded an institution, which they named the Mouseion. This seat of culture and learning, which is said to have housed the legendary Library of Alexandria, was dedicated to the nine daughters of Zeus, known forever as the Muses. The Mouseion featured a roofed walkway and airy communal areas where scholars and philosophers met to share and debate ideas. As you may know, or have already guessed, it is from these august beginnings that blossomed the modern concept of the museum.
Sad to relate, the Hopeless Museum bears no resemblance whatsoever to its noble ancestor. It is dark, damp and pokey, and the most interesting thing on display is the battered and less-than-hygienic lidded bucket, bequeathed by the island’s first Night-Soil Man, Killigrew O’Stoat. The most interesting things not on display, however, are a cherry-red frock coat and a top hat, belonging to one Tom Long, an early Victorian postman who, for undisclosed reasons, had absconded from Britain many years earlier. Long had left in such a hurry that he was still wearing his uniform when he boarded the ill-fated ship which had floundered upon the rocks around the island of Hopeless, Maine. Old habits die hard, and Tom Long, apparently missing the weight of a pouch hanging from his shoulder, soon made it his business to volunteer for the hazardous, but otherwise undemanding, role of the island’s first postman.
Upon discovering the uniform, folded up in a crate in a dusty corner of the museum, Reggie Upton immediately fell in love with the bright red coat and its shiny brass buttons; it was not military but, for want of anything better, was fondly reminiscent of his army days in India. He at once decided to revive the job of postman, and don the impressive livery at every possible opportunity. This, of course, is old news to those who have read the tale ‘The Postman’, but it is the backstory to how he came to be standing outside a hermit’s mausoleum-like house in Ghastly Green one midnight, clutching a parcel and being croaked at by a raven.
Happily, Reggie was not alone in this venture. His friend, Rhys Cranham was with him (you’ll recall that Reggie was unique, inasmuch as his being able to mix comfortably in the company of the Night-Soil Man, having lost his sense of smell).
““I may be mistaken,” whispered Reggie, “but that croak sounded distinctly like a word.”
“It did,” agreed Rhys.
“And did it say what I thought it said?”
“I think that it might have,” agreed Rhys.
Reggie looked at the Night-Soil Man uncomfortably,
“Finish the line for me Rhys, or please tell me that I am wrong,” he said.
“Quoth the raven…”
“Nevermore!” exclaimed Rhys.
“No she didn’t”
The voice came from the now open doorway of the house, where a small, balding man stood brandishing a rolling-pin.
“Who are you, and what do you want, turning up here at this time of night?” he demanded.
“I’m the postman,” Reggie called back. “I have a package for someone named Neville. Is that you?”
“Yes,” said the small, balding man. “That’s me. Neville Moore.”
“Ah, so that’s what the raven said,” declared Reggie, enlightenment dawning upon him. “But how is it that she can speak?”
“She’s my pet. I taught her. Her name is Lenore, and for your information, she was calling for me; she was asking to be let in,” said Neville.
‘That came out a little icily’, Reggie thought.
“Definitely not ‘nevermore’, then?” he asked, still not convinced.
“Why would she say that? It makes no sense. Are you bringing that parcel over to me, or what?”
“Of course…” said Reggie.
“And if it happens to be both of you that I can smell, stinking like a cesspool, you can take it back,” said Neville, brusquely.
“I’ll leave you to it,” muttered Rhys, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Neville doesn’t seem over-friendly, so be careful.”
Reggie picked his way over to the strange house, where its equally strange, not to say rude, occupant was still standing in the doorway.
“Come on in,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Reggie.
“I was talking to Lenore,” snapped Neville, as the raven swept over Reggie’s head, folding its wings to expertly navigate through the open door.
“You’d better come in, too,” he said, grudgingly.
The hermit’s parlour was dimly lit by a few smoky tallow candles. Reggie gazed with interest at Neville’s bookshelf, which groaned beneath the weight of several ancient tomes.
“I see you have a few quaint and curious volumes of forgotten lore here,” he said, examining the titles on the spines of the books.
“Yes, Philomena often sends me various books, and any other bits and pieces that she finds mouldering up in the attics of The Squid and Teapot. Anything that she thinks might be of interest to me, in fact,” said Neville. His tone was markedly friendlier now that he could see that Reggie was, indeed, a genuine and suitably uniformed postman.
“And, I believe, she has sent you some more in here,” said Reggie, placing the parcel on the table.
“She is a kind girl,” said Neville. “I must send her a little something in return.”
While the hermit was fussing through various drawers, looking for a suitable gift for Philomena, Reggie took the opportunity to inspect the room. Long, slightly faded, purple curtains hung at the windows – no doubt salvaged from attics of The Squid, he decided. In the grate a few dying embers cast a sullen glow across the hearth. Quietly, Reggie edged around the room, until he found himself standing next to a narrow door that led to a small, unlit chamber. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable, sensing that he was being watched. Reggie turned his head slowly. Perched upon the marble bust of a Greek goddess, the raven stared malevolently at him, obviously resenting the late visitor who stood by the chamber door. It was only that, and nothing more.
The awkward silence was at last broken by the hermit.
“Ah here’s something Philomena can have,” he said, holding aloft a delicate silver bracelet.
“It belonged to a lady I once knew,” he explained.
“Really? Is she still on the island?” enquired Reggie.
“Sadly no. She was a rare and radiant maiden who died many years ago. Strangely, the raven arrived not long after her death, and I named her after my lost love. It gives me solace.”
‘That’s not even vaguely unsettling,’ thought Reggie, vainly trying to convince himself.
“I have my memories,” continued the hermit, “and the time has come for her bracelet to grace another’s wrist. It is no use to me.”
“I am sure that Philomena will treasure it,” said Reggie, slipping the bracelet into his coat pocket, and suddenly keen to go outside and find Rhys.
“Forgive me,” he added, before leaving. “But who shall I say that it is from? I’ve quite forgotten your name…”
The hermit opened his mouth to speak, but it was the raven who answered.
Except for the gifts of starry-grabby pies, bottles of ‘Old Colonel’ ale and the occasional notes promising undying love, all left on his doorstep by Philomena Bucket, Rhys Cranham led a solitary life. The overpowering stench of the Night-Soil Man was enough to deter even the most evil of creatures, so human company was rarely a real possibility. Once, not so long ago, Rhys had employed a succession of apprentices, but fate had claimed them all. And while Drury, the skeletal hound, happily scampered along beside him, and the ghostly Miss Calder sometimes indulged in a spot of clumsy flirtation, it was not really the same as having the companionship of another flesh-and-blood person. Then, one day, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton appeared on the island, with his many eccentricities, a love of walking and no sense of smell whatsoever. The Night-Soil Man at last had someone to talk to.
Regular readers may recall that Reggie had recently volunteered for the role of postman for the island of Hopeless, Maine. This enthusiasm had been spawned by his discovery of a Victorian postal worker’s uniform, which had been carefully stowed away in a corner of the Hopeless Museum. The red livery had immediately reminded him of his far-off days in India, when he was an officer in the British army. In those days a bright red coat with shiny brass buttons was the true mark of a soldier. Reggie had always had a soft spot for a smart uniform, and, if the truth is to be told, the chance to wear it was the sole reason for his interest in the job. It was fortunate, therefore, that being the island’s postman was by no means an arduous mode of employment, for few islanders had the resources, or indeed the will, to communicate with anyone who stood further away than spitting distance. When his services were required, however, Reggie would don his uniform and ensure that his delivery coincided with the Night-Soil Man’s round, when the two would venture out into the night, chatting amiably while Drury, as ever, rattled alongside.
“Reggie, There’s no great rush to get it delivered, but I’ve got a package for Neville, the hermit who lives on the far side of the island.”
Reggie looked at the small parcel that Philomena held.
“A hermit, eh? I can’t say that I’ve heard of the chap,” said Reggie.
“Not many have,” replied Philomena. “He likes it that way. That is why he’s a hermit.”
“Each to his own,” said Reggie, who was far too sociable to even contemplate such an existence.
“It’s only a couple of books from the attic,” said Philomena. “Plus a few tallow candles. The nights are beginning to draw in.”
Reggie nodded absently. He had not really noticed. It was his first year on Hopeless, and he had barely registered any difference in the unfolding seasons.
“Rhys will know where he lives,” he said. “I’ll see when he is going out that way, and will take it over.”
Philomena thanked him and smiled wistfully, thinking how lucky Reggie was, being able to accompany Rhys whenever he wanted to. If all had gone to plan she would be married to the Night-Soil Man by now. He had been ready to resign from the role and pass the lidded-bucket and ceremonial shovel on to his apprentice, Naboth Scarhill. On the day of their wedding, however, Naboth had been viciously killed, and all dreams of wedded bliss had to be put on hold. No replacement apprentice had come forth, as yet, and it would take at least a year, or maybe two, to train a new lad properly.
“I know where the hermit lives,” said Rhys, later that evening. “It’s on a bit of the island called Ghastly Green.”
“Ghastly Green?” said Reggie. “That does not sound too pleasant.”
“It’s even worse than that,” replied Rhys. “Put it this way, it’s more ghastly than it is green. I think that’s why he chooses to live there. Even by Hopeless standards, it’s fairly inhospitable.”
“Live in a cave, does he, this hermit chap?” asked Reggie.
“Anything but,” laughed Rhys. “It’s a gaunt old Gothic place. It looks more like a mausoleum than a house. I have no idea who built it, or why.”
“It sounds delightful,” said Reggie, without enthusiasm.
“I’m due to service a couple of places not too far from there,” said Rhys. “Ghastly Green would not be too far out of our way. We could go tomorrow night.”
“Capital,” said Reggie. “I will dust off the uniform.”
As arranged, late on the following evening, Reggie, resplendent in his postman’s livery, turned up on the Night-Soil Man’s doorstep, and with Drury in tow, they set off, just as the full moon was struggling up from the ocean and into the misty sky. At Philomena’s insistence, nestling next to Neville’s parcel, Reggie had stowed some bottles of Old Colonel and a whole starry-grabby pie in his pouch. That should keep them going. It would be a long walk to Ghastly Green, and Rhys did not envisage them being there much before midnight.
As Rhys had promised, Ghastly Green was indeed ghastly, and not remotely green. He had not lied about the hermit’s house resembling a mausoleum, either. It sat, in all of its decaying splendour, in a small copse of sinister-looking spindly trees. Several poorly sculpted statues graced the crumbling portico that more resembled the entrance to a tomb than someone’s home. In the pale moonlight the building’s weathered stonework, generously festooned in ivy, gleamed a ghostly grey. A dim, yellow glimmer glowed sullenly through a small arched window.
The two men stood motionless in the eerie silence. Even Drury remained stock-still. It was as if a spell had been cast.
The quiet of the night was suddenly broken by the sound of urgent tapping, close by.
“What was that?” asked Reggie.
Drury growled.
“Look,” whispered Rhys.
Perched on the head of a statue, long rendered featureless by time and weather, was a huge raven, looking as old and black as the night itself. Slowly the raven inclined its head toward them and fixed the trio with a malevolent stare. Then it flapped its great wings and croaked ominously.
“I may be mistaken,” whispered Reggie, “but that croak sounded distinctly like a word.”
“It did,” agreed Rhys.
“And did it say what I thought it said?”
“I think that it might have,” agreed Rhys.
Reggie looked at the Night-Soil Man uncomfortably,
“Finish the line for me Rhys, or please tell me that I am wrong,” he said.
Had Father Ignatius Stamage not been a ghost, he would have breathed a sigh of relief. As it was, he emitted an eerie groan that sent tingles down the spines of most of the wedding congregation.
“My sincere apologies,” said the phantom priest, seeing their reaction. “But that is my first wedding in a long, long time and I am only too relieved that it went almost without a hitch.”
“It was a lovely wedding, Father,” said Philomena, “and didn’t Septimus and Mirielle look like the perfect happy couple?”
Stamage nodded. Since he had agreed to officiate at the wedding, he had grown quite fond of Septimus and Mirielle. Because of his Jesuit credentials, they had jokingly referred to him as their ‘Holy Ghost’. Father Stamage was not sure whether he should approve of this; after all, it amounted to blasphemy. However, since his untimely death, nothing had turned out quite as Father Stamage had hoped or expected, so, in the scheme of things, it did not seem to matter anymore.
The ceremony, which had been held in the Town Hall, had gone well enough, although some of the guests would have preferred it if the non-living population of Hopeless had not been quite so well represented. Mirielle had insisted that the celebrant of their nuptials had to be a Catholic priest. It was inevitable, therefore, that Father Stamage, who was the only available candidate, alive or dead, should be present. However, the wraith of The White Lady, Lady Margaret D’Avening was not universally welcomed. A few eyebrows were raised when a stone block was carried from the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot in order for her to attend. No one had ever seen her so excited; after all, the last wedding she had been to was her own, and that was in 1646. With her head tucked firmly beneath her arm, Lady Margaret cut an alarming figure, drifting as she did through the trestle-tables and knots of wedding guests.
The Little Drummer Boy, who had invited himself, marched up and down, thankfully outside the Town Hall, rat-a-tat-tatting for all he was worth, and the maiden-ladies of the Mild Hunt dropped by, with their yappy spaniels and flatulent mules. The only ghost who made an effort to be unobtrusive was Granny Bucket, who lurked in the shadows, quietly disapproving of the antics of the dead and undead alike.
“What is Reggie Upton looking so worried about?” she asked Philomena, her long-suffering granddaughter. “He looks as though he’s lost a shilling and picked up a penny.”
“He is concerned that something awful is going to happen when Septimus reaches his twenty-first birthday, in a few days’ time,” said Philomena. “It is about him being a seventh son, or something.”
It was true. Reggie was convinced that Septimus was going to unconsciously unleash an awful revenge upon everyone who had ever upset him, when the full power of the Seventh Son was released on his birthday. During the previous few days Reggie had been wandering around the island, or flâneuring, as he preferred to call it, surreptitiously making enquiries into Septimus’ past, and enemies he may have gathered along the way.
“The lad is a walking war-zone,” he had confided to Bartholomew Middlestreet. “I don’t think that there is a family on the island with whom he has not had some grudge. Especially the Chevins! And then there was that Rimsky-Korsakov incident with his brother, Egbert.”
“Rimsky-Korsakov? What was that about?” asked Bartholomew, puzzled.
“It was the classical concert night, and Septimus was in charge of introducing the music being played on the phonograph,” explained Reggie. “Egbert was doing his damnedest to make Septimus embarrass himself by trying to make him say ‘Rips His Corset Off’.”
Bartholomew grinned.
“That’s brothers for you,” he said.
“Indeed,” agreed Reggie, “but this particular brother is like a time-bomb waiting to go off. I won’t lie to you, Bartholomew, I am worried.”
Granny Bucket made herself invisible, and drifted through the ranks of wedding guests, to where Mabel and Seth Washwell were sitting, surrounded by their family. The Washwells had been blessed with a set of male twins, followed by four more boys, before Septimus had been born. The reluctance of each son to settle down and raise a family had been a source of bafflement and concern to both of their parents.
“Look how happy your brother looks with his new wife,” said Mabel, to any of the young Washwells who would listen. “There are plenty of nice girls on this island to choose from.”
This last statement might not have been strictly true, but, Mabel reasoned to herself, there were still three Moulin Rouge dancers available.
Suddenly, a cold chill ran down Mabel’s back.
“Oh, someone just walked on my grave,” she said with a shudder.
“No they didn’t,” thought Granny. “It was just me, poking around.”
“Reggie, you look as though you have seen a ghost.”
“I have seen several today, Granny, your good-self included, and not one of those disturbs me in the least. However, I must confess, I am a worried man.”
Ever since his army career in India, when he had enjoyed a brief flirtation with the Theosophist, Annie Besant, the supernatural had become almost commonplace for Reggie. Upon arriving unexpectedly on the island some months earlier, the man previously known as Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton had taken the ghosts and strange creatures of Hopeless in his stride. In fact, he had become quite friendly with Granny Bucket, Father Stamage and Lady Margaret, with whom he shared a common ancestor.
Granny, who by now was only slightly transparent, gave the old soldier a reassuring smile.
“Reggie, my lad, are you still fretting about this seventh son business with Septimus?”
“Philomena told you? Yes, it is a matter of grave concern.”
“It need not be,” said Granny. “Look at them Washwell twins. What do you see?”
“Perfectly ordinary lads, nothing of consequence,” said Reggie, wondering where this conversation was going.
“Look at their earlobes.”
“What?” Reggie was confused. “Their earlobes? They look like perfectly good earlobes to me.”
“Look at Mabel and Seth’s earlobes. Have a good look, go on.”
“Granny, it’s rude to stare… oh, by Jove, I see what you mean. Is that significant?”
“It most certainly is,” said Granny with a self-satisfied grin. “Those twins have got attached earlobes and the rest of the family haven’t. Between you and me, I feel almost certain that they were not fathered by Seth. I doubt that he knows, and quite possibly, neither does Mabel either. If I was a betting woman, which I used to be when I was alive, I would wager that those two lads were thought to be born a few weeks prematurely. Just early enough to make everyone feel happy that they were little Washwells.”
“Which means that Septimus is not Seth’s seventh son,” said Reggie, relief in his voice.
“It is most unlikely,” said Granny. “To be honest, it would not have been too much of a scandal, this being Hopeless, but I reckon it’s best that only you and I know about it.”
“Absolutely!” exclaimed Reggie. “A secret scandal. Who would have guessed?”
“Only someone very, very clever,” said Granny smugly.
“He’s been doing that flannel thing again; it’s not natural.”
“Flannel thing?” Mirielle D’Illay eyed her soon-to-be mother-in-law, Mabel Washwell, with curiosity.
“That Reggie fellow. He’s flannelling again.”
“Oh that,” smiled Mirielle. “Flâneuring, not flannelling. Don’t worry, it is fine. Baudelaire did it all the time in Paris.”
“Well, maybe she did, but this ain’t Paris and folks on Hopeless find it strange.”
“Reggie is strange,” said Mirielle, suppressing an urge to laugh, “but that is because…”
“He is English!” said Mabel, finishing the sentence for her. “Yes, you’ve said that before, at least a hundred times, and I can’t help but wonder why you want that mad old fool to give you away when you marry Septimus.”
“Because he is clever, and brave and well-mannered. All things that I wish my own father had been.”
Mabel knew that Mirielle’s father had been sent to the guillotine for strangling her mother. They seemed to be a headstrong family.
“And he talks to himself,” Mabel said, disapprovingly.
Mirielle had heard enough. She stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.
“She’s as mad as Reggie,” muttered Mabel. “I just hope that Septimus knows what he’s getting himself into.”
Reggie had, indeed, been flâneuring, wandering aimlessly around the island, waving his sword stick and, apparently, involved in deep conversation with no one in particular.
“How on earth the family aren’t aware is beyond me, but is it my place to tell them?”
There followed a short pause, then Reggie said,
“But you don’t know that for certain, Annie, after all… no, please don’t interrupt, just hear me out…”
“Is everything alright, Reggie?”
The voice was that of Philomena Bucket. She and Drury were on their way back to The Squid and Teapot, after a bracing walk on The Gydynap Hills.
“What? Oh yes, all is tickety-boo thank you m’dear. Just thrashing out a few thoughts.”
“Only I heard you mention Annie. Is she trying to get out again?”
Annie was Reggie’s tulpa, the thought form he had created years before in India, while serving in the British army.
“No, she’s behaving herself,” smiled Reggie. “I was just running a few things by her.”
“You could run them by me instead,” said Philomena. “It would be a lot safer. You know what happened before…”
She recalled how the tulpa had escaped, and had it not been for a few well-chosen spells and copious amounts of absinthe, the experience might have cost Reggie his life.
Reggie nodded; the prospect of sitting in the snug of The Squid with Philomena, while nursing a tankard of Old Colonel, seemed much more appealing than wandering through an increasingly dismal day, talking to the shadow- form of someone who had walked out of his life twenty years earlier.
“Do you know the legends surrounding a seventh son?” asked Reggie.
Philomena looked at him questioningly. What a strange thing to ask. But surely he meant to say the seventh son of a seventh son?
“I am surprised that you haven’t sensed the power residing in that young man,” said Reggie. “I certainly have, and you are far more attuned to these things than I am.”
“You’re talking about Septimus? He’s nothing special, I don’t think.”
“Look closer, m’dear. I have seen it before. Whatever is brewing inside that lad, it is like a volcano, just waiting to blow its lid.”
“I thought it was only the seventh son of a seventh son who had such power,” said Philomena, suddenly realising what Reggie was trying to say.
“No, not necessarily,” said Reggie. “Occasionally it can fall to the first generation. How old is Septimus?”
“Twenty-one next birthday, I believe,” said Philomena.
Reggie groaned.
“Let me tell you a story” he said. “When I was in India, one of our young subalterns, a chap by the name of Arlingham, was being given a difficult time by some of the more senior officers. You know the sort, they’ll turn against anyone from the wrong class, wrong school and so forth. One way and another, they made his life Hell.”
Philomena wondered where this tale might be going.
“To young Arlingham’s credit, he did not make any fuss about it, he just kept his head down and scribbled away in his notebooks, keeping himself to himself, as far as possible. On his twenty-first birthday I shared a drink with him, and it was then that he told me that he was a seventh son. Of course, I didn’t think any more of it. I didn’t know as much then as I do now. You see, that was before I met the Theosophist, Annie Besant.”
“So that was the mysterious Annie’s full name,” thought Philomena, storing the information away for later investigation.
“Anyway, I digress. From that moment on, strange things began to happen. My fellow officers started dying off in unusual circumstances. I could not help but notice that there was one common denominator in this spate of fatalities, and that was Charles Arlingham. Each and every victim had at some point given Arlingham a bad time. Outwardly, there was nothing to link him to the deaths, or indeed connect them together. A hunting accident, a snake bite, a mysterious illness, a fall from a building… all random mishaps, to all intents and purposes. But, with each new death, Arlingham looked increasingly petrified, as if waiting to be blamed. However, as I said, there was no way that he, or anyone else, could have been held responsible.”
Reggie took a generous swig of Old Colonel and stared into the fire for a few seconds.
“Then there was the final death,” he said. “That of Charles Arlingham himself. There was no doubt who did it, either. He took half of his head away with his rifle.”
Philomena winced. She sat quietly, waiting for the tale’s dénouement, and how it might affect Septimus.
“When, after his suicide, we went through Arlingham’s notebooks, we found that he had described, in great detail, the manner of death of each of his tormentors. It made no sense; he could not have planned the murders, and indeed, none of the fatalities could even have been ascribed to murder. Nothing came of it, of course. Even if things could have been explained, the British Army are not in the business of drawing attention to such things. Arlingham and his colleagues were quietly buried with a few military honours and no more was ever said about the incident.”
“So why are you worrying about this now?” asked Philomena.
“I can see the same latent power in Septimus that – admittedly with hindsight – I noticed in Charles Arlingham. What I didn’t tell you, Philomena, was that he had listed that catalogue of deaths several weeks before they occurred. They were fantasies; wishes, if you like, not deeds, but once Arlingham had his twenty-first birthday, and the power of the seventh son was released, those wishes became flesh, so to speak. When he learned of the enormity of that which he had done, it drove the poor chap to take his own life.”
“And you’re worried about Septimus doing something similar?”
“Septimus is the first to admit that he has a violent side – that was how he came to take up Le Danse Apache, as you recall. If that lad has any malign thoughts towards anyone, they need to be purged now, before his birthday.”
“I don’t know what I can do?” said Philomena.
“Your grandmother might have some idea.”
Philomena nodded. Although she had been dead for years, the ghost of Granny Bucket could usually be relied upon to find a solution to most problems of an occult nature. The only problem was that Granny came and went as she pleased, and there was no way of getting hold of her if she had no wish to be contacted.
“She has invited herself to the wedding,” said Philomena, “and that is a few days before Septimus celebrates his twenty-first.”
“That’s cutting it fine,” said Reggie. “In the meantime, I’ll try and ascertain if that young man is harbouring any dark thoughts. Maybe Mirielle might know.”
If you’re a regular reader of this blog you’ll be aware that Martin Pearson’s Tales from The Squid and Teapot are a Tuesday feature. This has been a thing for such a long time now that it seemed a good idea to take a moment for the project as a whole.
In terms of the island setting, The Squid and Teapot is the name of the pub. Said pub is down near the harbour, and is often the first port of call for people who have survived shipwrecking. It’s a friendly, well meaning sort of space, in that the ghosts are friendly, the tentacles can be very friendly, especially with unsuspecting ankles and oddly enough not everyone feels instantly comfortable with this.
Tales from The Squid and Teapot are a mix of things – some are stories set around this location, and others are the sorts of stories regulars might amuse each other with over a large glass of something murky and fermenting. The tales have their own established cast, and also involve characters from the graphic novel series.
You’ll find The Squid and Teapot in other stories too – while the pub is the invention of Martin Pearson, it’s become an important part of island life and lots of other contributors like to refer to it. This may say some things about the natural affinity Hopeless, Maine people have for places selling that which claims to be beer.
While we do have some photographic evidence of Martin Pearson, his preference is not to have that shared too much, which is also why you haven’t seen him at any of the online festivals. In terms of words on this blog he is without a doubt the most prolific contributor. Zero effort has been made to figure out if that changes when you add in Nimue’s novellas to the equation, but we can say with confidence that it’s not clear.
If you’ve ever read The Squid and Teapot and thought that Martin’s writing style is a bit like Nimue’s, you’d be close. It would be fairer to say that Nimue’s writing style is a bit like Martin’s and that he’s very much been an influence on both her writing style and her interest in getting into writing in the first place.
(The Squid and teapot photo above are also Martin’s.)
