When obsession takes hold of a person, anything can happen. In Barry’s case, the need to convert his inner screaming into the written word carried him far from his home. The ground slowly ate the knees out of his trousers – a horror he would have felt keenly in normal circumstances. Unnatural beings came to gaze upon his process, and judged it to be weird, and crept away again just to be on the safe side.
The trouble with sharing stories such as this, is the way people form opinions based on them. It is through tales like these that people come to associate science with the inevitable collapse into madness. These are not good examples to set. Inevitably, some hopeful soul will attempt to emulate the madness in the hopes of growing closer to the spirit of science. This also happens with poets and is why, every now and then we get unfortunate outbreaks of people standing dramatically on cliff edges gazing mournfully out to sea. A project that begets both broken bones from disastrous falls, and appalling verses.
Fortunately for us, the next stage in Barry Lupin’s curious tale breaks slightly with the stereotype of the scientist driven mad by elder gods. It involved the kind of breakthrough we can only hope to find in our own lives. Members of The Scientific Society eventually picked up and followed the trail of relentless screaming Barry had inscribed into the ground. We found him, slowly circling an ominous dark altar deep in the woods. His scream died in that place, no doubt a person can pass through horror and into some state beyond it where screaming all the time just isn’t enough any more.
Instead, Barry stood, transfixed by horror, frozen by it and rooted to the spot. After some deliberation, we just picked him up and carried him back to his home. Our current working theory is that a sufficiency of tea will eventually cure him.
(With thanks to Andy Arbon for the loan of his face)
Septimus Washwell gazed miserably into his beer. Things had not been going too well for him lately, and it felt that just about everyone on the island was against him.
“People make me sick!” he declared. “There is not a soul in the world who will do anything to help someone else.”
Philomena Bucket stopped clearing the table and stared at the young man with raised eyebrows.
“Why, that’s a terrible thing to say,” she admonished. “There are plenty of people on Hopeless only too willing to lend a helping hand. Take Mr Middlestreet, for instance…” Philomena waved a hand in the general direction of the bar, where Bartholomew Middlestreet was pouring a draught of Old Colonel into a tankard.
“That man is generosity itself,” she said. “He’ll help any waif and stray who turns up on his doorstep, and they can take anything they need from the attics, just for the asking.”
“He’ll have some ulterior motive,” growled Septimus. “Look at you… sure, he’s given you a roof over your head, but I bet that in return he expects you to be working all hours of the day and night to keep this place going.”
An angry flush came to Philomena’s normally pale cheeks. She was fond of Bartholomew and his wife, Ariadne, and would not hear a bad word said about either of them.
“You are such a cynic, Septimus Washwell,” she muttered through clenched teeth, then strode away before she could say or do something that they both might regret.
Seth watched her leave, and turned her words over in his head.
Cynic? He had no idea what that was. As words go, it didn’t sound like too much of an insult, but he felt that he ought to find out. After all, it might allude to something really bad, in which case it would be a useful word to throw at someone the next time he was having an argument.
But how was he to learn what it meant? Septimus knew all about dictionaries, but he could not recollect having ever seen one, much less looking inside. He also knew that there were books stored in the attics of The Squid and Teapot. Books that no one wanted. As far as Septimus was concerned, no one was likely to want a dictionary, and what was it that Philomena had said? People could take whatever they needed, just for the asking. Well, if Bartholomew Middlestreet was as big-hearted as Philomena reckoned, then this was his opportunity to prove it.
“Find a dictionary? Of course you can,” beamed Bartholomew, when Septimus asked to look at the books in the attics. “It’s good to see you’re out to improve yourself. Your dad would be proud of you.”
It was true. Seth Washwell, founder of the Washwell Sawmills and Joinery, was an extremely practical man, but totally illiterate. It would have pleased him greatly to learn that his seventh son was inspired to look within the covers of a book.
Cynic. Septimus traced his index finger under the definition in the dictionary, mouthing the words as he read..
‘A person who believes that people are moti… moti… (whatever that word is) by self-interest’.
“Of course I’m interested in myself. Why wouldn’t I be? I can’t see that’s what she meant.” he pondered. “It’s hardly an insult.”
Further down the page was a second definition, which simply said.
‘A member of a school of ancient Greek philosophers.’
“That must be what Philomena was talking about when she called me a cynic” he decided. “It might actually have been a compliment. I wonder what they did?”
He made his way from The Squid deep in thought. Who, on the island, might be learned enough to tell him how he could be like the Cynics? Durosimi O’Stoat, maybe. He would certainly know, but Seth Washwell had always warned his children to keep well away from Durosimi. People who had got too close had been known to disappear.
It was just at that moment that he spotted Philomena, her usual wan pallor restored. Not being the world’s most sensitive soul, Septimus had no idea that he had upset her earlier.
“What did you mean when you called me a cynic, Philomena?” he asked.
“That’s for you to find out,” she snapped, and continued walking, still not having quite forgiven him for annoying her earlier.
“That’s what I was trying to do,” he muttered, stepping into the street.
“Watch where you’re going, young man!”
Reverend Davies glared at him angrily and gestured towards the pile of books scattered on the ground.
“If you must daydream, do it where you can’t blunder into people. Now help me pick these books up.”
“Sorry Reverend,” said Septimus, “but I wasn’t daydreaming. I was thinking how I could find something out about Greek philosophy.”
“Really?” exclaimed the Reverend, in surprise, then added, “maybe I could help.”
Reverend Davies had never been renowned for his altruism, but was always keen to expound on anything which might impress his listener. The fact that his knowledge of the classical world could be comfortably inscribed on one side of a bookmark (and, indeed, was) would not prevent him, however, from holding forth.
“I wanted to know about the Cynics,” said Septimus, hardly believing his luck.
“Ah yes, the Cynics… the Cynics…” said the Reverend, frantically dredging his mind for whatever scraps of information might be lurking in its depths.
“They were most interesting… most interesting…” Reverend Davies always repeated himself when he was stalling for time.
“As I recall, they were led by a fellow named Diogenes, who, interestingly, chose to live in a barrel. And the Cynics eschewed luxuries,” he said finally, totally exhausting his store of knowledge on the subject.
Septimus opened his mouth to say something else, but the Reverend said, hurriedly,
“Well, I must go. I can’t stand here all day gossiping. Things to do. And watch where you’re going in future.”
With that, the Reverend bustled away with his books, before the young man could ask any more questions.
“What I need is a barrel,” Septimus thought to himself.
“What sort of barrel are you after?” asked Norbert Gannicox. “I’ve got firkins, hogsheads, tuns, puncheons, kegs and butts. They’re all past their best, mind. No good for storing liquor anymore.”
The old barrels were stacked at the back of the Gannicox Distillery. Most of them were a century old, or more, and all had seen good service over the years.
“I don’t want to store liquor,” replied Septimus. “I just need something big enough for me to live in.”
“You can’t live in a barrel,” said Norbert.
“Dodgy Knees did. Reverend Davies said so. And he chewed luxuries.”
Norbert shook his head in disbelief.
“Okay. You can have a barrel, by all means,” he said, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you. The biggest I’ve got is a tun. That holds about two hundred and forty gallons.”
“Will that be large enough?” queried Septimus.
“Should be,” said Norbert. “My old dad drowned in one of those. In his own booze, too.”
“And do you have any luxuries for me to chew, like Dodgy Knees did?”
Norbert gave him a withering look, which needed no explanation.
I have no idea for how long Diogenes lived in a barrel, but Septimus lasted exactly eight days. This is unsurprising, as the climate on the island of Hopeless, Maine is far less agreeable than that enjoyed by the people of Greece, ancient or modern. A miserable mixture of rain and fog, coupled with thirst and hunger, conspired to end his Cynical aspirations forever. Ironically, it was Bartholomew Middlestreet who found him, and rolled the barrel, with Septimus inside, back to The Squid and Teapot, where he was put in a guest bed until he recovered.
“That would be the same Bartholomew Middlestreet who you accused of having an ulterior motive for helping people,” pointed out Philomena Bucket.
“I was wrong,” admitted Septimus. “But I’d love to know how Dodgy Knees survived, when I couldn’t.”
“It must have been all of those luxuries that he was chewing,” said Philomena.
It has often been noted in these tales, and, indeed, in various other articles appearing in ‘The Vendetta’, that the climate enjoyed by the islanders of Hopeless, Maine, is not particularly agreeable. In fact, the words Awful, Atrocious and Abysmal spring to the tongue unbidden when conversing about the weather. As a rule, there is little to choose between the seasons; habitual fog, steady drizzle and cold winds are standard fare, whatever the time of year. Occasionally, however, these relatively minor inconveniences are totally eclipsed by a weather-front so foul that islanders have little choice other than to hole-up in their respective homes, and pine for those halcyon days of habitual fog, steady drizzle and cold winds.
November must have been in a particularly bad frame of mind when it descended upon the rocky shores of Hopeless. The days of late fall and winter are short enough at the best of times, but the glowering skies, heavy with dark clouds, kept all hope of reasonable daylight firmly at bay, until night fell, starless and bible-black, as Dylan Thomas might have said. And then the deluge came. Rain as heavy and unremitting as any on the island could remember, carried on a bitter wind and thrown down in torrents.
Reverend Davies peered out of his study window and watched the rain bouncing off the roof of the Pallid Rock Orphanage.
“This is divine retribution,” he muttered to himself. “We are being punished, that’s for sure. I should have seen it coming when the blasted Bucket woman brought that heretical alchemist fellow here. No good was ever going to come of that.”
It was true that Philomena Bucket had brought Doctor John Dee to the island some time before, and, for reasons known best to himself, Reverend Davies was never slow to blame ‘the blasted Bucket Woman’ for any mishap that might occur.
Suddenly a figure flickered past the window. It was the wraith of Miss Calder, impervious to the rain, doing her nightly rounds. The Reverend instinctively jumped as she slid effortlessly through the wall and into the study.
“I do wish that you wouldn’t do that, Miss Calder,” he said, anxiously gripping his chest.
“Sorry Reverend, but you need to know that the rain has flooded the old stone privy and damaged the wall. Luckily none of the children were in there at the time. I’ve made sure that they are alright, but it will need attending to as soon as possible.”
“There’s nothing we can do until this infernal rain eases up,” said the Reverend, gloomily.
“Well, nothing lasts forever,” said Miss Calder, brightly, “and we both know things can change.”
“Maybe someone or other can repair it when the weather brightens up a bit,” said the Reverend. “Although, it has been pitch black out there for days, and it’s hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain.”
“I think you’ll find that if they have a lantern it shouldn’t be an issue,” said Miss Calder. “I’ll see what can be done in the morning,”
“Thank you,” said the Reverend. “Oh, and Miss Calder…” he added, a little awkwardly.
“Yes?”
“When you go to ask, try not to worry people too much. You know… The Face thing…”
Miss Calder nodded her ghostly head. She was aware that when she became excited or agitated her usually pleasant features dissolved into a grinning skull, which tended to put even her closest friends on edge.
It was almost midnight when Miss Calder set out to visit Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, guessing that the inclement weather would prevent him from going on his rounds. She was by no means certain that Rhys would be able to help, but she never missed the slightest pretext to visit him.
Rhys was standing in his doorway, staring glumly at the rain and worrying about overflowing cess-pits, when the phantom administrator of the orphanage fluttered into view. A Night-Soil Man’s life can be lonely, so Rhys was more than happy to have some company, as long as she managed not to do The Face thing. Unfortunately, Miss Calder frequently experienced feelings of excitement and agitation in Rhys’ presence, so keeping her features under control required a great effort of will.
“Good evening, Miss Calder,” said Rhys, ever the gentleman. “It’s good to see that someone is able to get out in this lousy weather.”
“Well, I’m not really a someone anymore,” she replied sadly, then added, brightening up, “but being a ghost can have its advantages.”
Rhys knew exactly what she meant. An ordinary mortal would not have been able to stand within yards of him without retching. The smell went with the job.
“So what can I do for you?” he asked.
Miss Calder’s pallid countenance passed from pale-green to a delicate shade of red.
She composed herself and told him about the problem with the privy at the orphanage.
Rhys pondered a while.
“I’m fairly sure that Reverend Davies would not want me there during daylight hours,” he said, “but I’m not going to be able to do any of my own work until the rain has stopped for a couple of days and the water levels go down.”
“It would be wonderful if you could help,” said Miss Calder.
“One snag, though,” said Rhys. “I am going to need some light, and I can’t imagine that anyone is going to be able to get close enough to me to hold up a lantern.”
“I could,” said Miss Calder excitedly, almost forgetting herself and making ‘The Face’. Then she realised that being a ghost, she was no more capable of holding a lantern than she was of hugging the Night-Soil Man.
Dejected, her glimmer became little more than that of a fire-fly.
“Do you always fade when you are sad?” asked Rhys.
“Yes,” her voice was little more than a whisper.
“And glow when you’re happy?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I do.”
“Then maybe I can work by the light of your happiness,” said Rhys.
“So you will mend the privy roof?”
“Only if you are there and feeling happy,” he replied with a smile.
“Oh, I will be happier than you will ever know” thought Miss Calder, and her phantom form shone like a beacon in the darkness.
After braving the vertiginous descent that took her to the tunnels, Marigold found, with no small measure of relief, her journey through the Underland to be uneventful. Philomena had mentioned that no one had walked through the region for some weeks, so she was surprised to find that the rush lights, placed in great iron sconces along the walls, were burning as if they had been lit that very hour.
Marigold felt bad about stealing Philomena's key to the faux-chest in the attic, the secret entrance to the Underland. She felt certain that the barmaid would understand her reasons; surely, if anyone could cure her amnesia, and tell her where her home was to be found, it would be the mysterious Doctor Dee, whom Philomena had first met there.
As she walked along the fire-lit paths, Marigold pondered the information that Philomena had unwittingly given her, regarding the cave which lay at the very end of the tunnels. Apparently, it had presented itself differently each time she had visited. Well, however the cave chose to appear to her, Marigold decided that her course was set, and there would be no turning back until she had either found Doctor Dee, or solved the mystery of her origins herself.
Marigold's heart missed a beat; the mouth of the cave loomed before her. It was smaller and less imposing than she had expected and pale fingers of mist reached out, as if beckoning her to come in. The heat from the rush-lights had kept the tunnels warm, almost too warm for her to need the blanket that she had thrown over her shoulders when she left The Squid. Now, however, a cold draught made her skin prickle, and she drew it close around her. Then she took a deep breath and stepped into the reaching mist.
"Oh, for goodness sake!" Marigold exclaimed crossly.
The view in front of her bore absolutely no resemblance to the inside of a cave, or an Elizabethan alchemist's study, as she had hoped. In fact it bore no resemblance to anything other than the island of Hopeless, Maine. She could see the Gydynap hills outlined in the moonlight.
"I've taken a wrong turning somewhere," she muttered. That at least explained why the air had grown so much colder. Hopeless was dreary at the best of times. Now, at the end of October, the island was definitely trying on its winter wardrobe.
Marigold looked about her, trying to get some sense of where, exactly, she was. The cave mouth had disappeared and the only landmark was a stone cottage. There was a light in one of the windows. Whoever was inside would hopefully be able to direct her back to The Squid and Teapot.
The young man who answered her knock smiled broadly. A welcoming, golden light flooded through the open doorway.
"Of course I can tell you how to get to The Squid," he said amiably, " but come in and have a drink and a bite to eat first. We're having a celebration. I suppose you could call it a Halloween party."
"Halloween? Is it really? Gosh, I've lost all track of time since my... since my recent illness" said Marigold. " Well, just for minute or two wouldn't hurt, I guess. Thank you."
It was obviously a family gathering. The cottage rang with the laughter of three generations, a dozen happy people all clustered around a great oak table that was laden from end to end with the sort of food and drink that the inhabitants of Hopeless can usually only dream of. A blazing log fire roared in the grate, and slender white candles burned with a pure and even luminosity.
Marigold was puzzled by the opulence, but appreciating her good fortune, hung her blanket, to which she had pinned the chest key, on a hook on the wall. Gratefully she took a seat at the table.
"This is so lovely," she thought, wine glass in hand and reaching for another helping of roast potatoes. "It certainly beats starry-grabby pie."
She put her head to one side and tried to remember why she didn't like starry-grabby pie. Come to think of it, what was starry-grabby pie anyway? Wherever did she get that silly name from?
"More corn, Marigold?" said the young man, "Let me top your drink up..."
"Thank you," she replied. "This is such a wonderful evening, I wish it could go on forever, but I must leave soon."
The elderly woman sitting beside her smiled warmly.
"Why not stay a while longer? There's no reason for you to leave just yet."
" No, I've no reason to leave... " said Marigold, dreamily.
Philomena peered down the yawning shaft of the chest that squatted in a corner of the attic.
"We're going to have to leave it open," said Bartholomew Middlestreet . "It has only been a few days. You never know, she might come back that way."
Philomena said nothing. With, or without The Sight, she knew that such a thing would be unlikely. She really wanted to seal the passage up forever, cut the ladder from the wall, lock the chest and throw the key - the key she no longer possessed - far into the ocean.
It was on the following morning, while walking with Drury, that she found the blanket. Her blanket. Drury, for reasons best known to himself, had decided to explore a ruined cottage in Creepy Hollow. It had been little more than a couple of walls and a heap of rubble for years. The blanket had been lying on the floor. At least it looked like Philomena's missing blanket, though it was faded now, and thick with dust, as though it had been abandoned there fifty years ago.
"Oh Marigold," she thought to herself, "I don't know who or what you found in the cave, but I'm pretty sure that it wasn't John Dee."
She picked up the blanket and noticed that an iron key had been pinned to one corner. Philomena recognised it immediately.
" She won't be coming back, " she said quietly to herself. "And this must never - will never - happen again."
Philomena had long doubted that she possessed any magical skills, despite the assurances and protestations to the contrary of both John Dee and the ghost of Granny Bucket. So maybe she thought, as those words left her lips, that the earth tremor was a coincidence. Nothing remarkable; seismic activity was commonplace enough in the state of Maine.
Bartholomew Middlestreet had to steady himself when the tremor hit. It seemed to come from directly beneath The Squid and Teapot, shaking the building so hard that pictures fell from the walls and crockery smashed. In the shaft that led to the tunnels, the agonized metallic death-rattle of the long iron ladder could be heard as it pulled away from the fabric of the walls, becoming suddenly, and unaccountably brittle, bending and shattering beyond repair.
Far beneath the inn, deep in earth, many hundreds of tons of rock tumbled like skittles, sealing forever all access to the Underland.
The atmosphere in The Squid and Teapot was convivial this lunchtime, in direct contrast to the dismal mist swirling ominously outside the windows of the inn. Marigold pondered for a few moments before helping herself to a small slice of starry-grabby pie. It was a strange dish, to be sure, but was regarded with some fondness by the islanders of Hopeless, Maine. Convinced, as she was, that Hopeless had always been her home, it seemed only common sense that she had been eating this particular delicacy for years. So, why didn’t she consume it with the relish of a true-born islander? Oh, this was the trouble with amnesia, she thought. How on earth could you be expected to know if you liked something, or indeed, someone, prior to losing your memory?
With this thought fresh in her mind, Marigold glanced across the table at Philomena Bucket, whose slender, pale features belied the justice she was doing to the hearty portion of pie on her plate, not to mention the foaming tankard of Old Colonel at her elbow. At this hour of the day Marigold preferred to drink some of the innocuous sarsaparilla that the teetotal distiller, Norbert Gannicox, had gifted her from his private store. A pint of Old Colonel was far more than she could face at midday, but each to their own.
Had they always been friends? Marigold felt awkward about asking Philomena directly. Despite her amiability, there was a certain reticence – even evasiveness – about Philomena that Marigold could not fathom.
“When I told you about my amnesia, and how I wanted to find my family, you said that it’s a pity that someone, who you called Doctor Dee, wasn’t still around, as he would probably have known what to do. Do you remember?” she probed. “He sounds like a fascinating character.”
“Ah, dear old John Dee,” said Philomena, warmly. “You’re not wrong, he was certainly fascinating… maybe a bit too fascinating sometimes. I’m sure you would have liked him, but there were some folk around here who found him to be something of an acquired taste.”
“Not unlike the starry-grabby pie.”
Suddenly mortified, Marigold immediately clapped her hand to her mouth, alarmed that she might have said this aloud, and was relieved to find that she had not. Instead she asked,
“So, where is he these days?”
Philomena had no wish to have to explain about the tunnels to the Underland, the enchanted cavern and Dee disappearing, probably back to Elizabethan England. It would have been too much too soon for Marigold to take on board.
“Oh… back to where he came from, I imagine,” she replied, adding quickly, “well, there is a lot to do now that lunch is over. I must get back to work.”
Marigold watched the barmaid drain the last drops from her tankard, pick up the plates and cutlery, and drift off to the kitchen, returning to her duties.
“What are you not telling me?” she muttered to herself.
It was some hours later when Marigold wandered over to the Gannicox Distillery, returning the now-empty jug into which Norbert had earlier poured the sarsaparilla. She knew that Norbert and the folk at The Squid and Teapot were close friends and wondered if he might shed some light on the whereabouts of the mysterious Doctor Dee.
“Doctor Dee?” said Norbert. “He was a great fellow. A real gentleman… and a bit of a magician, one way and another, so they say.”
Marigold looked incredulous. A magician? Why hadn’t Philomena told her?
“How did you meet?” she asked, and Norbert, never slow to spin a good yarn, told her all about the way in which he had journeyed through the Underland with Bartholomew Middlestreet and Philomena. He related how they had miraculously found themselves thrown into the study of John Dee, the famous Elizabethan alchemist, before the four of them were unceremoniously dropped through some significant events in history, and returned to the tunnels that stretched beneath the island.
“Of course,” said Norbert, proudly, “we would never have found any of that without the key to the secret passageway, left years ago in the keeping of my grandfather, Solomon Gannicox.”
Norbert was on a roll by now, and it took little persuasion for him to relate the story of how they had discovered the faux sea-chest in the attic which was, in reality, the entrance to the Underland.
“And where is the key now?” Marigold enquired casually.
“Fastened to a piece of string and hanging around Philomena’s neck. She reckons it’s the safest place for it, until we can find a better place to hide it. She says that the cave is becoming ever more dangerous to visit. Something weird happened to her the last time she was there, and she won’t talk about it.” said Norbert.
Marigold walked from the distillery, her head full of the tale that Norbert had related. She felt sure that if she could get to the enchanted cave and meet Doctor Dee, her memory would be restored and she could find her family. But would Philomena take her there? She could at least ask.
“Definitely not!” said Philomena, much later that night, after the inn had closed. “I’ve got no wish to go there again, and I don’t honestly think it was ever meant for the likes of us to find. Norbert should never have told you about it, Marigold. It just gave you hope where none exists, believe me.”
Marigold, sitting in the large armchair that graced the corner of Philomena’s room, looked tired. She smiled and nodded her acquiescence. Philomena breathed a sigh of relief that the younger woman was willing to let the matter rest so easily.
“Your memory will come back in its own good time, don’t fret,” she told her, and the two settled down for a chat and a nightcap of the non-headwear variety.
They had not been talking for long when Philomena realised that Marigold had fallen asleep in the chair. Not wishing to disturb her friend, she gently placed a blanket over her sleeping form, before blowing out the candle and climbing into bed.
It was late, late into the night, and Marigold was sure that Philomena was in a deep sleep. She stole from the chair and, taking out the small scissors which she had brought for that very purpose, snipped the string around Philomena’s neck and pocketed the heavy brass key. Quiet as a mouse she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, slipped out through the door and, having lit the stub of a candle, crept up the stairs to the attics.
Part of an ongoing Tale from The Squid and Teapot by Martin Pearson.
Almost two weeks had passed since Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, had brought Marigold Burleigh to the door of The Squid and Teapot. Rhys had discovered her body upon the Gydynap Hills, cast down like a broken and discarded toy. Thinking her dead, and therefore unheeding of his noxious odour, he carried her into the town; Rhys had no wish to leave the her as fodder for whatever night-creature might chance by. He knocked on Doc Willoughby’s door but it was apparent that the curmudgeonly physician had no such sensibilities. The Doc had refused to lift a finger to help Rhys, but brusquely told him that the girl was dead and therefore beyond help, before slamming the door in his face. Miss Calder, the ghostly administrator of The Pallid Rock Orphanage, however, disagreed. She assured the Night-Soil Man that there was still a spark of life flickering within Marigold – and who could be a better arbiter of judging the fine line between life and death than one who had passed over it herself? She advised that Rhys should take the young woman immediately to The Squid, where she could be properly cared for.
Although Marigold had regained consciousness within a few hours, it had taken a week or more for her to be well enough to leave the confines of the inn, and even then all memory of her past life evaded her. When she first appeared on Hopeless she had told islanders that she was a nurse, but in truth, she knew nothing about nursing, for the words had not been hers, but those of the dark entity who had possessed her.
Those who have followed these tales will recall that Trickster had been making trouble on Hopeless for quite some time. Previously, using Linus Pinfarthing as his ‘meat-suit’, he had caused death, misery and mayhem before his downfall had put a stop to things for a while. Later, taking on the form of an innocent-looking white hare, he had been thwarted by the unlikeliest of heroes, a raiding-band of spoonwalkers, who had driven him into the sea. However, Trickster was determined, if nothing else, and this rejection only served to encourage him in his mission to spread as much mischief as possible throughout the island of Hopeless. The unfortunate white hare soon perished in the cold Atlantic but Trickster found other meat-suits, or, more properly, fish-suits and fowl-suits; bodies which lasted long enough to take him to the mainland… and that is where he spied the pretty girl wandering along the seashore.
Marigold Burleigh, if indeed that was ever her name, had little idea that the sudden strange sensations gripping both her mind and body had anything to do with Arctic Tern that had plummeted from the sky, to lie dead at her feet. It took only a matter of seconds for all memory of her old life to slip away forever, and for the creature that was Trickster to become her puppet-master.
I will leave you, the reader, to imagine how Marigold might have persuaded the captain of the scruffy Down Easter to take her aboard. Trickster had no scruples, and whatever indignities his attractive young meat-suit may have suffered in order for him to achieve his aims, were neither here nor there, as far as he was concerned. Similarly, the way in which the captain and crew of the Down Easter perished troubled him not at all. It is sufficient to say that by the time the small craft beached on the shores of Hopeless, having miraculously avoided floundering upon any of its treacherous rocks and hidden reefs, Marigold was the only survivor. All this, of course, was hidden from Marigold, who later assumed that she was suffering from temporary amnesia.
Ariadne Middlestreet was the first to notice Marigold’s change of character. Before the episode on the Gydynaps she had appeared confident to the point of arrogance, but now she had become withdrawn and given to wandering around the island, as if searching for something. Even those who have lived on Hopeless for all of their lives would be fearful to do this, but Marigold seemed to see no danger. Ariadne tried to alert her to the hazards that lurked around every bend, but to no avail.
“She’ll be fine,” said Philomena Bucket, reassuringly. “I’m always out and about at all hours of the day and night, and no harm has befallen me.”
“Yet!” said Ariadne, pointedly. “Although, I sometimes think you lead a charmed life, Philomena.”
The barmaid coughed awkwardly. It was unlikely that a truer word had ever been spoken in innocence. Philomena was well aware of the strange abilities she had inherited from her ancestors, but had never shared this secret, not even with her closest friends.
“I’ll ask Rhys to keep an eye on her if he sees her wandering around at night,” she promised, not realising that this is exactly what the Night-Soil Man did whenever he spotted Philomena herself walking the hills after dark.
Over the centuries – millennia, even – few have survived possession by the Trickster. Linus Pinfarthing lasted for a short while, but only by regularly drinking himself into a stupor, a strategy which eventually killed him. Marigold, on the other hand, survived because she had appeared to be physically weaker than she actually was. Now that Trickster had left her, taking with him all recollection of her past life, a gnawing ache was left; an ache to know who she really was, where she had come from and if she had any family. Unaware that Hopeless held no answers for her, Marigold resolved to not rest until the truth was uncovered.
You may recall that Philomena Bucket, with skirts tucked into the waistband of her sturdy Victorian underwear, had made her way down the long, vertical ladder which would take her from the attics of The Squid and Teapot to the tunnels which led to the Underland. Why she needed to go there was a mystery, but the compulsion was so great that wild spoonwalkers could not have kept her from her mission.
Unbeknownst to Philomena, after Trickster had discarded the rapidly failing body of Marigold Burleigh, he had attempted to possess her instead. What neither he, nor indeed Philomena, knew was that she was descended from the mysterious Tuatha de Danann, the Old Gods of ancient Ireland, latterly regarded as being Faerie folk, and their blood flowed strongly in her veins. Trickster was confounded; he was no match for power such as this and now he found himself trapped. As for Philomena, totally unaware of what was happening, she had the weirdest sensation that something was bursting to get out of her, wriggling and squirming inside both her mind and body. She did not dare to open her mouth or relax until she had found a place of safety. This was why the Underland was calling.
As she made her way through the underground passage, where the rush lights on the walls burned continuously, every step became more difficult, as though whatever it was that raged within her was furiously resisting her progress. Upon reaching the mouth of the magical cavern, at the end of the tunnels, Philomena stopped, not knowing what to expect. In the past it had been a portal to Doctor Dee’s study in Tudor England. She nursed a faint hope that he would be waiting for her again. Gingerly she stepped through the mouth of the cave, half-expecting to be greeted by the wily old alchemist. But there was no John Dee – just an empty space; the inside of a hollow hill. Minutes ticked by, and Philomena gasped in wonder as the walls gradually took on an eerie light of their own; they were studded now with crystals, as faint and plentiful as stars. Then, as if somehow called, spectral figures materialised all around her.
“Ghosts? No, these are not ghosts,” she thought to herself, though she had no idea what or who they might be. Each one was tall and slender, pale and beautiful, yet not a little terrifying, at the same time.
“Welcome daughter,” they whispered as one, though in no language that she had heard before, but yet understood.
“You bring a gift for us.”
For the first time in hours Philomena opened her mouth to speak, and as she did so, Trickster tumbled out on her breath, and lay writhing upon the floor of the cave.
Try as she might, Philomena found it impossible to discern the creature’s true shape. The angry tangle of life, thrashing and twisting before her in the crystal light, resembled no more than an indistinct, smoky kaleidoscope image of human and animal forms. Without knowing why, Philomena instinctively recognised the identity of the protean being who had tried to possess her, and as if in confirmation of her knowledge, the strange throng began to chant, though their voices were barely audible, and the shining walls of the crystal cave whispered back the litany of Trickster’s many names.
To her own surprise, Philomena felt no fear or apprehension as the company gathered closer around her. She knew now, in her heart of hearts, that here she was safe, secure in the bosom of her ancient kinfolk. She reached out in an effort to embrace each and every one, but they glided through and past Philomena, becoming no more than a dazzling, yet ever diminishing mass, an imploding star with the strange, dark storm that was Trickster at its core. And then they were gone and the crystal cave was empty.
Outside the entrance, the air seemed to be becoming brighter, as if bathed in the light of a spring morning. That was impossible, she reasoned. But the impossible seemed to be commonplace that day, for Philomena could see her own form quite clearly, as if viewed from afar. She watched herself turn, looking to take her leave. Everything about her glowed, her pale hair and skin reflecting the crystal light.
“I am glimmering,” she murmured to herself, then smiled. Glimmering? Whoever used that word? She had no idea where it had come from.
“Time to go,” she thought, and found herself running through the mouth of the crystal cave and out into the brightening air, redolent with the scent of apple-blossom.
She had no memory of her journey back through the tunnels, or the ascent of the vertical ladder to the inn’s attics. In fact, she had only a vague awareness that something quite wonderful had happened. It felt as though the darkness that had been festering within her had been replaced with a pure white light.
“Your friend, Marigold, gave us a fright. She looked half dead when Rhys left her at our door, but she seems fine now,” said Ariadne Middlestreet, the following morning. “The first thing she said to us, after recovering consciousness, was, ‘Is Philomena alright?’ She will be relieved to know that you are alive and well, that’s for sure. She was quite convinced that whatever it was that had attacked her had decided to set upon you.”
“No, I’m okay, never better,” Philomena smiled, “I wonder whatever put that thought into her head?”
She wandered into the kitchen, rolling her sleeves up. There was plenty to do before the doors of The Squid and Teapot opened for the day. Drury, the skeletal hound, was already there, his tail wagging happily, glad that the worrying version of Philomena, whom he had watched the night before striding purposefully down the Gydynap Hills, seemed to have gone.
As if reading his thoughts, she looked at him and said, thoughtfully,
“You know, Drury, it really feels as though a dark chapter of my life is closed for good. Hopeless is not the easiest place to live, but I’ve got some good friends and that’s worth a lot.”
Drury wagged his tail again, inclined his head to one side and nuzzled Philomena’s hand with his bony face. Philomena closed her eyes and felt a velvet muzzle, and a soft warm tongue brush against her fingers. A single tear ran down her pale cheek.
“Now then, you old rogue, that’s enough of that,” she gently chided. “And these starry-grabby pies won’t make themselves…”
Mrs Beaten washes her windows thoroughly even though she knows that the chickens she keeps will undermine her work as soon as she stops. They are very tall chickens and they have the nasty habit of flicking things around.
“Dirty, disgusting things!” she says to the chickens, who do not care in the slightest about her judging them.
“Filthy creatures.” Which they are, and in their red eyes there are far too knowing looks.
Aside from the chickens, there isn’t a great deal to see from the window in her kitchen. Aside from the chickens, no one looks in through the window except for Mrs Beaten herself. Sometimes she likes to stand outside and view her kitchen as a stranger would see it if they came into her garden for the specific purpose of spying on her.
Today they would see the bones sticking out of the top of her soup pan, and they might wonder what kind of monster had died that there might be broth. Something whose bones were very long, and slender enough to break easily. The imaginary onlooker could take in the gleaming perfection of each kitchen surface, should they so desire.
Of course, standing here she cannot see how she herself might appear to an onlooker. She cannot be both the observer and the observed. On the whole, she dislikes people and wishes they would stay well away from her but there is something appealing in the idea of the remote and silent viewer. To be admired from a significant distance is an idea with some charm. After all, if no one is impressed by her efforts, what exactly is the point? It is essential to have standards for one’s own personal dignity, she thinks. But it would also be pleasing to have those standards seen and respected.
Mrs Beaten catches sight of herself reflected in the glass. Hardly more than a dark shape, she offers little to her own gaze.
“You are wanton,” she says to her own reflection, “Imagining someone looking at you and your beautiful, shining kitchen. How debased!”
There is increasing satisfaction for her in the process of judging herself harshly. But the windows are very clean and ready for no one else to look through them.
There are those who will tell you that anyone could be a Night-Soil Man, if they were desperate enough for work. What could be easier than wandering around, emptying cess-pools and outdoor privies? The answer is, of course, that most people would not last one night in the role. A Night-Soil Man lives a life of enforced isolation and celibacy, not only doing a job which would make others physically sick, but regularly being beset by challenges which most could not even begin to imagine. Although the noisome stench, which permeates his skin and clothing, keeps most creatures, (including other humans) at bay, confronting the often hideous denizens of Hopeless, Maine, needs an iron nerve and a strong stomach. Even when these qualities are present, without great physical strength, a Night-Soil Man would never be able to complete his tasks or, indeed, stay alive for any length of time.
Miss Calder, the ghostly administrator of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, shimmered faintly in the darkness. She had long entertained certain feelings for Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, and, while aware that such love must be unrequited, watched appreciatively as his burly physique bore the limp body of Marigold Burleigh down the hill, carrying her as if she were as light as a feather. Marigold had collapsed in his arms just minutes earlier, her last words apparently accusing Philomena Bucket of trying to kill her. It was hard to believe, but the truth was that Philomena had been acting really strangely, lately. Rhys could not worry about that, right now, however. He had to get Marigold some help, though he was quite unable to tell if the pretty young nurse was still alive; usually his all-pervading reek would have been as good as smelling-salts to bring someone back to consciousness, but Marigold was showing no signs of life.
Miss Calder subdued her unearthly glow as Rhys drew near, preferring to stay unseen for now. She saw him gently place Marigold on the ground in front of Doc Willoughby’s surgery, bang on the door, then hastily retreat a few yards downwind.
The Doc, wrapped in a dressing gown, opened the door cautiously and peered down at Marigold’s prone form. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Doc Willoughby, sorry I know it’s late, but I didn’t know where else to take her…” Rhys called.
Doc looked across the street, registering the presence of the Night-Soil Man for the first time.
“Get her off my doorstep,” he growled, “The woman’s obviously dead, can’t you see? There’s nothing I can do. Now go away, and take that god-awful stink with you.”
Before Rhys could say a word, the curmudgeonly physician went back inside, slamming the door behind him.
With a heavy heart, he lifted Marigold once more. He had no idea what to do now.
“Rhys… what has happened?”
He turned in surprise at the voice; he was relieved to see Miss Calder gliding towards him.
“I’m not at all sure,” he replied, not wishing to divulge details of Marigold’s accusation until he was certain of the facts. “And I don’t know where to take her body.”
“She’s still alive, Rhys” said Miss Calder, who knew about death better than most. “The Doc was wrong. She just needs looking after.”
“Can you…?” the question died On Rhys’ lips as he realised that, however capable Miss Calder appeared, she remained a ghost; non-corporeal and quite without substance.
Miss Calder shrugged sadly, then an idea occurred to her.
“Get her to The Squid and Teapot,” she said, “Ariadne and Philomena will know what to do.”
Rhys was about to say that Philomena was probably not the best person to be around Marigold at the moment, but thought better of it. He could not believe that the barmaid harboured the girl any ill-feelings, but if there was going to be a problem taking her to The Squid he would worry about it when he arrived there.
“Good idea,” he said. “Will you come with me? They won’t want me being too close when they take her in. You know… the smell…”
Being a wraith, Miss Calder was impervious to the Night-Soil Man’s effluvium. She smiled. Of course she was always very happy to accompany Rhys anywhere. In her excitement, however, she allowed her face to become skull-like for a moment or two. Rhys blanched but said nothing. He didn’t think that he could ever get used to that.
Ariadne Middlestreet opened the door of the inn. It was well past closing time but she and her husband, Bartholomew, always had chores to do once the patrons had left. Tonight had been especially busy, she told them. When Philomena arrived back at The Squid she had not stopped to help clear up, but gone straight upstairs, saying nothing to anyone.
“She has worried me lately,” confided Ariadne to Miss Calder, after Rhys had left. “She has been acting strangely ever since Rhys told her that he had to go back to night-soil work and they couldn’t be married. Anyway, we can’t worry about that now. I’ll get Bartholomew to carry Marigold in and we’ll put her in one of the guest-rooms.”
Philomena Bucket had indeed gone straight upstairs, upon returning to The Squid and Teapot. It was not to her bedroom that she went, however, but to the attics. She had discovered, a year or so earlier, that what appeared to be a sea-chest, squatting in the corner of one of the rooms was, in reality, a cunning skeuomorphic construction, disguising the entrance to a secret passage that would take her down to ground level, then delve deep into the earth, to the Underland, far beneath the surface of the island. It was not clear to her exactly why she needed to get to the Underland, only that it was crucial that she did so. Taking the key from the chain around her neck, where she hung it for safe-keeping, Philomena unlocked the lid and peered down into the gloom. With practised ease she tucked her skirt into the waistband of her inherited industrial-strength Victorian underwear, climbed into the chest and began the vertiginous descent of the vertical ladder, beginning the journey that would take her to the base of the building, then on to whatever mystery awaited her.
“I must be mad,” Trickster thought. “Why did I not recognise what she is?”
He had found himself trapped. Trapped again, if the truth is to be told. How long ago was it? Hundreds… no thousands of years had passed since the last time, but that was no excuse. He should have realised before trying to take such a creature.
Once, a very long time ago, Trickster attempted to possess one of the women of the Tuatha de Danann, the mysterious race who once inhabited the island now known as Ireland. Beguiled by their pale, almost translucent beauty, he had talked himself into believing them to be easy prey. Biding his time, Trickster waited until the Tuatha were driven into the hills by the fierce red-haired invaders, with their bright iron swords. He assumed defeat would have weakened and demoralised them. Oh, how patiently he had watched from the shadows, counting the long years until the race had passed from memory and into myth; until they had come to be thought of as the Faerie folk, their women the feared Bean Side, or Banshee. Women of the Hills. Trickster was as old as anything which had ever crawled upon the earth, but these Old Gods were more ancient still. They were the spirit of the land. What was it that the bard, Amergin had said, when invoking them?
I am the stag of seven tines,
I am a wide flood on a plain,
I am a wind upon deep waters,
I am a shining tear of the sun,
I am a hawk on a cliff,
I am fair among flowers,
I am a god who sets the head afire with smoke.
I am a battle waging spear,
I am a salmon in the pool,
I am a hill of poetry,
I am a ruthless boar,
I am the roar of the sea,
I am the ninth wave of the sea.
Who but I know the secrets of the unhewn dolmen?
Why had he not realised what Amergin was saying? He had been standing next to the man as he spoke the words, but the meaning had eluded him at the time. What a fool he had been. It had taken all of Trickster’s strength and cunning to escape from the enchanted flesh of the Bean Side. And here he was again. Trapped.
Philomena Bucket had no idea that she had a guardian angel. Well, a guardian Night-Soil Man, to be accurate. Rhys Cranham had made it his business to watch out for Philomena whenever she ventured alone into the darkness, which she often did.
Rhys had smiled to himself when he heard her footsteps outside his door, leaving the usual gift of starry-grabby pie and a brace of bottles of Old Colonel. He watched from the window as she disappeared into the dusk, but something was not right. She should have been making her way back to The Squid and Teapot, but instead had headed off towards the Gydynap Hills. You may recall that Philomena had told Bartholomew Middlestreet that she needed some time to herself; just an hour or two to collect her thoughts together. The trauma of recent events, and the disappearance of the ghost of Granny Bucket, had taken its toll upon the usually effervescent barmaid.
“Oh, Philomena, for pity’s sake…!” he muttered, quickly dragging on his boots.
Keeping a safe distance behind, and well downwind, Rhys had followed, with Drury rattling quietly by his side. He watched, with a pained expression on his face, when she buried her face in her hands and wept. He wanted to comfort her but knew that there was nothing he could do, guessing that his malodorous presence would achieve nothing, but only make her troubles worse. While he looked helplessly on, another appeared on the scene and stood next to Philomena. It was Nurse Burleigh, a bright young woman, fairly new to the island. That was good. She would know what to say.
The Night-Soil Man was dismayed, however, when, after a while, the pair began to walk up into the hills, further into the gloom. Stealthily, he followed.
It was an unusually fine night on the island of Hopeless, Maine, and so the storm that suddenly raged about the summit of the highest hill took Rhys by surprise. It was totally unexpected.
Thunder and lightning was common enough, but not on a night like this, and besides, it was the sort of thing that might be reasonably expected to emanate from above. This particular meteorological event appeared to be rising up from the Gydynaps themselves. More worrying was the fact that Philomena and Nurse Burleigh were certain to have been caught in the centre of it. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm abated and all was silent, as if nothing had ever disturbed the misty night. Minutes passed, then, to his relief, Rhys saw a pale figure emerge through the folds of darkness. It was Philomena, her pale skin and hair bathed in the meagre moonlight to bone-white. But where was the nurse? Something was very wrong.
Silently, almost ghost-like, Philomena drifted by, no more than a few yards from where Rhys and Drury stood. The old osseous hound growled softly. If he had possessed hackles they would have risen. This was not the usual way in which Drury greeted his friend. Rhys felt uneasy.
Philomena seemed not to hear, or realise that they were there. It was then that Rhys noticed another woman making her way down the hill, some distance behind Philomena. It was Marigold Burleigh, staggering like a drunkard. No, not drunk; she was weak and probably injured. Without heeding his awful smell, Rhys ran towards her, not a moment too soon. Marigold collapsed into his arms. She was obviously in a bad way, her face drained of all colour.
“She’s dying,” he thought, in alarm.
The nurse raised a feeble arm in Philomena’s direction. Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
“That creature… killing me… killing me,” she gasped.
“Oh, Philomena,” groaned Rhys, “What have you done?”
