Mrs Beaten has been quiet for a while. You should worry about what she’s up to when she’s quiet, it isn’t a good sign.
With luck and a fair wind, there will be new Mrs Beaten art along some time soon. There’s also a Mrs Beaten book that has been skulking about in the pantry for a while, eyeing the crockery skeptically and making critical remarks about the jam.
This is just a teaser really, a watch this space kind of post. Starch your collars, Mrs Beaten will be back in earnest at some point, and this time she’s got a really big spoon.
(This post is mostly Nimue’s fault although Keith took the photo.)
Durosimi O’Stoat pulled his overcoat tightly around him, in a forlorn effort to keep at bay the icy wind that was blowing in from the Atlantic. He hoped it would be worth his while, following Mr Squash for yet another long night of apparently aimless wandering. It puzzled Durosimi why the Sasquatch should have chosen to return to The Squid and Teapot at Christmas; after all, there is no good reason why anyone should be celebrating the season here on this most miserable of islands, Hopeless, Maine. The sorcerer, who was inclined to judge everyone by his own set of standards, could only conclude that the Sasquatch must have had an excellent, and probably dubious, motive to want to return.
For night after night, Durosimi trudged around after Mr Squash, keeping a safe distance downwind, and ducking into shadows at the slightest hint of discovery. When, after a week, and the whole enterprise seemed to be fruitless, he finally decided to cut his losses. It was during that eleventh hour that Durosimi overheard a snatch of conversation which, while heralding no clue as to why the Sasquatch had returned, made his catalogue of discomforts almost worthwhile.
“If the need arises,” he heard Mr Squash declare to Reggie Upton, “I can always build another portal to Tibet, or, indeed, to anywhere I choose. They’re not difficult to do.”
Durosimi held no illusions that Mr Squash would let him in on his secrets, but it was enough to know that these mysterious portals had been man-made (or Sasquatch-made in this instance) and not some natural phenomenon that could never be replicated. Durosimi was confident that, if the business of building a portal could be achieved by some overgrown neanderthal (his words), then he, the greatest sorcerer in the Northern Hemisphere (again, his words, unsurprisingly), would, with the application of his genius, be able to produce something at least as wonderful, if not better.
With these thoughts in his head, and the metaphorical bit lodged firmly between his teeth, Durosimi was now totally convinced that somewhere in his formidable library, hidden in that vast assortment of ancient tomes, forbidden grimoires, therimoires, diabologues, spell-books and an almost complete set of farmers’ almanacs, would lie the secret words which would open a portal to anywhere in the world, or, who knows, even the universe.
Over the following week, anyone passing Durosimi’s window might have spotted him at any hour of the day or night, bent over a manuscript of some description, or wrestling with a huge, leather bound book. His candles were burning from dusk until dawn, for having embarked upon this quest, he refused to eat or sleep until he had found the treasure that he was seeking.
One grey, misty morning Durosimi burst through his front door and exclaimed to the world, in triumph,
“I have it!”
Doc Willoughby, who happened to be passing by, hoped that, whatever it was that Durosimi had, it wasn’t contagious. To be on the safe side, he looked him over with a wary eye. Even Doc’s limited medical expertise could detect that Durosimi was not quite as he should be. His tired eyes glowed with a wild light, and he appeared to have lost weight. His skin was as yellow as the parchment he held in his shaking hands.
“It’s Etruscan,” Durosimi said excitedly.
“I can’t say that I’ve ever treated a case of that…”
began the Doc, but Durosimi was too excited to hear him.
“It has been copied from a tablet, but the answer is here, I’m sure…” said Durosimi.
“Ah, so you’ve got a tablet,” said Doc. “Tablets are good. Be sure to take plenty.”
It was then that Durosimi realised that Doc Willoughby had no idea what he was talking about.
“Willoughby, come on in, old friend, and I’ll explain everything,” he said. “You might be able to help.”
Doc was more than happy to obey. Old friend, eh? That boded well, and whisky seemed to be involved somewhere or other whenever Durosimi wanted to include Doc in his plans. Even at nine in the morning.
“So, you see,” confided Durosimi “It’s not just the likes of Squash who can build these portals, and the proof is all here, on this piece of parchment. I must admit, my grasp of Etruscan is a little rusty. but …”
“Remind me again what Etruscan is, exactly,” said the Doc, tentatively.
“Oh, it’s an ancient language,” explained Durosimi. “Pre-Indo and Paleo-European, of course, but not dissimilar to the Raetic and Lemnian languages.”
“Ah, yes, the Lemon languages. Splendid,” said the Doc knowledgeably. “Sorry, they had temporarily slipped my mind.”
“Anyway, as I was saying,” continued Durosimi, “as far as I can make out, the words on this parchment have been copied from a tablet that was inscribed about three thousand years ago. I’m sure, with a bit of diligence, it can be translated.”
“How are you going to do that?” Doc asked, accepting another tot of whisky.
“Fortunately,” said Durosimi, “Etruscan is an agglutinative language, where words contain multiple morphemes concatenated together. Do you follow my meaning?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Doc, emptying his glass.
“As you’ll appreciate,” went on Durosimi, “what makes the whole process of translation easier is that the language is constructed in such a manner that each word stem can be isolated and identified as indicating a particular inflection or derivation… you know, passive suffix, causative suffix, etc. on verbs, and plural suffix, accusative suffix, dative suffix, etc. on nouns. Makes it fairly simple, eh?”
“Umm… indubitably,” replied a bewildered Doc, hoping that this was going to yield at least one more glass of whisky.
“So, that’s settled, then. You’ll help me?” urged Durosimi with a smile that he hoped was not too ingratiating.
“To do what?” asked Doc, who was beginning to wish that he had stayed in bed that morning.
Durosimi sighed and poured them both another shot of whisky.
At some point, the faceless being, that may or may not be Mark Hayes, stopped his meandering and lay down on the edge of a field. Was he tired after his reawakening? It’s hard to say, for who here has been reawakened in such a manner, devoured by goats, then reassembled from an assortment of empty clothing and given life by uncanny socks? Within moments of his settling down, a weird, muffled, snuffling noise was heard. Was it snoring? But how can you snore without a face, a nose, a mouth?
Presently, an odd group of creatures arrived. Less than a foot tall, they were short of leg and long of arm. Goblin like, hairy and awkward of movement. Let us call them Hayezlits. Of course, I could tell you anything, describe them as anything, make up an outrageous description, for you will never see them. No one has ever seen them, nor will they. I can tell you this with certainty. They carried scraggy brushes made of twigs and durbit fur, odd-shaped pots hollowed out from grerken cones. And they assembled in a rough circle around the no-face of the man, who may or may not be Mark Hayes. Seven of them there were. And all seven started an odd squirmy motion, a strange furtive movement that seemed undirected and random. The pots were now full of ink – but the mechanism for this event was unfathomable.
They took their brushes and dipped them in the ink and started to paint upon the blank face canvas. Where the ink touched, colour appeared: mottled pinky grey for the cheeks, darker pink for the lips, dark hues for eyebrows, and an extraordinary shade of lilac for facial hair. The smallest hayezlit wielded a tiny brush and created an eye in an extraordinary display of skill and magic. Then matched it with another. Giving the face sight to see in this way, would have been an amazing sight to see, except that nobody would ever see that sight. They moved back for a moment and seemed to check their work. One of them touched up an ear, another, the tallest, and most wizened, made a brief adjustment to the eyes.
Seemingly satisfied, they carefully removed the man’s socks and shuffled off.
Now, lying on the ground, was an entity who very much looked like Mark Hayes. In fact, we will call it Mark Hayes from now on.
(Text and uneasy image manipulation by Keith Errington)
The cold, foggy air hung like a sullen blanket, clinging stubbornly to everything that it touched. Even before he set off on his rounds, Winston Oldspot, the Night-Soil Man, could feel the icy dampness sinking through his clothing and into his bones, but for once he did not care; Mr Squash had returned to Hopeless!
Standing on his doorstep, at The House at Poo Corner, Winston smiled, and his heart gave a little leap, as he watched the huge and familiar figure emerge from between a tangle of twisted trees. It had been no more than a couple of months since the Sasquatch had left the island of Hopeless, Maine, but Winston had missed his company terribly.
“Oh – hello Mr Squash,” he said nonchalantly, “I heard that you were back.”
Being only sixteen, Winston felt that to have shown any semblance of excitement or emotion would have been decidedly uncool.
“It’s darned good to see you, youngster,” boomed Mr Squash. throwing his great arms around the Night-Soil Man, and giving him a joyful hug. When you are more than half a millenium old, worries about trivial stuff, such as appearing to be cool, cease to be an issue.
“Steady on old chap,” said Reggie Upton, who, so far, had remained unseen, standing as he was, quite literally, in Mr Squash’s shadow. “I’ve still got the bruises from when you gave me a hug on Christmas Eve.”
“I’m fine, honestly,” declared Winston, quietly wincing in the darkness.
With the pleasantries over, the three friends set off into the night, their conversation only ceasing temporarily for Winston to service the occasional privy.
Reggie related to the Sasquatch how Philomena had destroyed his mystic portal to Tibet, in her battle with the evil lama, Dawasandup.
“Not to worry, I can always make another portal to the Himalayas, and put it somewhere other than Hopeless,” said Mr Squash. “They’re not that difficult to do. At least Dawasandup wont be able to come back and cause any more mischief.”
“No, he jolly well won’t,” chuckled Reggie. “The blighter was last seen being eaten by a demon of some sort or another.”
“Oh dear. How very sad,” lamented a deadpan Mr Squash.
Winston’s next client was the hermit who lived in a mausoleum-like cottage on Ghastly Green. Long before the trio came within sight of the building, they could hear the hermit’s pet raven, Lenore. She was perched on one of the many statues that stood in the garden, and was raising the alarm by calling the hermit’s name.
“Neville Moore, Neville Moore,” she cawed (though, on second thoughts, she might well have been quothing).
Neville came out onto his doorstep and waved.
“Nothing for you tonight, Winston,” he shouted. “Unfortunately, my old trouble seems to have returned.”
“Hello Neville. I picked some senna leaves when I was in the tropics last month,” Mr Squash called back. “I’ll bring them over in the morning.”
Neville gave a thumbs-up and shuffled back into his cottage.
“By Jove,” said Reggie, admiringly. “The tropics, eh? You seem to manage to get around quite a bit, old chap.”
Mr Squash frowned.
“Indeed,” he admitted, “But I won’t be doing anything like as much travelling in the future.”
After seeing Winston safely back to his home, Reggie and Mr Squash made their way to The Squid and Teapot. It was the wee, small hours of the morning, and they found the inn to be in darkness, and wrapped in a silence that was broken only by the raucous rattle of Drury’s snores, which emitted from the general direction of the snuggery. Even the Tomte was taking a nap.
“Are you sure you won’t come in?” asked Reggie. “It looks as though there’s a storm brewing.”
“I’ll be fine,” replied Mr Squash. “I’ve been living outdoors since before Columbus came to the Americas. Anyway, I feel safer being here than I have for a long time.”
“Really?”
Reggie couldn’t hide his surprise.
“Why on earth would a chap like you ever feel unsafe?”
“I’m being hunted,” said the Sasquatch, after a pause. “Wherever I go, there seems to be someone wanting to trap me. They bang stones on tree trunks, and make unearthly whooping noises. The fools believe that I’ll wander along to investigate, then they can nab me. For reasons that are beyond me, they even take plaster casts of my footprints, would you believe? At least on Hopeless I don’t feel as though I’m being pursued all of the time. This island has become my sanctuary.”
“Dashed scallywags,” fumed Reggie. “Do they never bother your relatives?”
“They would if they could,” said Mr Squash, bitterly, “but my folks all live in the far northwest, deep in forests where few humans have ever ventured.The truth is, they’ve banished me, and said that I would bring them only trouble. It’s my own fault, I suppose – I’ve always had itchy feet and been keen to explore the world. That’s why I made all of those portals, and look what good that has done for me!”
“If it’s any consolidation, old chap,” said Reggie, “we’ll all be more than happy, I’m sure, to have you lying low on Hopeless for a spell.”
“That’s comforting to know,” said the Sasquatch, “but I’ll have to slip out secretly, now and then, for some provisions. To be honest, I don’t like the diet on the island. I’m a herbivore, and there’s not a lot for me to eat here.”
“So you’ll be popping through a portal, now and then, to go shopping?” asked Reggie, suddenly excited.
“Well, not shopping, exactly…” began Mr Squash, wondering where this was going.
“Splendid!” exclaimed Reggie, not really listening. ”I’ll get a list together. There are a few things that we could do with around here.”
Mr Squash sighed.
He hoped that this plan wasn’t going to prove to be more trouble than it was worth.
For some days, the cursed trousers of Mark Hayes lay where they had fallen. Although many came to view them, no one dared to touch the abominable things. The trousers themselves showed no sign of damage despite the Yule Goats having successfully eaten Mark from inside them.
Trouser magic is a dastardly art that few dare to practice.
After a few days, a shirt was brought to lie with the trousers. A hat was later added, and then finally a pair of socks placed at the ankles. Whether all these items played a role, or only the socks were imbued with uncanny power, I do not know.
With the coming of the socks, the trousers themselves began to take shape as though occupied once more. Slowly each item of clothing filled out, assuming the form of a man. This could reasonably be assumed to be Mark Hayes himself, although while he lacks for a face, it is hard to be certain. This too may only be a temporary setback.
And so it is that Mark Hayes, or something that has assumed the approximate form of Mark Hayes has risen up from this place of demise and sauntered cheerily in the direction of the New Year. As omens go, we’ve certainly seen worse ones.
For more than a century, The Squid and Teapot has been a small oasis of cheer, brightening the gloom and aura of desolation that pervades much of the small island of Hopeless, Maine.
Following several years of disrepair and bad management, in nineteen-ten the inn found itself in the stewardship of the Lypiatt family. It was, long-time readers may remember, Sebastian Lypiatt who built the ever-popular flushing privy, an annexe painstakingly constructed from the salvaged stones of Oxlynch Hall, an English manor house that had been deconstructed and shipped to Connecticut (it was with these stones, of course, that the ghost of Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady, arrived on Hopeless).
After several generations of Lypiatts, The Squid passed into the hands of their close relatives, Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet, a couple who worked hard to maintain the reputation of hospitality and friendliness. When the Middlestreets retired, just over a year ago, they relinquished care of the inn to newlyweds Rhys Cranham and Philomena Bucket, and this is where we are today.
“Giving the Tomte a home has had its advantages,” declared Philomena, more to herself than anyone else. “The inn looks better this Christmas Eve than it ever has, and he has really gone overboard with the decorations.”
It was true. The little man had worked tirelessly, mingling elbow-grease with a little bit of enchantment, to make The Squid and Teapot look especially festive.
“And all for a corner of one of the attics, a small bowl of porridge and a drop of beer,” said Rhys. “That’s a good bargain, by anyone’s standards.”
“He keeps saying how much he loves to have a knob of butter with his porridge on Christmas Eve,” said Philomena, worriedly. “I fear that he’s going to be disappointed tonight – I doubt that there’s an ounce of butter on the island.”
“Well he must have gone without when he was with Mr Blomqvist,” said Rhys. “I can’t imagine that the old man had a secret hoard of the stuff stashed away somewhere.”
Philomena pondered this, and then said,
“The Tomte came to Hopeless with Mr Blomqvist, and stayed out of loyalty. He hasn’t got that sort of bond with us. I just hope he isn’t going to be too upset, and decide to leave.”
Despite their young age and limited English, Caitlin and Oswald went to bed that night bursting with excitement. Philomena, remembering the holly-crowned gift bringer of her childhood, had told them all about Father Christmas, in his long green cloak, and the presents that he would bring. Unlike the Tomte, at least the children would not be disappointed, as Reggie Upton, Philomena and Rhys had spent the last few weeks making toys and clothes for them.
It was almost midnight when the doors of The Squid and Teapot finally closed and the day’s work was at last completed. Drury, the skeletal hound, snored contentedly before the roaring log fire, and Philomena, Rhys and Reggie prepared to welcome in Christmas Day with a tankard of Old Colonel. Tenzin, the Buddhist monk who had recently moved into the inn, was not a drinker, but sat in happy puzzlement observing his friends celebrating this strange festival, which was completely new to him.
“Do you always have bells at Christmas?” he asked.
“Yes, they’ll ring the church bells at twelve o’clock,” said Rhys.
“No, I mean sleigh bells,” said Tenzin. “Can’t you hear them.”
Yes, they could, now he had mentioned it. They were certainly sleigh bells, and seemed to be right outside. Then Drury began barking, and wagging his bony old tail. Suddenly someone banged on the front door, hard enough to shake the glass in the windows.
“Who the devil…” began Reggie, wishing that his swordstick was to hand.
Gingerly Rhys opened the door a fraction, then stepped back in surprise at the huge, dark shape standing in the courtyard.
He was even more surprised when Drury, yapping with delight, threw himself at the stranger.
“Mr Squash!” Rhys exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise. Come on in”
The Sasquatch bundled into the bar room, a bulging sack slung over his shoulder.
“A Merry Christmas,” he boomed. “I come bearing gifts. By the way, did you like the sleigh bells? I thought that they provided a nice, seasonal touch.”
Mr Squash delved into his sack and pulled out a wheel of cheese, several bottles of French Brandy, chocolate, coffee, fresh fruit, sweet biscuits, jars of honey, white flour, two christmas puddings… and butter; lots and lots of rich, golden butter.
Tactfully, no one asked how the Sasquatch had come by all of this bounty. Wordlessly, they accepted that this was a Christmas miracle, and nobody should ask how miracles happen.
“Thank you, Mr Squash,” said Philomena, blinking back her tears. “And a very merry Christmas to you, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some porridge to make.”
Did you see Mark Hayes come dancing through the streets last night? The church bell hammered out a lonely chime for the solstice, as night consumed the town. Did you watch from your window, as he moved between the pools of light? His trousers were full of the patterns of darkness, and they did not move in accordance with his dance.
Like the pied piper he went, only I’m fairly sure what he had there was a slightly out of tune crumhorn. The Yule Goats loved it. I heard the clatter of their bones upon the cobbles, I witnessed their monstrous cavorting as they passed through the brighter spaces nearer to the lamps.
What will we do if ever those lamps go out? That blessing of protection from the worst abominations of the darkness. I wish I knew how the lamps work, so that I could contribute to their ongoing light. But even so, I was not thankful that I could see the bone goats.
I followed after them. Some of us felt that compulsion, in the wailing call of the pipe and the horror of bones in motion. Some of us – a mere handful of troubled souls – followed them all as they made their winding journey. We had to know what would follow, no matter how terrible it might be.
They came to that place where witches have been burned. There, the bone goats fell upon Mark Hayes. He made no resistance as they devoured him. How bones could consume, I do not know, and yet they fed. Where they fed, they grew, becoming fleshy themselves, then in turn to be torn apart by other goats in an orgy of mutual consumption. In the end, only one goat remained, bigger by far than all that had preceded it. This goat leapt into the night, running across roofs before disappearing from sight.
Nothing remained of Mark Hayes, but the fallen crumhorn and those cursed trousers.
But then, this is not the first time he’s died so frankly all bets are off.
With a theatrical flourish, Philomena Bucket sprinkled the final few grains of salt onto the bedroom floor.
“You’re stuck in there now,” she said. “And don’t give me any of that ‘me no speak the English’ rubbish; I know that you can.”
“Fair enough,” said the Tomte, in a heavy, but perfectly intelligible, Swedish accent. Then, stepping out of the salt circle, he added, “and as you may have noticed, sprinkling salt about has absolutely no effect on us Tomtar.”
“Tomtar?” Philomena looked puzzled.
“It’s the correct plural,” said the Tomte smugly. “Now if you’ll just let me get by…”
You will recall that the Tomte, who apparently held some strongly nationalistic views, had attached himself to young Oswald, whom he knew to be of Scandinavian origin. The little man would creep into the bedroom that Oswald shared with his adopted sister, Caitlin, and carefully fold the boy’s clothes and pick up his muddles, whilst leaving Caitlin’s things untouched. While Philomena was always happy to receive some extra help around The Squid and Teapot, she felt that the Tomte could be a little more forthcoming with his generosity, especially upon learning that it was beholden upon the household blessed with his presence to feed him, or things could get ugly.
“Not so fast,” said Philomena, blocking the doorway. “We need to talk. I thought that back in the old country you Tomtar, or whatever it is you call yourselves, looked after whole farmsteads, tending domestic animals, keeping the place generally spick and span, and asking for nothing more than bowl of porridge and a lump of butter every Christmas Eve.”
“You’ve been doing your homework,” said the Tomte.
“I have,” replied Philomena, “and it makes no sense to me that you come to us, and all you do is fold some clothes and pick up a few toys.”
“No one else in the inn is Scandinavian,” reasoned the Tomte. “But Oswald is.”
Philomena put on her cross face.
“Then you might as well leave now,” she said. “Oswald is my son. We don’t need you. Clear off.”
The Tomte looked crestfallen.
“Then I would have no purpose,” he said, sorrowfully. “The instant that the Blomqvist house was no longer in Swedish hands, my usefulness was over. Then Oswald arrived on the island, and I rejoiced – at last, I would again have a link connecting me to my homeland.”
“Not my problem,” said Philomena, crossing her arms.
“But I will fade away to nothing, and not even be a memory…”
Philomena felt herself soften inside.
“This island,” she began, “was once colonised by Vikings. Some of their descendants are still here, and the foundations of many of these buildings were laid by their hands, a thousand years ago. It is plain that Scandinavia has deep roots in Hopeless. There is no reason for you to be so limited with what you do, don’t you see?”
The Tomte chewed the end of his beard thoughtfully.
“You’ve convinced me,” he said at last. “But I have conditions…”
“Go on,” said Philomena, warily.
“If I’m to look after the inn, I will need somewhere to live, and regular meals…”
“We can do that, although I can’t promise porridge with butter,” said Philomena.
“… and I will only stay for as long as Oswald is here.”
Philomena extended her forefinger, which the Tomte grasped, shaking it to seal the deal.
“Of course,” said Reggie Upton, “according to island lore the Vikings who landed here were from Denmark, rather than Sweden, which is where the Tomte comes from. We don’t want to upset the applecart, so it would be best to keep that to ourselves,eh?”
“It won’t be a problem; I did a bit of digging in the encyclopaedias, up in the attics,” Philomena announced, with a self-satisfied grin. “It seems that, at one time – a thousand years or so ago – most of what we now think of as Scandinavia was pretty much one country. As far as the Tomte is concerned, that has never changed, and home for him, these days, is anywhere that a Viking once chose to hang his helmet.”
“Ah, so you found a loophole,” said Reggie. “Jolly good show. Well played m’dear.”
Philomena beamed happily. Reggie was usually the knowledgeable one; it was good to have learned something that he didn’t know.
By the following evening Rhys had made a small, but comfortable home for the Tomte in the corner of one of the attics. Some porridge (sadly without butter), along with a thimbleful of ‘Old Colonel’, was left at his door.
The regular patrons of The Squid and Teapot know nothing of the diminutive guardian who watches over the children each night, and does the occasional odd-job around the inn. He is a well-kept secret, although one or two have commented that, lately, The Squid seems to be even more cosy and welcoming than ever. They reason that this must be due to the recently hung Christmas decorations – the holly boughs, the garlands of ivy and the festive wreath adorning the inn’s stout oak door, and of course, best of all, there is the beautiful tree occupying pride of place in a corner of the public bar. Everyone who sees the it will go home each night with a lightness in their step, smiling as they recall the way in which the lights, twinkling like stars, are reflected in the glittering ornaments, hanging like exotic fruit from its rich, green boughs.
“Philomena and Rhys have managed to decorate the inn really beautifully this Christmas,” they say to each other. “And that tree! It really is wonderful to see…”
They would be surprised to know that Rhys and Philomena have played no part in any of this flurry of festive activity. They would be equally surprised by the knowledge that the tree has no lights or fancy ornaments. Those few who can see through the enchantment all agree that, despite this, the humble little fir sitting in its pot looks quite perfect, festooned as it is in a simple string of berries, and a few pine cones carefully attached to its branches.
Stop, I beg you. Stop making these monstrosities and leaving them, in the streets. This morning I found one on my windowsill. They are everywhere now, multiplying in unspeakable ways. I am afraid that somehow they are able to recreate themselves, an onslaught of uncanny entities rising up as an army.
And yet I think you are making them, my fellow islanders. You are decking some of them with cheerful ribbons and setting them out before your own homes as though these bones could be festive. Does no one else look at this hideous things and think of their own bones? Are they not an expression of mortality? An invitation to death?
I have nightmares that if I died in the street someone might truss me up in ribbons and display me as a bone goat. Yet the children laugh gleefully over these horrible things. I hear them chanting that the Yule Goat is coming. The Yule Goat. The Bone Goat. The Hungry Ones in ribbons.
I’m sure this is Mark Hayes’s doing, or that he is driven onwards by his most accursed ancestral trousers. Whenever I see that troubling weave, the dark that is too dark, the cloth that seems to watch you, I feel my skin prickle with apprehension. In my nightmares he leads the flock of bone goats, and they dance for him.
(Text by Nimue. The bone goat image started life as something Nimue made, and that Keith has developed digitally. There is no doubt that it exists purely because of Mark’s cursed trousers.)
Unbelievably, a whole year has passed since Rhys Cranham gave up the role of Night-Soil Man, in order to marry the love of his life, Philomena Bucket. It was also at this time that the pair took over the running of The Squid and Teapot, following the retirement of Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet. Much has happened during those twelve months, not least that Rhys and Philomena became the adopted parents of two small children, both of whom arrived on Hopeless under mysterious circumstances.
“You could be forgiven for thinking that they really are brother and sister, they are so alike,” said a beaming Reggie Upton, watching Caitlin and Oswald playing happily together.
“You could,” conceded Philomena Bucket, “but they don’t speak the same language – although they manage to communicate somehow, so neither seems to care.”
Reggie looked at her quizzically.
“I realised that Caitlin was speaking Old Irish from her first day with us,” went on Philomena. “Sadly, that’s gradually disappearing as her English improves. But as for Oswald, I have no idea where he’s from.”
“The few words that I’ve heard him say sound very faintly Scandinavian,” said Reggie, “but I couldn’t swear to it.”
Philomena nodded.
“Hmm… that. could be,” she agreed, “but the trouble with this island is that it brings in people from any point in the past. You and I know that all too well.”
It was true. Reggie was on the wrong side of sixty, and had been born in the middle of the nineteenth century. Philomena, on the other hand, was just thirty years old, but came into this world in the same year as Reggie’s great-grandmother.
“It’s dashed confusing,” said Reggie. “What you’re saying is that young Oswald could have been born anytime during the last two thousand years.”
“If not earlier,” said Philomena.
Oswald, you will remember, was found abandoned on the beach and deposited into the care of the Pallid Rock Orphanage. It took little persuasion for Rhys and Philomena to adopt him, so along with Caitlin, Reggie Upton and the Buddhist monk, Tenzin, young Oswald brought the number of permanent residents living in The Squid and Teapot to a grand total of six. (Note the word ‘living’; this does not include the inn’s two ghosts – Father Ignatius Stamage and Lady Margaret D’Avening – nor, of course, Drury, the skeletal hound).
This might sound like something of a houseful, but remember, with the exception of the orphanage, The Squid and Teapot is possibly the largest building on the island (unless you count the lighthouse, which has a definite vertical advantage). The inn has a number of guest rooms, which are never fully occupied, plus several attics and a spacious cellar, so there is plenty of room for all. However, despite having this generous space, Philomena decided that Caitlin and Oswald could keep each other company by sharing a bedroom.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” said a perplexed Philomena, later that day. “When I go in to tidy up the children’s room, Caitlin’s bed is unmade, and her toys and clothes are all over the floor.”
“There’s nothing new in that,” laughed Rhys. “She’s only two, after all.”
“I know,” replied his wife, “but since his very first night with us, Oswald’s side of the room is spotless. His toys are put away, his clothes are neatly folded and his bed is made. I don’t understand it.”
“Maybe he’s just naturally tidy,” said Rhys, doubtfully.
Philomena rolled her eyes.
“I don’t think so. There’s something funny going on here. I’m going to stay in there tonight, and get to the bottom of it.”
“Remind me to fill a hot water bottle for myself,” muttered Rhys, glumly.
Philomena had been sitting in the corner of the children’s bedroom for hours, determined not to fall asleep. Just when she thought that she would have to give up, and rest her eyes, the door was pushed open and a diminutive figure crept into the room. He was no more than a foot high and sported a red cap and a long grey beard. Philomena watched, astonished, as the little man immediately began to busy himself, tidying up Oswald’s toys and clothing, but steadfastly ignoring Caitlin’s muddles. She was transfixed, hardly daring to breathe, and stayed perfectly still while he completed his work, which took no more than a few minutes.
The following morning, between yawns, she related the incident to Rhys.
“You’ve seen the Tomte,” he said. “You must remember him – he was the guardian of Sven Blomqvist’s old house, or he was until the Middlestreets moved in.”
“That would explain a lot,” said Philomena. “As I recall our Tomte has some controversial views regarding the people he looks after.”
“Ah, yes,” said Rhys.”He deserted the Middlestreets because they weren’t sufficiently Swedish… which can only mean, I guess, that Oswald must be.”
“So what shall we do about this Tomte fellow?” asked Philomena.
“Now that he’s moved in, we’ll need to make sure that he’s fed regularly,” said Rhys, “or all hell could break loose. As I understand it, a Tomte can be excellent as a friend, but really vindictive if you upset them.”
“We’ll see about that!” exclaimed Philomena. “If we’re lumbered with feeding him, he’s going to have to earn every mouthful, and that includes helping everyone in the house who doesn’t happen to be Swedish. Old Mr Tomte and I are going to have a little talk!”
Author’s note:
The Tomte is a gnome-like creature and considered to be a house guardian in Swedish folklore, asking only for a simple bowl of porridge in return for his labours.
