The quills of a Quizzel have long been sought after by islanders as roasted in vinegar, they harden till the resemble long steel pins. Quills from the ridge that runs down their back in particular make fine needles.
It is said that if you cover a captured Quizzel in clay and bake the whole beast, they also make for fine eating, though if you over roast your clay packed Quizzel the clay will harden to the point you need a hammer and chisel to break it open. But on pulling the hardened clay shell apart all the quill’s will come free allowing you to devour the succulent meat of the Quizzel.
This same method can be used to cook hedgehogs, which are smaller creatures but otherwise much like the Quizzel, which some say tastes like chicken. Having tried this island delicacy only once I can say this much. Those who say it tastes like chicken have never tasted chicken.
The Quizzel is a shy beast, it is said to be about two foot long with an elongated nose, timid and known to hide in piles of leaves or other foliage. Given the propensity of Hopeless residents to bake them in a ball of clay I cannot say I blame the beast. When threatened they curl up into a ball. Quills extended. As the quills are both sharp and hard enough to go through leather soles, walking through piles of leaves is inadvisable if there is a Quizzel about. Nor is it wise to use them as an improvised football.
It is however perhaps the usefulness of the quills that has led to the age-old Island tradition on the last day of autumn, whence the islanders take down their family Quiddle sticks, hand them out to the children and send them off quiddling.
A quiddling stick is about three feet long with the bottom wrapped in old cloths to make a padded ball, this part is called the quiddle. Quiddling requires the stick to be thrust repeatedly into piles of leaves in the hopes that if there is a Quizzel in residence it will ‘spike up’ and thus be impale by its own quills into the quiddle whence it can be removed from the leaf pile safely.
The Quiddling hunt is accompanied by much shouting, screaming and running about and normally last for the whole of the morning after which successful ‘Quiddlers’ are supposed to return with their catches. Though, more often than not, the children get bored of the hunt and use the padded quiddling sticks to beat each other. Fights erupt. And eventually the adults declare the hunt at an end and the quiddling stick is returned to its place of honor above the fireplace.
The Quiddling hunts at the orphanage are particularly violent affairs…
Sadly, in recent years Quizzel have become rare, indeed in my lifetime I have never heard of one being captured despite the great enthusiasm of the annual Quiddling hunts. These days of course I do not partake in the hunt itself as such is the task of children. Instead, I share the many mugs of drop apple cider with the adults who reminisce about the great quiddling hunts of old. Mostly they reminisce about the fights.
Few if any can ever recall capturing a Quizzel, though they all swear to know someone who has.
*Authors note. Quiddling is an 18th century word, it means to fiddle about with trivial things as a way of avoiding the important ones. It has nothing to do with sending children off to hunt large hedgehog like creatures that don’t exist while the adult’s day drink. I was just quiddling about when I wrote this…
Last year’s Yule Goat Extravaganza turned out to be a sorry little event. Only three of us went along and at the time it hardly seemed newsworthy. Putting bells on a goat barely counts as festive, and as the goat escaped within a few minutes of my arrival there wasn’t much spectacle at all. I only mention it now because rumour has it that a new Yule Goat Extravaganza will happen this year. Even bigger and better than last year! Which in fairness is a really low set bar.
The rumours are at present short on details. Will we set fire to the Yule Goat? Will the Yule Goat set fire to us? Or instead, will the head of the Yule Goat explode in a sudden burst of utter darkness from which the tentacles of a ravening elder god will inevitably emerge?
Those of you who were only driven temporarily mad by the whole business with the Yule Rabbit a few years ago have every reason to feel cautious. There’s often a fine line between well meant community activities and accidently starting a cult and summoning something unspeakable. And potentially unreasonably amorous. I still have nightmares.
Perhaps we could ditch the festive chanting this year? Could those attending find it in their hearts to leave all cursed family heirlooms at home, refrain from bringing occult texts and keep the morris dancing to an absolute minimum. Thank you.
Following the defeat of the evil lama, Dawasandup, and the destruction of Mr Squash’s mysterious portal to Tibet, normality had once more been restored to Hopeless, Maine, inasmuch as that foggy island can ever be said to be normal.
“So what are we going to do about you, now that the portal is gone?”
Philomena regarded the young monk, Tenzin, with a look of pity. For no fault of his own, the boy was stranded on Hopeless, thousands of miles from home and with no hope of ever seeing his monastery and fellow monks again.
Tenzin shrugged. “I can be as good a Buddhist here as I can in the monastery,” he said. “Although, a prayer wheel would be nice…”
“That’s not a problem, we can easily get one made, I’m sure,” said Philomena, having no idea what a prayer wheel might conceivably look like.
“You’re very welcome to live with us in The Squid and Teapot,” she added, “but you’ll need to do a few jobs around the place occasionally.”
Tenzin nodded his thanks, and smiled to himself; doing a few jobs around The Squid would be a breeze after the harsh regime of the monastery, where anything less than perfection often led to a beating.
“Now, about this prayer wheel thing. You had better talk to Rhys or Reggie and show them what you need.”
“I’ve seen prayer wheels in Buddhist temples when I was in the army, in India,” said Reggie Upton. “But they were huge great metal cylinders, the size of cannons, that were rotated on a spindle. I’m not sure how we can get something like that made for you.”
“I won’t have any use for anything that big,” laughed Tenzin. “Just a hand held one will be fine.”
“Can you draw it for me?” asked Reggie, hopefully.
Tenzin shook his head. “I’m no good at drawing; in fact I couldn’t draw anything to save my life,” he said.
Reggie scratched his head, and then decided to do that which he always did when confronted with a problem; he ransacked the attics for an encyclopaedia, fully confident in the knowledge that it would tell him all that he needed to know.
“Well, a fat lot of good that blasted well was!” he fumed to Rhys Middlestreet later that day. “All that it showed me was a picture of something that looked like a baby’s rattle with a lot of unintelligible script running around the outside.”
Rhys smiled. He didn’t have a lot of time for what he considered to be mumbo-jumbo.
“If the worst comes to the worst,” he said, “Tenzin will have to change his religion. They’re all about as bad as one another, as far as I can tell. We can send him along to have a word with Reverend Davies.”
“Hmmm, I can’t see Tenzin embracing apostacy with any great enthusiasm,” observed Reggie.
Rhys wisely made no reply, having absolutely no idea what the old soldier was talking about.
It was only one day later that salvation arrived in the most unlikely of guises. Philomena Bucket was in the kitchen of The Squid and Teapot preparing a batch of Starry-Grabby pies for the evening trade, when a knock came on the window. She looked up to see the pinched face of Durosimi O’Stoat pressed against the glass.
This was unusual, to say the least. Wiping her hands on a tea-towel, she went to see what the old rogue might be after.
“Ah, Miss Bucket…” Durosimi sounded as awkward as he looked.
Philomena said nothing, but continued to dry her hands.
“Miss Bucket, I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude. You saved my life the other day…”
“I’m sure that you would have done the same for me, Mr O’Stoat, ” said Philomena, and Durosimi nodded, although they both knew that this wasn’t true.
“I’ve just come to say thank you,” said Durosimi. The words felt strange in his mouth. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“For a start, you can stop trying to get Tenzin to come back to live with you,” said Philomena. “The lad is just a humble monk. He doesn’t have any magical abilities for you to draw on, whatever you might think. He doesn’t even have a prayer wheel.”
At that Durosimi suddenly began rooting in his bag, and eventually produced a beautifully inscribed golden cylinder, no more than a few inches high. A handle of dark, polished wood acted as a spindle running through it, and an intricate gold chain hung from its side.
“It is a genuine prayer wheel. Give Tenzin this, as a gift from me,” said Durosimi, magnanimously.
“Where the devil did you get that from?” asked a surprised Philomena.
“I imagine that I somehow picked it up in error when I was in Dawasandup’s home,” said Durosimi, blushing a little. “It must have been in my pocket when the Yeti brought me back here.”
“Oh well, Dawasandup won’t be needing it, not where he’s gone,” said Philomena, and they both shuddered slightly, recalling the hideous crunch of bones when Dawasandup disappeared into the tiger-demon’s jaws.
“Thank you,” she said to Durosimi. “This will make Tenzin a very happy lad.”
Durosimi flashed her a thin smile.
“And we’re now even?” he asked.
”We’re even,” said Philomena.
Author’s note: The inscriptions on the side of a prayer wheel are Buddhist mantras written in Tibetan script. While repeating the mantra “Om Mani Padme Hum” the wheel is rotated clockwise to accumulate good karma and purify negativities.
I’ve seen the castle a few times now, when the mist rolls in and the last rays of the setting sun catch the headland in just the right way.
There are ruins up on that headland, but I do not think they are the ruins of a castle. Perhaps buildings can dream, and this is the ghost of a memory of something a building once wanted to be. Perhaps it is the dream of a builder who imagined castles in the sky, but lacked the means to build such a thing.
Sometimes I think that the mist itself dreams, or remembers. That’s why there are so often faces, or eyes that seem to do nothing much. They say water remembers things, and mist is only water after all.
I like to go and stand in the mist, and gaze up at the castle that isn’t there. I can feel the mist on my skin when I do that. I like to think that the mist is experiencing my face, and that in the future it will remember me, and reconstruct me out of those dreams.
I do not want to linger as a ghost, trapped here in death as I have been in life. But I would like to be remembered. I want to become as this castle is, something grander than I have been in life. The idea of a person, with this face of mine smoothed into a better appearance by the softness of water droplets.
To recap… The sorcerous lama, Dawasandup, had broken through to Hopeless via Mr Squash’s mysterious portal, scheming to take the young monk Tenzin, and Durosimi O’Stoat, back to Tibet and sacrifice them to the tiger demon, Tagsan. Philomena Bucket and Durosimi had combined their magical abilities to thwart Dawasandup, but the unexpected arrival of Tagsan had seemingly doomed both of them…
Rising to his knees, and swamped in Tagsan’s massive shadow, Dawasandup looked triumphantly at the scene spread out before him. The puny foreigner, Durosimi, who foolishly believed that he could outwit him, lay trembling beneath the huge paw of the demon, while just a few yards away lay the crumpled form of the witch, Philomena. Dawasandup had to admit that the woman had been an impressive foe, but she had failed, and like Durosimi, she would pay the price of failure. Dawasandup would give the two of them to Tagsan as a tribute and, with the demon sated, he could return home to the clean mountain air of Tibet.
These thoughts of home cheered Dawasandup. He hated this place, and marvelled at how anyone could live for more than a day on such a miserable little island. What was it called? Ah yes, Hopeless, that was it. How appropriate. A hopeless, fog-bound land for hopeless, useless people.
Dawasandup suddenly felt uneasy, and frowned at an advancing bank of fog that seemed to have an unusually well-developed sense of purpose and direction. He had lived his life with one foot firmly set in the realm of the supernatural, and believed himself to be its master, but he had never witnessed anything quite like this. The fog was alive, and appeared to be heading straight for him.
If there is one thing designed to put the ghost of Granny Bucket out of sorts, it is someone threatening her family, and this Dawasandup character and his pet tiger had managed to put themselves inextricably into her bad books. Granny, however was well aware of her limits; she had seen how the demon had fought. Luckily Granny had allies; many, many allies who would be more than keen to help.
For countless generations the women of the Bucket line had practised their witchcraft more or less quietly, and each had understood that, if necessary, not even death itself would prevent them from defending their own. Even the oldest, most primitive of them, daubed in red ochre and wearing hides and antlers, viewed the opportunity to mingle with their descendants as a pleasant day out, and happily rallied to Granny’s call. The only fly in the ointment was that they were duty-bound to protect Durosimi as well. Long-time readers of these tales may remember that, according to Doctor John Dee, a certain Melusine O’Stoat had married into the Bucket family during the sixteenth century (see the tale ‘A Remarkable Resemblance’) and Durosimi was undoubtedly a relative, albeit many times removed.
As the fog-bank drew closer, Dawasandup could make out scores of female shapes writhing within it. Terror rose within him, but then, to his great relief, the fog gradually slowed and stopped, completely enveloping Philomena. He smiled to himself, convinced that the wraiths within the fog had come to claim her body, or better still, devour it. It did not matter; he still had Durosimi to sacrifice to the demon.
The fog rolled over Philomena and, little by little grew thinner, and as it did so the forms within it faded too. When it had cleared entirely, Philomena was left as Dawasandup had last seen her, apparently dead, and lying on the cold earth. Then, to his dismay, she groaned, and with some effort, raised herslf up onto one knee.
Taking no chances, Dawasandup hurled a small ball of blue, crackling lightning at her. Without looking up, Philomena raised a hand and caught it easily. Painfully, she rose to her feet and held the glowing ball before her. To Dawasandup’s horror it quickly ballooned to about the size of a human head.
“To the death, this time,” she said, and it sounded as if a hundred voices were speaking at once.
Ignoring Dawasandup, she tossed the lightning ball at Tagsan, who tried unsuccessfully to swat it away. It bounced off his chest, leaving a livid scorch mark behind. Free of the demon’s paw, Durosimi wasted no time in scampering to what he hoped was safety.
Tagsan, wounded and angry, roared at Philomena, who merely smiled the sweetest of smiles, and extended her arms towards Dawasandup. The lama was surprised to find himself suddenly levitating, lifted higher and higher until he floated level with Tagsan’s gaping maw. Dawasandup screamed as he felt the demon’s hot breath and toxic saliva upon his body.
“Let this be your tribute, demon,” Philomena chorused. “Take it and go back from whence you came, you have no place here. Do not think that you can ever beat us, for we are legion.”
With a sickening crunch, Tagsan clamped the still screaming Dawasandup between his jaws, and, with his tribute paid, soundlessly faded into the portal between the ash trees.
“We’ve beaten him,” cried a jubilant Durosimi, forgetting that he had spent much of the battle trapped beneath the tiger demon’s paw.
“Not quite yet,” said Philomena.
Durosimi was relieved to hear that her voice had returned to its normal pitch, and no longer sounded like a great multitude when she spoke.
Philomena raised her arms once more, and the two ash trees, forming Mr Squash’s mysterious portal to Tibet, buckled and cracked, then noisily imploded, sending a thick confetti of shredded bark and leaves high into the air.
“There, now it’s finished,” she said. “The portal is closed forever.”
“What have you done?” yelled Durosimi. “That was our only way to uncover the magic and mystery of Tibet, and you have destroyed it completely.”
“My only regret is having to kill the ash trees,” she said, wearily. “And if you don’t shut your noise, you might find yourself joining them.”
Durosimi blanched. He had seen too much to argue.
Feeling quite exhausted, Philomena turned and walked away from him, wanting nothing more than to go back to her family and the safety of The Squid and Teapot.
Philomena Bucket listened intently as Reggie Upton revealed that he had witnessed someone breaking through Mr Squash’s mystic portal. The interloper sounded worryingly like Tenzin’s description of Dawasandup, the sorcerous lama.
“That’s not good,” she said, after a pause. “According to Tenzin, Dawasandup has sworn to track both him and Durosimi down and drag them back to Tibet, to be sacrificed to some tiger demon.”
Reggie was aghast. “We jolly well can’t let that happen to Tenzin,” he raged. “And although I have absolutely no affection for Durosimi whatsoever, I’m dashed if I’ll allow some sorcerer chap to barge into Hopeless without a ‘by your leave’ and start terrorising the islanders. Why, the bounder needs a sound thrashing, and no mistake.”
“You’re quite right,” agreed Philomena, unsuccessfully concealing the ghost of a smile. “I’m afraid that if Dawasandup is the badass that Tenzin says he is, it will take a bit more than the threat of a sound thrashing to see him off.”
Despite her reluctance to use her magical powers, Reggie had seen enough of them to grasp Philomena’s meaning.
“You mean to play him at his own game?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Philomena nodded. “It’s the only way to help Tenzin,” she said, “and as it’s Durosimi’s battle, he needs to pitch in too.”
“Leave it with me, I’ll talk to him,” said Reggie.
“No,” said Philomena, firmly. “You can make sure that everyone at The Squid is safe. I’ll go and see Durosimi… oh, and if you see Granny Bucket hanging about haunting the place, send her after me.”
To Philomena’s surprise, Durosmi listened to what she had to say without a word of objection. He even nodded in agreement once or twice.
“If Dawasandup was able to break through Squash’s portal without mishap,” he said, “do you really think that the two of us might be enough to see him off?”
“We should throw everything we can at him, and finish things once and for all,” said Philomena. “He isn’t going to give up until he has you and Tenzin at his mercy.”
Durosimi looked at her with new respect. She was suggesting that they should totally annihilate Dawasandup, which sounded like a splendid plan.
“But we really need to let him find us first,” she added, ominously.
The pair did not have to wait too long before they caught sight of Dawasandup. His tall, narrow shape seemed to drift across the ground, like the mist that whispered through the trees. He came to a halt no more that twenty feet away from them, and slowly beckoned to Durosimi, It took a huge effort of will for Durosimi to ignore that unspoken command. Philomena could clearly see the beads of sweat forming on the sorcerer’s brow.
“Stand firm, stand firm,” she muttered.
“It’s just about all that I can do at the moment,” replied Durosimi. “Can’t you distract him, or something?”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a shaft of crackling blue light arched through the air and slammed into the lama’s beckoning hand. This was unexpected and Dawasandup scowled at Philomena, flexing his fingers and rubbing his wrist.
“Thank you,” said Durosimi, “however, I believe that you’ve really upset him now.”
Before Philomena could formulate a suitably scathing reply, a glowing orange ball materialised in the air before them, hung there for a second – which felt like an hour – and then exploded with a faint popping sound, knocking them both off their feet. Without standing up, Durosimi skillfully sent a rope of light snaking across the ground, which wrapped itself around Dawasandup’s legs. With a flick of his wrist Durosimi spun him onto his back.
“Now!” he shouted to Philomena, and an instant later a flaming sword hovered inches above Dawasandup’s helpless form.
“Go on!” yelled Durosimi, but Philomena shook her head.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” she said. “Not like this.”
Durosimi gave her a withering look. “Well I damned well can,” he hissed and sprinted across the gap to where the lama lay.
As Philomena’s fiery sword faded into the air, Durosimi lunged, wielding a heavy hunting knife. Suddenly he stopped. Emerging through the mist behind Dawasandup was a massive tiger, its great bulk blocking out the light. That did not matter really, as its eyes blazed with a cold, intense fire that cast shadows upon the ground. This was Tagsan, the tiger demon, more huge and terrifying than either Durosimi or Philomena had ever imagined.
The creature roared, and the noise shook the windows of every house on the island. Clasping his hands over his ears, Durosimi dropped to his knees. Extending a lazy paw, the tiger reached out and dragged him across the ground, as a cat would a mouse. Deafened and dizzy, Philomena attempted to toss another lightning bolt towards the demon, but Tagsan stopped it in mid-air, and with a growl turned the bolt around easily, sending it back to Philomena. It hit her hard on the shoulder, spinning her around like a top. Philomena gave a gasp of pain, and dropped to the ground, where she lay perfectly still.
“That’s not going to happen,” raged Doc Willoughby. “You ignore me when I visit, treat me like dirt and expect me to run around the island undoing the messes that you’ve caused with your mistakes. Well I’ve had enough of you and your ways, O’Stoat. You are nothing but a fraud and a charlatan of the worst kind, and I refuse to be your lackey any more.”
Ever since he had received the note from Durosimi, Doc had rehearsed this speech a dozen times in the comfort of his living room. He had been determined to stand up to Durosimi once and for all. He was sick of being treated like a doormat. Now, standing nervously in the sorcerer’s study, this did not feel to be the best course of action.
“Well, now you mention it, old friend, I do tend to drop into The Squid and Teapot from time to time,” stammered the Doc, hating himself for his total lack of backbone.
“Splendid!” beamed Durosimi, “I knew that I could rely on you to get young Tenzin to come back to me.”
“I’ll do what I can…” said the Doc, dejectedly.
“I have every faith in your powers of persuasion,” boomed Durosimi, full of false bonhomie. “Now, where did I put that bottle of single malt..?”
“He’s busy meditating,” said Philomena Bucket, when the Doc enquired, later that day, if Tenzin might be available for a little tête-à-tête. The usually gentle Irish lilt had left Philomena’s voice, and it was cold and sharp. In those three words she managed to convey the message that there would be nothing further to add to the conversation, thank you very much.
Doc knew that he had been defeated at the first attempt. Despite his dislike of Philomena, however, he could not help but reflect that she would make a wonderful receptionist, and keep those blasted idlers from bothering him for appointments all of the time.
Doc was close to panic; he had no idea what he would do now. He briefly considered kidnapping the young monk, but wisely decided that youth and agility would be on Tenzin’s side. Besides that, there was always the possibility that the monastery had instruction in some sort of martial art in its curriculum, and that the monks routinely went around with an assortment of lethal throwing implements stuffed in their robes. With a heavy heart, Doc decided to go home and sleep on it. Maybe Tenzin would go back to Durosimi of his own accord. Maybe Durosimi would be eaten by the Kraken. Maybe the world would end tonight…
In the event, none of the above mentioned scenarios occurred, but the problem of getting Tenzin back to Chez Durosimi suddenly became much less important.
The reason that the Yeti (who, for convenience, we know as Billy, or possibly Willy) brought both Durosimi and Tenzin from Tibet to Hopeless, via Mr Squash’s mystic portal, was for them to escape the wrath of the anchorite and sorcerer, Dawasandup. As lamas go, Dawasandup was not as devoted to the notion of peace and love as he might have been, and was extremely keen on sacrificing Durosimi, or failing that, Tenzin, to a particularly unpleasant tiger demon named Tagsan. Not unreasonably, both believed that a distance of some seven thousand miles would be amply sufficient to keep Dawasandup safely out of the way. After all, he could not come through Mr Squash’s mystic portal… could he?
Reggie Upton adjusted his Homburg to a jaunty angle and set off upon one of his evening rambles around the island, swinging his walking cane as he went. His plan was to meet Winston Oldspot, the Night-Soil Man, near Mr Squash’s mystic portal, a natural archway formed by two ash trees which had collapsed into each other’s branches.
The evening was, as ever, foggy and the wind was little more than a zephyr. All was peaceful until, apparently from nowhere, a sudden whirlwind shook the ash trees, which thrashed wildly, sending their remaining leaves and odd bits of branch spinning to the ground. Reggie had seen some bizarre weather in his time, but never anything like this. Within the portal a gale raged, while just a few feet away the evening was tranquility itself. Sensing that something unusual was about to happen, he decided that it would be wise to slip into the shadows and keep quiet.
To begin with, Reggie thought he was looking at a ghost. The figure emerging from between the trees was completely unruffled by the tempest that raged all around. Its slender form appeared to be draped in a long white shift, and seemed to drift rather than walk. Then Reggie noticed the long, thick braids of dark hair that hung almost to the ground, and alarm bells rang in his head. This must be that Dawasandup chap whom Tenzin had described, and the bounder had doubtless come to fetch the young monk back. Well, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, late of the King’s own Royal Regiment would have something to say about that – but not on his own. That would be madness. Philomena would know what to do…
“I know that it’s none of my business,” declared Father Ignatius Stamage, the ghostly Jesuit who haunts The Squid and Teapot. “ But Caitlin’s surname should ideally be Bucket-Middlestreet. Middlestreet-Bucket sounds too much like a municipal privy.”
Lady Margaret D’Avening lifted her disembodied head from under her arm and nodded in agreement.
“It makes sense,” she murmured, “but I fear that in common with all of the female line of that particular family, the girl will be known simply as Caitlin Bucket.”
“And will be unbaptised as well,” said Stamage with a shudder.
The subject of their discussion was blissfully unaware of the concerns raised by The Squid’s resident phantoms, and was currently enjoying a game of catch with Drury, the skeletal hound. From an onlookers point of view this was not a particularly successful pastime; on the rare occasions that Caitlin’s aim and Drury’s co-ordination synchronised, the ball would rattle around the dog’s ribcage and drop to the floor. Fortunately this seemed not to matter to either participant, given the fits of giggling and excited barks.
Prior to Caitlin’s arrival, mornings in The Squid and Teapot had traditionally marked a generally peaceful oasis of calm in the busy, and often chaotic, life of the inn. Not that anyone was complaining; Caitlin had won the hearts of all who met her, including the island’s most recent resident, the Buddhist monk, Tenzin, who was quietly sitting cross-legged in a corner of the bar.
“What’s he up to?” enquired Septimus Washwell. Trading on the fact that he had been responsible for bringing Tenzin to The Squid, Septimus felt it to be only right and proper that he should spend every free moment ensuring that his new-found friend was being suitably catered for, in exchange for no more than the occasional tankard of ‘Old Colonel’.
“He’s meditating,” replied Reggie Upton. “I’ve seen holy men in India doing it. Apparently the aim is to become one with the universe.”
“I’m surprised he can hear himself think, with all of the noise that Caitlin and Drury are making,” said Septimus.
“That’s the point,” said Reggie. “He isn’t thinking “
Regular readers will recall that Septimus and his wife, Mirielle (leader of the dance troupe ‘Les Demoiselles de Hopeless Maine’) had twin daughters, Germaine and Pauline, who had been born on the previous Christmas day. Named after two heroines of the French revolution, the girls were the apple of their father’s eye. At the moment, unfortunately, they were both teething, and life in the Washwell – D’Illlay household was currently far from placid. Being able to close his mind to all outside noise sounded idyllic to Septimus. He would have to ask Tenzin to show him how to meditate. How the fiery Mirielle would react to her husband attaining a state of bliss, while she looked after two fractious children, however, was another matter.
Just a mile or so away from The Squid and Teapot, Durosimi O’Stoat was also thinking of Tenzin. It occurred to him that he had been far too hasty in throwing the young man out of his home. Durosimi had done this in a fit of pique, having learned that, without enlisting the help of the Sasquatch, Mr Squash, or one of the Himalayan Yetis, the monk was incapable of getting back to Tibet. It was only now that the realisation dawned upon the sorcerer that the lad had spent the last ten or twelve years being taught by some of the finest practitioners of the occult arts that the world had ever known. Some of what they had told him must have rubbed off, Durosimi reasoned. He decided that he would have to find a way to lure Tenzin back, and out of the clutches of ‘That Bucket Woman’. Maybe he could persuade Doc Willoughby to help. After all, the Doc had been known to frequent The Squid from time to time. Yes, Durosimi was all too aware that he had given the Doc short shrift lately, on those occasions when the old quack had knocked on his door, but that was all in the past, and it was amazing what could be achieved when there was the promise of some well-aged single malt whisky in the offing.
“Ah, so you’re awake at last.” Durosimi O’Stoat fondly imagined that the ghastly rictus currently adorning his face would be regarded by his visitor as being a warm and avuncular smile.
Tenzin, the young monk who had been recently deposited upon the island of Hopeless, Maine gazed up in terror. “Who are you? he whimpered, or at least he would have done, had he realised that he was not in Tibet. What he actually said was, “ ཁྱེད་སུ་ཡིན”
Despite having recently spent several weeks in a monastery, high in the Himalayan Mountains, Durosimi had not managed to pick up a single word of the language. “Come on lad, less of that,” he said, the awful smile fading. “You’re in America now, so speak English.”
“America?” said Tenzin, his fear subsiding as he recognised the sorcerer. “How did I get there?”
“That’s what I was about to ask you,” said Durosimi. “What can you remember?”
Tenzin screwed up his face, trying to recall exactly what had happened. “Very little,” he admitted. “There was something to do with Dawasandup…” then added, “but I can’t remember what.”
This was disappointing, but at least, hearing the name of Dawasandup (the powerful anchorite who was reputed to be able to fly, have dominion over demons and kill from a distance) was reassuring. Durosimi would have felt somewhat less assured had Tenzin remembered that Dawasandup had plotted to sacrifice him to the tiger-demon, Tagsan.
“Not to worry, it’s early days yet. I am sure that your memory will return soon,” said Durosimi.
Durosimi desperately wanted to return to Tibet and – blissfully unaware of Dawasandup’s murderous plans – learn all that he could from the anchorite. Believing that Tenzin had found a way to travel unaided through Mr Squash’s mysterious portal, he was prepared to wait until the young monk’s memory had returned. In the meantime, it seemed sensible to keep Tenzin safely away from the influence of other people on the island, especially Philomena Bucket, who might be inclined to give his guest a less than favourable assessment of Durosimi’s. character.
“The island is not a particularly safe place for an unwary stranger like yourself,” Durosimi told Tenzin. “I think it best that you remain here until you have recovered completely. In fact, you could help me, if you wanted. You could become my apprentice.”
“Thank you,” said Tenzin, gratefully, placing his hands in prayer position in front of his chest, and bowing his head slightly. “I would like that.”
“Splendid!” exclaimed Durosimi.
*
“He’s up to something,” said Doc Willoughby.
It was rare for the Doc to confide in anyone else on the island, but Reggie Upton seemed less likely to gossip than most.
“In what way?” asked Reggie.
They were sitting in the snuggery of The Squid and Teapot, sharing a few glasses of the Gannicox Distillery’s best spirits.
“Durosimi is being elusive… even more so than usual,” said the Doc. “I have called upon him three times in the past week and he has made sure that I didn’t get through the front door. He’s hiding something, I’m sure.”
“Everyone thinks that he’s a changed character since going to Tibet,” said Reggie. “Less abrasive,”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Doc. “He’ll only let you see as much of what is going on as he wants you to see.”
“I always thought that you two were friends,” said Reggie, surprised as Doc’s candour.
“No, not friends,” admitted the Doc. “I keep him on-side, and he finds me useful occasionally. Durosimi doesn’t have friends.”
“Well, whatever it is that he is keeping hidden,” said Reggie, “I’m sure that all will be revealed – for good or ill – before very long.”
Two weeks had passed since Tenzin’s arrival on the island. During that time he had made sure that Durosimi’s home was spick and span from top to bottom. He was beginning to wonder when his apprenticeship was going to start. He was not so much the sorcerer’s apprentice as the sorcerer’s domestic help. Every day Durosimi would ask him if his memory had returned, and every day he had to shake his head and say “no, sorry.”
Then one morning everything came flooding back. His escape from Dawasandup; the flight into the mountains; his meeting with one of the Spirits of the Glaciers, and the way in which he was brought to Hopeless. This was exciting. He could not wait to tell Durosimi.
As he told his tale, Tenzin failed to notice the sorcerer’s face growing darker and darker.
When he had finished he was conscious of a long and ominous silence.
Then Durosimi spoke. “So you got here, not by your own efforts, but the same as the rest of us. Dragged through by some blasted Yeti.”
Tenzin nodded, not sure where this conversation was going.
“And I have wasted precious weeks waiting for some grand revelation that was never going to arrive.”
“But I couldn’t remember…” stammered Tenzin.
“That’s no good to me, and come to that, neither are you,” growled Durosimi. “You need to go before I do something that you will regret.”
“Go? But where,” said Tenzin, helplessly.
“Go where every misfit on this god-forsaken place goes,” said Durosimi. “To The Squid and Teapot – now clear off.”
Tenzin had no idea where, or indeed what, The Squid and Teapot might be. He wandered through the fog for hours until he bumped into a bemused Septimus Washwell. Sensing a moment of glory, Septimus was happy to escort the exotic stranger to the inn, where he led him through the impressive oak doors and into the oasis of light and cheer that was the bar of The Squid and Teapot.
To Septimus’ dismay the room fell to silence. Everyone stared suspiciously at the young man with the shaven head and sandalled feet. His burgundy robes were splattered with mud.
“Look who I found wandering about,” said Septimus.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie Upton. “He’s a monk of some description. You had better leave this to me.”
He strode up to the newcomer and did what any Englishman would do in like circumstances.
“DO YOU SPEAK ANY ENGLISH?” he shouted. His words came out slowly and deliberately.
To everyone’s surprise the monk quietly replied,
“Yes, perfectly, thank you. I am Tenzin,” and he gave a small bow.
Reggie smiled uncomfortably, a little embarrassed by the way he had addressed Tenzin, but things now began to make sense.
If this chap wasn’t the reason that Doc Willoughby had been excluded from Durosimi’s company, then he would eat his hat.
“At least, with Mr Squash out of the picture,” said Rhys Cranham, ”there won’t be any more to-ing and fro-ing through his portal to Tibet.”
“Yes, it will certainly put the brakes on Durosimi’s current obsession,” agreed his wife, Philomena Bucket. “I’ll miss Mr Squash being around, though. The island won’t be the same without him. But until he returns, life goes on, and we will be needing another barrel of ‘Old Colonel’ brought up.”
Being the landlord of The Squid and Teapot meant that there was always some job or other to be done. With a sigh, Rhys made his way down the steps to the cellar.
With the exception of Durosimi O’Stoat, the islanders of Hopeless, Maine were convinced that they had heard the last of life in the distant Himalayan mountains. There was, however, at least one person in Tibet who had not forgotten the name of O’Stoat.
The anchorite, Dawasandup, was as angry as any Tibetan lama ever gets (and, contrary to popular belief, they have been known to get more than a little hot under the Shen* when sufficiently provoked). This was a man who was reputed to have dominion over demons, could fly through the air and be able to kill an enemy at a distance. In short, he was not someone to be trifled with.
“This wretch, called O’Stoat, has cheated me,” he raged. “I owe a tribute to Tagsan, the tiger demon, and he was the unwitting fool who was chosen for that honour. Now he has fled, and it is all your fault.”
The recipient of Dawasandup’s ire was a young monk named Tenzin, who cowered, terrified, beneath the icy gaze of the anchorite. Tenzin, you may recall, had found himself in the unhappy position of being the reluctant translator in Durosimi’s dealings with Dawasandup.
“I explicitly told him to tie himself to a tree and wait for the demon to appear,” raged the anchorite, “and I expected you to ensure that this happened. Now you leave me no choice; I need to find a sacrifice, and so it will be you who must feel the claws and teeth of the demon Tagsan.”
Although Dawasandup was indeed powerful, despite his terror, Tenzin trumped this by being youthfully nimble. Before he could be grabbed, the young monk slipped out of reach, and dashed blindly away, following whatever direction his sandalled feet chose to bear him.
“There can be no escape, ” roared Dawasandup fiercely. ”I will find you and Tagsan will have his tribute.”
Tenzin ran until there was no more breath left in his body. At last he fell exhausted to the hard earth, allowing the shadows of night to wash over him, and bathe the surrounding rocks and boulders in deep darkness.
When his breathing finally steadied and his senses grew accustomed to his surroundings, Tenzin felt more at ease, but then a figure shambled from between the rocks and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
Could it be Dawasandup? Or the demon, Tagsan, himself, maybe?
But no, it was certainly not any human; the shape was not right. Besides that, whoever or whatever this newcomer was, everything about it was too big; much too big, even for Tagsan, unless the demon walked on his hind legs.
Suddenly the creature was standing before him, blotting out the stars, and Tenzin gasped in awe.
“You must move, little monk, this is no place for you to rest.”
The voice, although deep and sonorous, sounded strange to his ear. While It was known that the Spirits of the Glaciers were fluent in his language, he never dreamt that one would ever choose to speak to him.
“I have nowhere to go,” said Tenzin, timidly, and to his own surprise, he poured out the story of how he came to be in this predicament.
“Then you are in great danger,” said the Yeti (whom, I trust, will forgive me for referring to him by his not-particularly complimentary nickname).
“I know of this Dawasandup,” he continued, “and he has allowed great darkness into his soul. There is no doubt that he will pursue you, and your death will not be pleasant.”
“Then where can I go to escape him?” wailed Tenzin, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body.
The Yeti said nothing for what seemed to be an age. Then he spoke.
“I know of a place, and although the journey will be brief, it will be hard on your body. You will escape, but most probably, never be able to return to Tibet.”
“That is fine by me,” said Tenzin. “How do I get there?”
“Do you trust me?”
“More than I do Dawasandup,” was the reply, and with that the Yeti scooped the surprised Tenzin up into arms and strode towards a cleft in the rocks.
Two weeks had passed since Billy (or possibly Willy) the Yeti had rescued Durosimi from the clutches of the demon Tagsan, and dragged him through Mr Squash’s mysterious portal. Durosimi had no idea of the danger in which he had placed himself, and decided that his recent indisposition had been caused by no more than having to spend time under a Yeti’s armpit. By now he felt sufficiently recovered to contemplate indulging in a spot of rough magic, in the hopes of once more getting back to Tibet and learning all that he could from Dawasandup.
For the past few days he had been in the habit of wandering to the portal, which was formed by two innocuous looking ash trees learning drunkenly into each other’s branches. There he tried every opening spell that he could remember, in the forlorn hope that one of them might provide the key that unlocked the entrance. So far, unsurprisingly, his success rate had been precisely nil.
“I’ll give it one more go,” he muttered to himself as he made his way through the early morning fog.
Not many islanders were inclined to venture abroad at this hour, and Durosimi could feel confident that his persistent failure to penetrate the portal would not have been witnessed. Today, however, he found himself to have company. While the realisation came as something of a shock, the fact that the aforementioned company was lying on the ground was a comfort. This person was obviously either dead or drunk, and therefore unlikely to trouble him.
Durosimi, being Durosimi, could not help himself taking a look as to who his prostrated companion might be.
“I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed.”That’s young Tenzin, my translator, and he has somehow managed to get himself through the Sasquatch’s portal. I need to know how he managed to do that, although, by the looks of things, I don’t think that he’ll be in any condition to talk to me just yet.”
Elated by this recent turn of events, a tumble of thoughts flashed through Durosimi’s mind.
“Except for Doc Willoughby, I am the only person on the island who he will have met. He will need a friend, and somewhere to stay. Certainly not at The Squid and Teapot – I’ll keep him well away from the influence of that witch, the Bucket woman. No… he can live in my outhouse and teach me how to get back through the portal without the help of that blasted Sasquatch, or his relatives.”
With no more ado, the sorcerer hooked his hands beneath the young monk’s armpits and dragged him unceremoniously across the rough ground, all the way back to Chez Durosimi.
*Author’s note: A Shen is the shoulder wrap worn by a Tibetan Buddhist monk, under which, in the absence of a collar, an irate lama might get hot.
