Category Archives: Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Where Morphemes Concatenate

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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. 

It was going to be a long day. 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Sanctuary

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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. 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Night Before Christmas

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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.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Deep Roots

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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. 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Night Visitor

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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.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Now we are six

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Winston Oldspot, Hopeless Maine’s young Night-Soil Man, was always glad of whatever company he could get, even that of the ghostly Miss Calder, who helped manage the Pallid Rock Orphanage. Miss Calder had recently taken to dropping by, and updating him on the various goings-on at his old alma mater. 

“Most of the boys and girls of your year have left, or are leaving soon,” she said, sadly. “Heaven knows how they will manage, fending for themselves.”

“Are there any new kids starting?” asked Winston, not really interested in the answer, but happy to be having a conversation.

“There is always a number of orphans looking for a home with us,” replied Miss Caldwell. “As you know, life expectancy on the island can be unpredictable, to say the least.”

Winston nodded. His own parents had vanished without a trace when he was just ten years old. 

Miss Calder’s face began to change, her soft beauty alarmingly transformed into a grinning skull. Winston had seen this before, a hundred times or more, and it had long ceased to trouble him; it merely meant that she was becoming emotional.  

“It is so sad,” she said, partly regaining not only her composure, but some of her face as well. “Our youngest – and newest – arrival is an adorable little boy who can’t be any more than two years old.”

“What happened to his parents?” asked Winston.

Miss Calder shrugged helplessly, 

“He was found washed up on the beach, barely alive, “ she said, and once more Winston found himself looking into the fathomless eye-sockets of a skull. 

 It was much later that night, and Winston was joined on his rounds by his old friend, Reggie Upton. You may remember that Reggie’s lack of a sense of smell allowed him to quite happily enjoy the company of the Night-Soil Man without retching, dry heaving or passing out.  The two would exchange whatever bits of gossip they might have gleaned, and while Reggie could provide some juicy tidbits regarding the activities at The Squid and Teapot, Winston’s conversation was usually confined to the abysmal state of the island’s many and varied privies. Tonight, however, there was something different to talk about.

“I hear that there is a batch of new kids starting at Pallid Rock this week.”

“Oh dear,” said Reggie, concernedly. “Has there been a sudden surge of fatalities on the island?”

“Not that I know of,” admitted Winston, “but there never seems a shortage of children going into the orphanage. According to Miss Calder, the youngest this time is only two years old.”

“Poor little chap.” said Reggie. “Life on this island is hard enough, but it must be doubly awful for the youngsters who lose their parents.”

Winston said nothing; he was too busy fighting back his tears. 

By the time that Reggie came down to breakfast, late the following morning, everyone else in The Squid and Teapot was getting on with their day. Philomena was making the first batch of Starry- Grabby pies; Rhys was banging about in the cellar; Tenzin, the young Buddhist monk was meditating and Caitlin, Rhys and Philomena’s adopted daughter, was being Caitlin. 

“Anything I can do to help?” volunteered Reggie, wiping crumbs from his moustache.

“You could entertain Caitlin for an hour,” said Philomena, looking decidedly stressed. “She’s in one of those ‘getting under people’s feet’ moods this morning.”

“Happy to,” beamed Reggie, “but how keen she’ll be to have an old duffer like me keeping her occupied is another matter.”

“We’ll see, but I take your point,” said Philomena. “It’s a real pity she hasn’t got a brother or sister to play with.”

“God knows, it’s not for the want of trying,” broke in Rhys with a grin, emerging from the cellar and rolling a barrel of Old Colonel before him. 

Reggie couldn’t help but notice the faint blush that coloured Philomena’s pale cheeks.

Just then an apparition slipped silently through the kitchen wall, nearly giving Reggie a heart attack. It was Miss Calder, but not as he had seen her before. Her usually attractive face had been transformed into a loathsome death’s head.

“Miss Calder, whatever is the matter?” asked Philomena, who was well aware that, to look like this, the ghostly manager of Pallid Rock Orphanage must be in a highly emotional state of mind. 

“I’m sorry to barge in like this,” said the ghost, “but we seem to have something of a problem at the orphanage.”

As she spoke, Miss Calder’s face flickered disconcertingly between her normal countenance and the terrifying bone-white skull, which was somewhat off-putting to everyone.

She went on to tell them that Pallid Rock’s latest and youngest arrival, a two year old, whom Reverend Davies insisted be named Oswald, spoke no English and was refusing to eat or drink, so traumatised was he at being suddenly plunged among older, larger and very much noisier children. As she spoke, and the story poured out, Miss Calder calmed down, allowing her to resume her usual, pleasing form.

“I wondered if you might be inclined to lend Caitlin to us for an hour or so, please, to see if playing with a child of his own age might settle him down?”

Philomena looked at Rhys, and an unspoken agreement passed between them. 

“We can do better than that,” said Rhys. “Bring him here to meet Caitlin and if he’s happy, then he can stay.”

Had the long dead Miss Calder been in a position to breathe, she would have exhaled with relief.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “I can collect him at bedtime.”

“When Rhys said that Oswald could stay, he meant stay with us  – forever – if he wants,” said Philomena.

Miss Calder needed no second telling; she vanished into the ether, leaving only a spectral ‘Thank you again’ hanging in the empty air.

When Philomena saw Oswald she fell in love immediately. Like Caitlin he was fair, to the point of being unusually pale, but where Caitlin was bold and rumbustious, Oswald was quiet and withdrawn. Nevertheless, his hunger-strike was brought to a abrupt end with a large slice of Starry-Grabby pie and a small cup of sarsaparilla, the non-alcoholic root beer brewed especially for Norbert Gannicox, Hopeless Maine’s teetotal distiller. 

“This is working,” said Rhys, watching the pair play together.

“They seem very happy in each other’s company,” observed Reggie. 

“For the first time ever,” said Tenzin, looking around at the others, “I feel part of a big, happy family.”

Philomena smiled and nodded.

“A family indeed,” she declared. “And now we are six.’

Cloistered in the inn’s famous flushing privy, Lady Margaret D’Avening and Father Ignatius Stamage listened to the conversation in the kitchen with the preternatural hearing peculiar to the spirit world. 

“Blasted cheek,” muttered Father Stamage. “Now we are six, indeed. What about us?”

“I was here before any of them,” complained Lady Margaret, cradling her head in her lap, adding, “that’s the living for you, I suppose… they can’t be relied upon.”

“And heathens and heretics to boot, every last one of ‘em,” said Father Stamage. “I’ve a jolly good mind not to haunt the place anymore.”

“Me too,” agreed Lady Margaret.

She paused, and considered what fun she might be missing. 

“Well, not until Christmas, anyway,” she said. 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Debt of Gratitude

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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.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Legion

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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.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Magical Combat

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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.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Wind that Shakes the Ash Trees

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“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…