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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Joy of Yaks 

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“What we need on this island,” declared Durosimi O’Stoat, adjusting his nightcap, “are yaks. Yaks, Willoughby, and lots of ‘em.”

“Yaks?” queried Doc Willoughby, with surprise.

The Doc was paying a professional call on Durosimi, following the sorcerer’s recent return from Tibet. You will recall that this latest trip had been something of an ignominious affair, dragged back, as he was, through Mr Squash’s mysterious portal by a huge Himalayan Yeti. It was perhaps fortunate that Durosimi had little memory of this, as such a journey invariably renders non-Sasquatches comatose for several days thereafter. At the time of our tale, however, he had recovered sufficiently to enable him to sit up in bed and eat an occasional soft-boiled gull egg.

“You were there too,” said Durosimi. “You must remember how useful the yaks were.”

“Not really,” admitted the Doc, who had been trying to expunge from his mind all memories of his stay at the monastery.

“Only that they provided the butter for all of that awful tsampa that we had to eat. A delicacy, incidentally, which I never intend to pass my lips again.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” said Durosimi, “but yes, you’re right, they provided the butter for the food, but also for everything else, including oil for their lamps. They are good for milk and meat, and they have thick, warm hides as well. And don’t forget their dung.”

“Their dung?” echoed the Doc, more than a little disturbed as to how it might have been used.

“Yes, their dung,” said Durosimi. “When dried it makes excellent fuel for the fire, and of course, it’s wonderful as compost.”

“And you think that we should have some of these beasts roaming around Hopeless?”

The Doc sounded unimpressed.

“How do you propose to get them here?” he added.

“Simple. I will go back to Tibet and persuade one of those Yeti creatures to carry a breeding pair back under his arms. It shouldn’t be too difficult to achieve,” replied Durosimi, airily.

By now Doc Willoughby was beginning to believe that Durosimi had suffered some sort of trauma which had not only affected his brain, but subsequently altered his character. The man sounded positively jovial. Despite this, he chose his next words carefully.

“I think you might find that you’ll run into one or two difficulties achieving that,” he said.

“And what might they be?” asked Durosimi, with the sort of smile that would turn milk into vinegar.

“According to that Upton fellow, who was there when the Yeti brought you back, he got the impression that the creature wasn’t too thrilled with you. I’d be surprised if you could persuade him to carry a couple of yaks.”

“There are plenty more Yetis – I’m sure that I could get one of them to do it,” said Durosimi.

“The other thing,” said the Doc, “is that Mr Squash seems to have disappeared. No one has seen  him for days. The word on the street is that he has gone off to pastures new, and no Mr Squash means no portal.”

A cloud passed over Durosimi’s face, chasing away his recent sunny disposition.

“That blasted Sasquatch!” he exclaimed. “He has no thought for anyone but himself.”

*

The mood in The Squid and Teapot that evening was subdued.

“I can’t believe he’s cleared off and not said goodbye,” said Seth Washwell.

“Maybe he’s not fond of goodbyes,” said Reggie Upton.“On the positive side, he told young Winston Oldspot that he intends returning to Hopeless.”

“But when is that likely to be?” asked Seth. “After all, Mr Squash is practically immortal. A hundred years means nothing to him.”

Seth was wrong about this. The Sasquatch was by no means immortal, but had certainly been around for several hundred years. This was related in the tale ‘Friends Reunited,’ when Mr Squash revealed that he was given his name by Daniel Boone’s daughter, Jemima, who could not say ‘Sasquatch’.

“He was last on Hopeless when I was a youngster. It was just after Shenandoah Nailsworthy died, and being his apprentice, I found I was suddenly a full-time Night-Soil Man,” Rhys Cranham recalled, adding, “so that would be about fifteen years ago.”

“If he waits another fifteen years before coming back.” broke in Reggie Upton, “then I fear that Seth and I might not be in any position to see the fellow again.”

“Why, where are we going?” asked Seth, then his voice tailed off as the meaning of Reggie’s assertion sank fully in.

They were joined by Philomena Bucket, who had been tucking little Caitlin into bed.

“He’ll be back sooner than that,” she said, catching the last snatches of conversation.

The others looked at her, but no one asked how she could be so certain. They all knew better; Philomena could often see things that were hidden from others.

 No more than a second after leaving Hopeless, Mr Squash emerged from his portal in the depths of a forest, some two and a half thousand miles away to the west. He stopped, took a deep breath and viewed the landscape that had unfolded before him with pleasure. This was home, the place where he had been born, almost half a millennium earlier, and where his friends and family still lived. It would be good to speak his own language again and breathe once more the clear, cold air of the Pacific Northwest.

 *

Yaks

 “What we need on this island,” declared Durosimi O’Stoat, adjusting his nightcap, “are yaks. Yaks, Willoughby, and lots of ‘em.”

“Yaks?” queried Doc Willoughby, with surprise.

The Doc was paying a professional call on Durosimi, following the sorcerer’s recent return from Tibet. You will recall that this latest trip had been something of an ignominious affair, dragged back, as he was, through Mr Squash’s mysterious portal by a huge Himalayan Yeti. It was perhaps fortunate that Durosimi had little memory of this, as such a journey invariably renders non-Sasquatches comatose for several days thereafter. At the time of our tale, however, he had recovered sufficiently to enable him to sit up in bed and eat an occasional soft-boiled gull egg.

“You were there too,” said Durosimi. “You must remember how useful the yaks were.”

“Not really,” admitted the Doc, who had been trying to expunge from his mind all memories of his stay at the monastery.

“Only that they provided the butter for all of that awful tsampa that we had to eat. A delicacy, incidentally, which I never intend to pass my lips again.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” said Durosimi, “but yes, you’re right, they provided the butter for the food, but also for everything else, including oil for their lamps. They are good for milk and meat, and they have thick, warm hides as well. And don’t forget their dung.”

“Their dung?” echoed the Doc, more than a little disturbed as to how it might have been used.

“Yes, their dung,” said Durosimi. “When dried it makes excellent fuel for the fire, and of course, it’s wonderful as compost.”

“And you think that we should have some of these beasts roaming around Hopeless?”

The Doc sounded unimpressed.

“How do you propose to get them here?” he added.

“Simple. I will go back to Tibet and persuade one of those Yeti creatures to carry a breeding pair back under his arms. It shouldn’t be too difficult to achieve,” replied Durosimi, airily.

By now Doc Willoughby was beginning to believe that Durosimi had suffered some sort of trauma which had not only affected his brain, but subsequently altered his character. The man sounded positively jovial. Despite this, he chose his next words carefully.

“I think you might find that you’ll run into one or two difficulties achieving that,” he said.

“And what might they be?” asked Durosimi, with the sort of smile that would turn milk into vinegar.

“According to that Upton fellow, who was there when the Yeti brought you back, he got the impression that the creature wasn’t too thrilled with you. I’d be surprised if you could persuade him to carry a couple of yaks.”

“There are plenty more Yetis – I’m sure that I could get one of them to do it,” said Durosimi.

“The other thing,” said the Doc, “is that Mr Squash seems to have disappeared. No one has seen  him for days. The word on the street is that he has gone off to pastures new, and no Mr Squash means no portal.”

A cloud passed over Durosimi’s face, chasing away his recent sunny disposition.

“That blasted Sasquatch!” he exclaimed. “He has no thought for anyone but himself.”

The mood in The Squid and Teapot that evening was subdued.

“I can’t believe he’s cleared off and not said goodbye,” said Seth Washwell.

“Maybe he’s not fond of goodbyes,” said Reggie Upton.“On the positive side, he told young Winston Oldspot that he intends returning to Hopeless.”

“But when is that likely to be?” asked Seth. “After all, Mr Squash is practically immortal. A hundred years means nothing to him.”

Seth was wrong about this. The Sasquatch was by no means immortal, but had certainly been around for several hundred years. This was related in the tale ‘Friends Reunited,’ when Mr Squash revealed that he was given his name by Daniel Boone’s daughter, Jemima, who could not say ‘Sasquatch’.

“He was last on Hopeless when I was a youngster. It was just after Shenandoah Nailsworthy died, and being his apprentice, I found I was suddenly a full-time Night-Soil Man,” Rhys Cranham recalled, adding, “so that would be about fifteen years ago.”

“If he waits another fifteen years before coming back.” broke in Reggie Upton, “then I fear that Seth and I might not be in any position to see the fellow again.”

“Why, where are we going?” asked Seth, then his voice tailed off as the meaning of Reggie’s assertion sank fully in.

They were joined by Philomena Bucket, who had been tucking little Caitlin into bed.

“He’ll be back sooner than that,” she said, catching the last snatches of conversation.

The others looked at her, but no one asked how she could be so certain. They all knew better; Philomena could often see things that were hidden from others.

 Seconds after leaving Hopeless, Mr Squash emerged from his portal in the depths of a forest, some two and a half thousand miles away to the west. He stopped, took a deep breath and viewed the landscape that had unfolded before him with pleasure. This was home, the place where he had been born, almost half a millennium earlier, and where his friends and family still lived. It would be good to speak his own language again and breathe once more the clear, cold air of the Pacific Northwest.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Dull-Brained Bottom-Feeder

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It was, by Hopeless standards, a reasonably fine night. The fog had thinned, and there was only the faintest suggestion of rain on the breeze. High above, the bright autumn moon smiled upon the gentle gnii, their numbers much depleted these days, and ripped through the thin grey rags of mist with ease.

“By Jove, since arriving on Hopeless, I have never seen the moon shining quite so brightly,” exclaimed Reggie Upton.

Winston Oldspot nodded in agreement.

“I can even see Drury lurking over there by the ash trees,” he said. “I wonder what he’s up to?”

“Probably no good, knowing Drury,” said Reggie.

Drury was an old rogue, to be sure, but Reggie’s voice could not hide the affection he felt for the skeletal hound. The pair often accompanied Winston, the Night-Soil Man, on his rounds. Having no sense of smell, Reggie was one of the few people who could stand to be around him.

For once in his after-life, Drury was innocent of all mischief. His attention had been drawn to something odd, which seemed to be happening in the gap between the ash trees. To you or I there would be nothing obviously amiss, but there were hidden forces in action, and these are what Drury’s keen senses had picked up.

*

Far away, high in the Himalayan Mountains, Durosimi was preparing to meet – and hopefully control – a genuine Tibetan demon. The gomchen, Dawasandup, had given him instructions on how this might be achieved, and brimming with unfounded confidence Durosimi set off for the coniferous forest that lay not far from the village of Bajie, a length of rope slung around his shoulder.

Those of you who have read the tale ‘Welcome Home, Doc Willoughby’ will recall that Dawasandup had told Durosimi to put a noose around his neck and tie himself to a tree. After remaining there for three days and three nights, without food or water, the demon would come to him in the form of a tiger.

Most people would have immediately decided that this was maybe not the ideal manner in which to confront a demon, but Durosimi was not most people. Besides this, his knowledge of tigers was, at best, sketchy, never having actually seen one.

Twenty four long hours had passed and Durosimi was already feeling thirsty. The rope around his neck was beginning to chafe, and his stomach was rumbling. He really hoped that suffering all this discomfort would be worth it.

Suddenly there was a movement in the trees, some distance behind him. Durosimi knew that it was unlikely to be one of the villagers, as the forest was widely known to be the haunt of demons, and the locals wisely gave the area a wide berth. No, there was something large barging through the undergrowth. A cold shiver ran down the sorcerer’s spine; if this was the demon, he was early, and more to the point, sounded to be much bigger than Durosimi felt entirely comfortable with. Then a vast, but familiar, shape burst into view; it was Billy (or possibly Willy), one of the Yeti, the Spirits of the Glaciers, creatures whom Durosimi had met when he had first arrived in Tibet.

“You card-carrying imbecile,” raged Billy (or possibly Willy). “What on earth possessed you to think that you could get the better of a vicious tiger-shaped demon? You are the stupidest, most cretinous human I have ever encountered… a total arse, idiot and dull-brained bottom-feeder of the worst kind.”

Fortunately Billy (or possibly Willy) knew no English and Durosimi could not understand a word of whatever language it was that the Yeti spoke, so all that he heard was a series of barks and growls which he took to be expressions of delight that the huge creature had found him. What happened next, however, was less pleasing. Despite his fear and discomfort, Duroimi still had designs on nabbing a demon.

The Yeti snapped the rope tied to the Himalayan cedar as easily as if it were a spider’s web, then picked Durosimi up and tucked him neatly under his arm. The sorcerer started kicking and shouting in a manner reminiscent of an intransigent child reluctantly being taken to the dentist, but all to no avail. The Spirits of the Glaciers are a proud and ancient race, and they had promised their more diminutive cousin, Mr Squash the Sasquatch, that every last one of them would protect the humans whom he had brought to Tibet.

“It’s time to go home, little human,” growled Billy (or possibly Willy).

*

Drury leapt back fully six feet as the gust of icy wind issued through the gap in the ash trees. There followed a sudden flurry of snow, and the old dog slunk back even further as the immense figure of the Yeti appeared with Durosimi, now as limp as a rag-doll, dangling from his left hand.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie Upton, who, with Winston, had by now had caught up with Drury. “You look exactly as Frankie described you.”

Reggie was referring to his friend, Francis Younghusband, who had led a British expedition to Tibet in 1903.

The Yeti looked quizzically at Reggie.

“Sorry, dashed rude of me not to introduce us,” said Reggie, extending a hand. “I am so pleased to meet you. I’m Reginald Hawkesbury-Upton and this is my good friend, Winston Oldspot.”

The Yeti regarded the pair solemnly, twitched his nose at the strange scent that the younger human gave off, then held out a finger for Reggie to shake.

“I see you have returned Durosimi to us,” said Winston, eyeing the Yeti nervously. There were some strange creatures on the island but he had never seen anything quite this large. He made Mr Squash look like a dwarf.

“Is he dead, do you think?”

“No,” said Reggie. “It’s the effect that travelling through a portal which is meant exclusively for the use of Sasquatches- and apparently their close relatives – has on us mere humans. He’ll be back to his old, irritating self in a day or two.”

The Yeti laid Durosimi on the ground with surprising tenderness.

“Thank you. We’ll get him back to his house,” said Reggie.

The Yeti growled softly, turned, and disappeared into the ash trees, leaving a scattering of snow on the earth behind him.

“I wish I could have an adventure like that,” said Winston, with a faraway look in his eyes.

Reggie smiled wistfully.

“You and I both, old chap,” he said.”But somehow I can’t see Mr Squash opening up that portal again in a hurry.”

He looked down at the still figure of Durosimi sprawled on the earth.

“Come on. Let’s get this fellow home and into his bed.”

Mr Squash did not hear of Durosimi’s return until the following morning.

“Thank goodness things are back to normal,” he thought. “I’m beginning to feel that I am doing this island no favours by staying here. As long as I am on Hopeless there will always be people wanting to escape through my portals. It’s definitely time for me to move on, and anyway, I have neglected my old haunts for far too long.”

Just then Philomena Bucket and Drury came out of the front door of The Squid and Teapot. On seeing Mr Squash Philomena gave a cheery wave and Drury wagged a bony tail. The Sasquatch raised a hand in acknowledgement, turned, and walked into the mist, trying to ignore the tears welling up in his deep, wise eyes.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Welcome Home, Doc Willoughby

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Doc Willoughby blinked and gazed warily around the room. It certainly looked like his home, but life had been so strange these last few weeks that he was inclined to trust nothing and no one.

“Ah, you’re finally awake.”

The Doc strained to see who was addressing him, but he seemed to be alone.

“Who’s there?” he asked nervously.

The grey early-evening light took on an ominous shimmer as the ghostly shape of Granny Bucket slowly materialised before him.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, grumpily.

Under other circumstances Granny might have swiftly fired back a barbed comment but, with great restraint, she let it pass today.

“How long have I been unconscious?’ he asked.

“I don’t know,” confessed Granny, “But you were discovered by Mrs Beaten a few nights ago.”

“Mrs Beaten?” Doc looked aghast.

“Yes. You were sitting in her privy,” said Granny, deciding not to go into details, but only because she had promised not to.

“The last thing I remember was being scooped up by something that looked like a huge, hairy snowman,” said the Doc. “Then everything becomes hazy.”

“Things must have been hazy long before that, if you think you were abducted by a snowman,” said Granny.

Her knowledge of the fauna peculiar to the mountainous regions of the world began and ended with the denizens of MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, so, unsurprisingly, she had never heard of the Himalayan Yeti.

Doc didn’t reply. Maybe she was correct and he had been hallucinating.

“I think I need some air to clear my head. A brisk walk to The Squid should do it.”

 Doc was barely ten minutes down the road when a surprised Mr Squash crossed his path.

“You’re back!” he exclaimed.

“So it would seem,” observed the Doc, drily.

“Ah… it must have been The Spirits of the Glaciers,” said Mr Squash. “My cousins are good sorts, and they have saved me a trip back to Tibet.”

“Maybe not,” replied the Doc. “Durosimi is still there. He’ll need rescuing.”

He related to the Sasquatch how Durosimi had wandered off, hoping to talk to some hermit fellow or other, and had not come back.

“Knowing Durosimi, I can only imagine that he went looking for the gomchen, Dawasandup,” growled Mr Squash, “and if he finds him, that is not good news.”

“Why not?” asked the Doc.

“Anyone crossing Dawasandup is likely to be chewed up and spat out, possibly literally. Durosimi is little better than a child with a magic set compared with the gomchen. On the other hand, if he acquires even a fraction of Dawasandup’s power we could all be sorry.”

“So what are you going to do?” asked the Doc.

Mr Squash frowned at him.

“Absolutely nothing,” he said. “ I have no intention of scouring Tibet in search of him. If he wants to come back, he can find his own way.”

‘But…” began the Doc.

“But nothing,” said the Sasquatch coldly. “If, by some chance, Durosimi is still alive it means that the gomchen has wished it so, and in that case Hopeless will be better off without him.”

*

Seth Washwell was holding court from his favourite chair, in the snuggery of The Squid and Teapot, relishing the fact of his having been the sole witness of Doc Willoughby returning to the island in the arms of a Yeti.

“They were big,” he said to his audience. “They must have been twice the size of old Squashy.”

“Careful he doesn’t hear you call him that,” said Philomena, “or you might end up being a bit squashy yourself.”

“They sound just like the chaps Frankie Younghusband encountered,” said Reggie Upton, enthusiastically, recalling the expedition his friend led to Tibet in 1903.

Seth took a long swig of Old Colonel. “I hear that they eventually put the Doc in Mrs Beaten’s privy,” he said.

“The less said about that the better,” said Philomena, who had been sworn to secrecy, as had everyone else whom Mrs Beaten had encountered.

*

Meanwhile, half a world away, Durosimi squatted uncomfortably in the small dark chapel that Dawasandup called home. The single room was lit at one end by a tiny window. Incense sticks burning in a niche mingled their fragrance with that of tea and melted yak butter. The gomchen sat upon a pile of threadbare, faded cushions, and gazed at  Durosimi with cold eyes. The young monk, Tenzin, who had agreed to be Durosimi’s translator, stood trembling in a corner.

“If you seek wisdom, do not expect explanations,” said the gomchen. “Learn through experience.”

Durosimi nodded, keen to know more.

“There is a place, not far from here, haunted by a demon,” said Dawasandup. “Only by defeating him will you gain his power.”

“I can deal with demons,” thought Durosimi. “There are plenty on Hopeless.”

“You must put a rope about your neck and tie yourself to a tree, remaining there for three days and three nights, without food or water. Be warned, only the strong will survive this encounter, but the rewards are great.”

In Durosimi’s experience, while demons might look ferocious, they held little sway over a magician such as himself.

“I can do this,” he said, “but how will I recognise the demon when it comes?”

“Oh, you will recognise him,” said Dawasandup, with a smile that was less than reassuring. “He always chooses to take the shape of a tiger.”

Durosimi had never seen a tiger in the flesh and, due to their complete absence on the island, he had displayed no interest in learning anything about the creatures. He vaguely recalled that one of his books referred to them as ‘big cats’. That didn’t sound too daunting. What could possibly go wrong?

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Billy and Willy

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Reggie Upton had certainly been in fine voice, this evening.

Walking unsteadily home from a particularly satisfying night at The Squid and Teapot, Seth Washwell smiled to himself at the memory. After a few pints of Old Colonel, Reggie was always good for a tune or two. As usual, tonight’s songs were from his army days, and one in particular had lodged in Seth’s mind. Now, how did it go…?

 “I left the line and the tented field

Where long I’d been a lodger.

A humble knapsack on my back,

A poor, but honest soldier…”

 You had to laugh, though. Seth couldn’t imagine that Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton had ever been required to carry a knapsack on his back, humble or otherwise. But it didn’t matter; old Reggie was not only a good friend, but an excellent drinking companion.

 Seth had probably downed more Old Colonel than was good for him, but it would take more than a few pints of ale to get him drunk; he could definitely walk a straight line without stumbling. At least, this is what he told himself, until an icy blast bowled him over as easily as if he had been a wooden skittle. Dazed, he scrambled to his feet with difficulty, sliding about uncomfortably in a puddle of slushy snow.

“That shouldn’t be there,” he mused, and he was not wrong. Until that moment Seth had been happily wandering through a fine, albeit misty, evening in early fall. By Hopeless standards the weather had been positively balmy, but now, from nowhere, a bitter winter wind, with snow upon its breath, was weirdly raging through a gap between the ash trees.

“Well, that’s sobered me up,” thought Seth, but immediately revised his opinion when a vast, white figure, fully fifteen feet tall, appeared.

“I’m going to give up the booze, I’m hallucinating,” he thought. “But why am I seeing an overgrown snowman in September?”

Before the thought had left his, admittedly befuddled, brain, the hallucination became doubly disturbing when yet another overgrown snowman materialised, apparently bearing a comatose Doc Willoughby in his arms.

 In order to make sense of all that is going on, we must backtrack a few hours and travel some seven thousand miles in an easterly direction. We need to go to Tibet, where, you will recall, Doc Willoughby and Durosimi O’Stoat had been recently sojourning in a Buddhist monastery and, needless to say, outstaying their welcome.

I have no idea what the names of Seth’s identical ‘hallucinations’ might be, and even if I did, it’s unlikely that I would be able to pronounce them. So, for the sake of easy identification, I will refer to them as Billy and Willy. They belong to a species known to Tibetians as ‘The Spirits of the Glaciers’, but to the rest of us simply as ‘Yeti’.

When a sudden avalanche completely blocked the portal through which Mr Squash, the Sasquatch (a close relative of the Yeti)  had taken the Doc and Durosimi to the high Himalayas, there had been a nagging worry that they would be marooned there forever. This, as you might imagine, would have tested the monks’ patience, not to mention their policy of non-violence, to the limit. Something needed to be done, and done quickly, so Billy and Willy had been given the job of removing the offending rocks, before things got entirely out of hand.

 The work had taken next to no time to complete; the pair could throw huge rocks around with ease (indeed, rock-tossing has long been a favourite sport of the Yeti, as many a nervous Sherpa will testify). The next part of their task, however, was less easily accomplished. The abbot, or rinpoche, of the monastery suggested that, rather than waiting for Mr Squash to appear, Billy and Willy should waste no time in returning Doc Willoughby and Durosimi to Hopeless. This was easier said than done. You may remember from the tale ‘The Hilly Layers’ that Durosimi had gone to visit the gomchen, Dawasandup, and  was nowhere to be found. Doc Willoughby, on the other hand, took fright at the prospect of being left in the care of the Spirits of the Glaciers, and hid under his bed. When he was eventually discovered it took little persuasion for a couple of monks to drag him out by the feet. As he scraped across the floor, Doc could not help but notice that the monks seemed to be enjoying their work a little too much.

 Once through the portal, Billy and Willy wandered into Hopeless with a certain amount of trepidation. Yes, they may have been fifteen feet tall and weighed a ton and a half each, but they were strangers in a strange land, and, as you well know, there are few stranger lands than Hopeless, Maine. For a start, there was no snow. How could there be no snow? This was beyond their experience. There were no mountains, either, and the sky was obscured by mist. They looked in wonder at the things with tentacles that scurried out to observe them, and having registered that these large hairy creatures were not to be messed with, the things with tentacles hurriedly scurried back.

“Let’s get rid of this fellow and get back home,” said Billy. “I don’t like this place.”

Willy had to agree. He had just noticed the sea in the distance, and didn’t like the look of it at all.

“There’s a little shed over there,” said Billy. “We can put him in there. Someone will find him in the morning.”

Although the shed doorway seemed unnecessarily narrow, they managed to ease the sleeping Doc through the gap and onto a handy seat, which was perfect for their purposes. Having made sure that he was not going to topple over, the pair hurried thankfully back to the portal between the ash trees, confident that the Doc, who would probably be totally dormant for the next few days, had been deposited somewhere where he could be easily discovered.

Mrs Beaten had always strongly disapproved of  chamber-pots, viewing them as being vulgar beyond words. Now, fast approaching the age when ‘calls of nature’ could occur at the most inconvenient times, she was beginning to regret this decision. Midnight on Hopeless is not the best time to be wandering to the end of the garden, but needs must. Luckily it was a moonless night, so even if someone was out and about at that late hour, they would not see her.

The darkness within the walls of the privy was positively stygian, but being a small space, and very familiar, she had no difficulty in negotiating her way in. With a sigh of relief, Mrs Beaten lifted her nightdress, and gently lowered herself onto the lap of the silently sleeping Doc Willoughby…

 Author’s note: Should you be interested, the song that Reggie had been singing in The Squid and Teapot was ‘The Soldier’s Return’, a popular ballad adapted from a poem by Robert Burns, “When Wild War’s Deadly Blast Was Blawn.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Hilly Layers

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 Mr Squash regarded the great wall of rocks barring his way, and absently scratched his mighty head. Reluctantly he had to accept that it was beyond even his ability to shift them. No one else would be strong enough to help him, either; besides, such aid would have been impossible. The rockfall was blocking a portal that only he could see. It was the blessing and curse of this liminal gateway that anyone who did not happen to be a Sasquatch would simply find themselves staring at two old, unremarkable, ash trees, their trunks leaning against each other like a pair of companionable drunkards. Non-Sasquatches wishing to pass beneath that natural archway could happily do so, and would, as expected, find themselves to be still on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

 You will doubtless be unsurprised to learn that Mrs Beaten does not approve of Mr Squash. It is not just that he is eight feet tall, covered in coarse hair and weighs-in at eight-hundred pounds. Neither is it the fact that he insists on wandering around totally devoid of any sort of clothing. She can let this point pass, purely because he has no discernible ‘bits’ on display (to use her own terminology). Heaven knows, she has looked often enough. Obviously, this was a sacrifice she was forced to make in order to ensure that proper standards of decency are maintained on the island. (You may recall that the mystery of Mr Squash’s private parts was discussed in the tale ‘A Safe Place’). What really disturbs Mrs Beaten is that the creature pretends to be so civilised, casually conversing with one and all, and dropping six-syllable words all over the place, as if he were human – which he most certainly is not. Worse still, he seems to have lately joined forces with Durosimi O’Stoat, someone else for whom Mrs Beaten has little time. Far be it from her to gossip, but various snatches of conversation that she has overheard seem to imply that this Mr Squash fellow and Durosimi have conspired to take advantage of Doc Willoughby’s recent illness. It appears that they have kidnapped the poor man, imprisoning him in some ghastly monkey-house, which, as far as she understands, is situated in somewhere called the Hilly Layers, wherever that is.

It’s just not right, not right at all. Something should be done about it!

“Do you think that Squash has forgotten about us?”

Doc Willoughby scowled at his bowl of tsampa, and wished that it would magically transform into a slice of starry-grabby pie.

‘What? No, of course not,” said Durosimi reassuringly, whilst crossing his fingers behind his back. “Just have some patience, Willoughby. He’ll be here soon enough.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Tenzin, a young novice monk, appeared at the door of their lodgings. He bowed and said,

“I have news from The Spirits of the Glaciers.”

(Tenzin’s ability to speak perfect English is one of those mysteries of the orient with which we need not concern ourselves.)

“Who are they?” asked a somewhat irritated Doc Willoughby.

“They’re a bit like Squash,” said Durosimi. “Cousins of his, I believe. I saw them when I came here before. Come to think of it, they’re a lot bigger than Squash. Much, much bigger, in fact, and covered in white fur.”

Doc gulped, and paled visibly.

“The Spirits of the Glaciers tell me that the path to your island is blocked and your friend will not be able to get through,” said Tenzin. “It is their intention to clear a way for him, but it will take time.”

Doc’s face fell.

“That’s all I need,” he grumbled. “I want to go home, and I am sick of the smell of Yak Butter.”

Durosimi nodded. The lamas splashed butter around everywhere and anywhere that oil or grease might be needed, including using it to fuel their lamps. Its ubiquity could be off-putting, but that did not prevent him, however, from scheming to take a generous supply back to Hopeless when the time came.

Unlike the Doc, Durosimi was enjoying his time in Tibet. Although regarded as something of a mystic by the islanders of Hopeless, he was aware that his powers were as nothing compared with many of the lamas whom he had encountered here. Durosimi wanted to learn everything that he could.

“As our rescue doesn’t appear to be imminent,” he said, “I’d like to visit an anchorite who lives a mile or so away. Tenzin, will you come and act as my translator?”

A cold hand seemed to grip Tenzin’s heart. He knew who the anchorite was, and he had little wish to visit him. It would, however, break the rules of hospitality to refuse the apparently simple request of an honoured guest.

They found the anchorite standing at his door, as if expecting his visitors, although no word had been sent ahead. The fellow cut an odd figure, not being dressed in the familiar burgundy robes of the monks, but instead clothed in a simple, sleeveless white shift which reached his feet. Beneath this he wore a saffron-yellow shirt with voluminous sleeves. A rosary, apparently fashioned from small ivory beads, hung around his neck. Strangest of all, his long black hair fell in thick braids, almost touching his heels.

To Durosimi’s surprise, Tenzin immediately prostrated himself at the feet of the anchorite who, as if used to such behaviour, waved a hand in blessing, then turned, retreating into the dark doorway of his hut and signalling for his visitors to follow.

“Who is this man?” whispered Durosimi, who had been expecting to meet some gentle and saintly lama.

“He is Dawasandup, a powerful gomchen, who has lived alone in the hills for many years. It is said that he has dominion over demons, is able to fly through the air and can kill a man at a distance. They say that the rosary which he wears is made of one hundred and eight pieces of bone, each cut from a different human skull.”

Durosimi smiled grimly.

“He sounds exactly like my sort of holy-man,” he gloated.

“And that’s what troubles me,” thought Tenzin, but wisely decided to keep such concerns to himself.

To be continued.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Yak Butter Tea For Two

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“Do they really expect me to eat this muck?” Doc Willoughby regarded his bowl of dark cereal with a look of disdain.

“It’s called tsampa, the staple diet of the monastery, and it is all that there is,” snapped Durosimi O’Stoat. “If you bothered to taste it, you would find that it’s really quite good.”

“I would be happier if I knew exactly what I was eating,” complained the Doc. “I can’t say I trust these fellows…”

“They are monks, for goodness sake!” exclaimed Durosimi, exasperated. “They’ve saved your life. Show some gratitude for once.”

Doc eyed his companion warily. This sudden respect for others was a side of the sorcerer that he had never seen before.

“Well, what’s in it?” asked the Doc.

“As far as I understand,” replied Durosimi, regaining his composure, “it is made of roasted flour and some seeds…”

“And what else?” muttered the Doc, suspiciously.

“Something called bod ja – Tibetan tea. It’s all perfectly good and, I have been assured, extremely nutritious also.”

Durosimi decided not to go into the details of how bod ja is made. Doc did not need to know that a large lump of greasy yak butter gets added to some heavily salted tar-black tea, which had previously been strained through a horse-hair colander. Neither did he need to be apprised of the information that this concoction is then churned until it reaches the consistency of thick oil, and added to the flour and seeds in order to make tsampa. Durosimi felt that knowing this, the Doc may have been disinclined to eat.  Why such facts might have bothered someone who was more than happy to gorge on starry-grabby pie, however, is something of a mystery to me.

 If you have just wandered into this tale after several weeks, or more, away, you may be wondering what Durosimi O’Stoat and Doc Willoughby are doing, enjoying the hospitality of a Tibetan Buddhist monastery, high up in the Himalayan Mountains and many thousands of miles from Hopeless, Maine. To cut a long story short, Doc Willoughby – for reasons yet unknown – had been found, not so much at Death’s door, but wiping his boots on Death’s welcome mat. Philomena Bucket and Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, agreed that the Doc’s only hope of being saved lay in the healing hands of the lamas of the legendary Dge-lugs-pa, or the Yellow Hat sect, (fortunately, these days they are known more for their distinctive burgundy robes than their yellow hats). Durosimi, who had visited the monastery some time before, offered to go and keep an eye on the Doc, and so Mr Squash transported the pair of them to the Himalayas, via one of his mysterious portals. Now you are up to date.

 Philomena Bucket winced as Mr Squash lowered his huge, eight-hundred pound frame onto the old wooden settle bench that had stood for years in the corner of the bar of The Squid and Teapot.

“Is that worried look, etched upon your dear face, placed there for my welfare, or for the settle’s?” he asked mischievously.

“Both,” Philomena admitted. “I wouldn’t want to see either of you damaged.”

“That’s not likely,” said the Sasquatch, “This old seat is as solid as The Squid itself; it will take more than my delicate weight to do it harm.”

Philomena smiled. She hoped that he was right.

“Talking of damaged goods,” said Mr Squash, “it’s high time that I brought Doc Willoughby back from Tibet. If the monks have not cured him by now, they never will.”

“You don’t know, he might want to stay there,” said Philomena, optimistically.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” replied the Sasquatch. “Besides, Durosimi is with him. Having to entertain those two for any length of time wouldn’t be fair on the monks. It would be enough to make them lose their religion completely.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” laughed Philomena.

 Mr Squash waited until daybreak on the following morning before leaving for Tibet. As ever, wisps of mist curled around the portal, which was just a simple natural gateway formed between two trees. If you or I had stepped through we would have found ourselves to be nowhere other than a stride away from where we had started, but for Mr Squash, and anyone whom he carried, it was a wormhole – albeit a large one – to the Himalayas, the land of his cousins, known to humans as the Yeti.

“Bon voyage, old friend,” said Reggie Upton, who had come to see him off. “Give my regards to your relatives.”

Mr Squash waved and disappeared into the portal. A few seconds later he returned, a concerned look in his wise and ancient eyes.

“Something wrong, old chap?” asked Reggie.

“There has been a rock-fall on the other side,” said the Sasquatch. “It’s totally blocked, and far too much for me to shift. There is no way that I can get through.” 

 To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Once Upon A Tuesday Evening Dreary…

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Mr Squash squatted on the ground outside Neville Moore’s mausoleum-like home, idly stroking the bible-black, though distinctly dishevelled, feathers on the head of Neville’s pet raven, Lenore.

“People have lost fingers for attempting less,” observed Neville, admiringly.

“And over-ambitious birds have lost their heads for trying,” said Mr Squash. “Luckily, Lenore and I have an understanding.” 

The raven gave the Sasquatch a sideways glance and shuffled uncomfortably on her perch.  

“Reggie Upton told me that you’ve been away, trying to find a cure for whatever it is that’s troubling Doc Willoughby,” said Neville, changing the subject.

“Yes. I had to take him to a Buddhist temple high in the Himalayas,” replied Mr Squash. “He’s barely alive, and the monks there are his only chance.”

While it is almost impossible to leave the island of Hopeless, Maine, Mr Squash is able to come and go as he pleases, via a series of secret portals. Convenient as these doorways are, they are potentially lethal for mere humans. As I have mentioned before, in a society more conscious of Health and Safety procedures, each portal would doubtless have carried a notice, proclaiming in large, angry letters:

‘DANGER – NO ADMITTANCE. HUMAN ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. SASQUATCHES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.’

“What concerns me,” admitted Mr Squash, “is if the trip kills Doc Willoughby, then so be it. He would have been a dead man anyway if he’d not gone. Durosimi, on the other hand, didn’t really have to accompany him. I would have stayed.”

“Durosimi?” said a surprised Neville.  Mr Squash nodded.

“He volunteered  to keep an eye on the Doc. The trouble is, he looked in as bad a state as Willoughby when I left them. The monks are going to have their work cut out with those two.”

“Good luck with that,” said Neville.  Lenore, who had become restless, and still brooding over recent references to lost heads, flapped noisily up onto a window ledge that had been generously streaked with guano.  

“When are you fetching them back?” asked Neville.

“I’ll give it a week or so. I’ve relatives living up that way.”  

“Ah, the Yeti,” said Neville, who had read about such creatures in several of the many books that Philomena regularly sent along to him, foraged from the attics of The Squid and Teapot.

“Don’t let them hear you calling them that,” said Mr Squash. “It’s not particularly complimentary in Tibetan. It’s almost as bad as referring to me as Bigfoot.” With that, Mr Squash rose to his feet (and yes, they are inclined to be on the largish size) dwarfing the hermit of Ghastly Green. “I need to get back to The Squid and collect Drury,” he said. “We’re keeping young Winston Oldspot, The Night-Soil Man, company tonight. It seems that he thinks we’ve all abandoned him.”

“Yes, apparently so,” said Neville. “He did look a bit miffed when I saw him the other night.”

“Philomena’s sending him over some Starry-Grabby pie,” said Mr Squash. “That should cheer the lad up.”

“If there’s any going spare,” said Neville, hopefully, “Lenore and I would be very grateful…”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the Sasquatch, quietly wondering to himself how anyone could possibly manage to eat the stuff.

Meanwhile, half a world away, in the high Himalayas, Doc Willoughby and Durosimi O’Stoat were lost in comfortable oblivion, unaware of the burgundy-robed lamas who rotated the prayer-wheels on their behalf.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

What’s Up, Doc?

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 Reggie Upton picked up the fallen candle-lantern, which by some miracle had stayed alight, and looked down at the prone form of Doc Willoughby, sprawled in the mud. The last thing that the Doc had said to him was, “I think I’m dying,” and, to all intents and purposes, had proceeded to do exactly that.

“Surely not,” thought Reggie.

To the accompaniment of a series of grunts, wheezes and winces, he managed to drop to his knees and, dredging up some dimly recalled instructions barked out by Surgeon-Major Shepherd, of the Royal Herbert Military Hospital in Woolwich, he rested three fingers just below the fallen physician’s jawbone to check for a pulse. The tiny flutter of life that he felt was not encouraging, but at least it proved that the Doc was still in full receipt of his mortal coil, though only just.

“How the devil am I going to get him any help?” Reggie muttered to himself. It was long past midnight, and the mean streets of Hopeless, Maine were dark and deserted. Only one lonely light glimmered some distance away from, what might be laughingly referred to as, the island’s main thoroughfare.

Reggie groaned inwardly.

 To say that Durosimi O’Stoat was somewhat annoyed by the rapping on his front door would be an egregious understatement. While I have no idea what he might have been up to at such a late hour, it is safe to assume that it was unlikely to include any plans designed to benefit his fellow islanders. Finding Reggie Upton standing upon his doorstep did nothing to improve his mood.

“What?” he barked, with a ferocity that made the veteran of the Siege of Ladysmith quake in his boots.

“It’s Willoughby,” said Reggie, who went on to give a brief account of his meeting with the Doc, and all that followed.

“Blast the man,” growled Durosimi, dragging on an overcoat. “We’d better get him inside before something eats him, I suppose.”

 Luckily, Doc Willoughby had been considered decidedly indigestible by any predator who may have been passing, and remained, as far as could be ascertained, totally intact.

 “Why is it,” puffed Durosimi, “that the only corpulent man on the island decides to play dead in the middle of the night?”

He and Reggie had taken an arm and a leg each, and were carrying the Doc up the hill to Durosimi’s house.

“He’s certainly no lightweight,” conceded Reggie, ‘but we’re nearly there old chap. Chin up, and all that.”

It was fortunate that the darkness concealed Durosimi’s scowl. No one had before said – or even dared to contemplate saying – ‘Chin up’ to the sorcerer, much less referring to him as an ‘Old Chap.’

 Doc lay on a vast leather sofa that took up most of one wall of Durosimi’s parlour.

“It’s beyond me,” admitted Durosimi, scratching his head. “The answer might be in some grimoire or other, but to be honest, healing is really not my forte.”

“No, I can imagine,” thought Reggie, but wisely decided not to say it aloud.

“I could go and fetch Philomena,” he suggested. “She’ll still be up. It was James Weaselgrease’s birthday bash in The Squid and Teapot last night, so you can guarantee that there’ll be plenty of mess to be cleared up.”

“Very well,” said Durosimi, resignedly, seeing all hope of completing his night’s work rapidly disappearing.

 In less than half-an-hour Philomena was in the parlour and looking down at Doc with concern. She had never liked the man very much, but she had never wished him harm… Well, not real harm, anyway.

“It is as though his spirit has left him,” she declared, after a cursory examination of the Doc’s aura.

“Are you sure?” queried Durosimi. “The only spirit I associate with that man is my whisky, which he seems rather too fond of.”

“He’s not drunk… for once,” said Philomena. “Something is very amiss, though. I fear that it’s beyond my ability to cure him.”

Durosimi looked thoughtful.

“We could ask Mr Squash to take him to the monastery where I stayed,” he said. “If anyone can work miracles, those monks can.”

Philomena looked at him approvingly. Since his couple of weeks recuperating in Tibet he seemed to be a changed man. He was still as dangerous as a viper, but somehow more human than he allowed people to believe.

“Mr Squash looked in at young Weaselgrease’s party earlier on,” she said.

‘Looked in’ just about summed it up. There would have been little enough room for Mr Squash’s bulk in the bar last night.

“I’ll go and see if I can find him,” said Reggie. “I know all of his usual haunts.”

 Mr Squash scratched his enormous head and regarded Durosimi with puzzlement.

“What makes you think that the monks would be able to cure him?” he asked.

“They know things that I can only dream of,” said Durosimi. “If they can’t do it, no one can.”

Philomena looked at him in astonishment; for once in his life Durosimi was actually showing some humility.

“He’s very weak; the journey there could kill him,” warned the Sasquatch. “Remember how it affected you?”

“Oh, I remember well enough,” said Durosimi, wincing at the memory. “The thing is, if he doesn’t go to the monastery, to my mind he’s as good as dead anyway.”

Philomena nodded her head, then felt shocked that she was actually agreeing with Durosimi. The day was still only a few hours old, and it was becoming weirder by the minute already.

“Very well,” said Mr Squash, “but someone should stay with him; I refuse to leave him there alone. You know what he can be like. He could try the patience of a saint, and while those monks might be religious, believe me, they’re not saints.”

“I don’t mind travelling back,” said Durosimi. “Going through your portal last time nearly killed me, but it was worth it. I would relish the opportunity to visit Tibet again.”

“Even with Doc Willoughby?” asked Philomena.

Durosimi shrugged.

“Every silver lining has a cloud,” he said.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

One Lonely, Moonless Night On Hopeless…

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 I am fairly confident that Winston Oldspot (Hopeless, Maine’s latest Night-Soil Man) is not at all familiar with the adjective ‘miffed’. There is  really no reason why he should be, having been raised in an orphanage where miffiness was definitely not tolerated. So, when he perched on a kitchen chair and dragged his boots on in sullen silence, he had no notion that the reason for the dark swampy gloop which had consumed his usually sunny disposition could be expressed very succinctly; he was miffed.

Winston did not dislike children; after all, he had been one himself not so long ago. However, the infant who had so recently arrived at The Squid and Teapot – what was her name? Catbrain? – seemed to have caused nothing less than a bout of insanity. In fairness he could understand Philomena and Rhys being quite fond of their adopted daughter, but Reggie? Really? And that’s even before you mention Drury! What had gotten into them? It was all beyond Winston’s understanding.

A little probing might reveal that the general climate of unconditional love for Caitlin (who most definitely has never been known as Catbrain) was not the real cause of Winston’s current feeling of discontent. It was purely the fact that her self-appointed fan-club of Grandpa Reggie and Uncle Drury seemed to have suddenly forgotten that Winston had ever existed. Ever since Rhys Cranham made the decision to retire from his post, and ceremoniously pass on the lidded-bucket and long-handled shovel to his apprentice, the two had made a point of accompanying Winston on his nightly rounds. Tonight, for the first time ever, neither of them had turned up. Even Mr Squash seemed to have forsaken him, although Winston could not imagine the great hairy bulk of the sasquatch simpering over some toddler.

Winston looked out into the misty, moonless night and hoisted the lidded-bucket on to his shoulders. A Night-Soil Man has to do what a Night-Soil Man has to do, and the cess-pools, midden-closets and privies of Hopeless would not empty themselves.

 The self-styled hermit, Neville Moore, has always made a practice of lighting several lanterns around his property whenever he knows that the Night-Soil Man is due to arrive. This is a wise decision, given that the somewhat odd and ancient building in Ghastly Green, which more resembles a mausoleum than a house, has more than its fair share of obstacles to negotiate. Not least of these is Neville’s decrepit pet raven, Lenore, who always appears seemingly out of nowhere to warn the hermit of the presence of intruders; this she does by calling his name. Many a visitor has been shaken to the core by this sudden black apparition, terrifyingly bursting from the night’s Plutonian shore and loudly cawing, “Neville Moore”.

 “Good evening Winston,” called Neville from his doorway, several yards safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man.

Winston, drenched in the light of the lanterns, waved feebly at the hermit.

“Hello Mr Moore,” he said, gloomily.

“Are you alright, my friend?” asked Neville, concernedly. “You sound a trifle miffed.”

Winston didn’t like ro admit that he had no idea what that meant, so he changed the subject.

“What are you up to at this time of night, Mr Moore? It must be nearly midnight.”

“Oh, not much,” said Neville. “I’ve been pondering over a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore that Philomena found in the attics of The Squid. Reggie dropped it off this afternoon. Only that, and nothing more.”

Winston nodded, and wandered off to the end of the garden, where Neville’s ornate privy awaited his attention.

 “So Reggie can drag himself away from that brat long enough to run errands for Philomena, but isn’t able to come out with me,” thought Winston, bitterly.

Of course, had the Night-Soil Man been thinking straight, it might have occurred to him that Reggie and Drury, devoted as they were to little Caitlin, would  be unlikely to be cooing and fussing over the girl in the middle of the night.

Drury was not cooing, fussing or indeed moving much at all. Instead he was sound asleep at the foot of Caitlin’s bed, having tired both of them out by playing with her all day.

Reggie was happy to let his friend sleep. He pulled on a stout pair of boots before setting off alone from The Squid and Teapot, having allowed himself plenty of time to get to The House at Poo Corner before Winston would be ready to start his shift. You may recall that the old soldier had lost his sense of smell many years previously while serving in the British army. Almost uniquely, on Hopeless, this gave him the ability to tolerate the company of the Night-Soil Man without gagging or passing out.

 It was rare to meet anyone walking on the island after dark, so Reggie was surprised when a figure, carrying a small candle lantern, emerged from the shadows.

“Upton? Is that you?”

Reggie recognised the voice of Doc Willoughby. He did not trust the Doc, but the man was no physical threat, Nevertheless it was as well to be on his guard. He felt the reassuring weight of his trusty sword-stick in his hand, and said,

“Ah, Willoughby. Good evening.”

The Doc drew nearer, and the look on his face, illuminated by the amber light of the candle-lantern, told Reggie that all was not well.

“Upton… Reginald… I need your help,” he said, with a tremor in his voice.

“Whatever is the matter, old chap?”

“I think I’m dying,” said the Doc, and promptly fell face-first onto the muddy ground.

 To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Caitlin

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For the first time in living memory, the walls of The Squid and Teapot echoed with a child’s laughter. It had been no more than a fortnight since the small, pallid toddler had arrived on the island of Hopeless, Maine, but Philomena Bucket could no longer imagine life without her.

It had not been easy during those first few days. The girl’s limited vocabulary had been unintelligible; whatever language she had been raised in, it certainly was not English. There were, however, tiny glimmers of similarity here and there, and the meanings of a few words became dimly recognizable.

Small children, however, are quick to learn, and two weeks is a long time when you are only two years old. Her new name, new parents and the strangeness of Hopeless swiftly seemed commonplace to little Caitlin. The ghosts who haunted the privy became her friends, and the weird bony creature who slept in the snuggery was just another friendly dog – a funny looking one, admittedly, but a dog nonetheless. ‘Cu’, she called him, much to Drury’s puzzlement, but he doted upon her, as did all who came into the inn. Caitlin was the absolute darling of The Squid and Teapot.

 Reggie Upton had never envisioned himself as being fashioned from the sort of material from which grandfathers are made, but Caitlin had other ideas. Within hours of her being conscious of her surroundings, she leaned out from Philomena’s arms towards Reggie and  exclaimed “Gruac” as she tugged at his hair with joyful enthusiasm.

“Did you hear that?” he said, delightedly. “She called me grandpa.”

“Then you had better teach her to say it properly,” said Philomena, unconvinced, but happy that there was a bond so early on between them.

“Grand-pa” enunciated Reggie, very deliberately.

“Grumper,” repeated Caitlin.

          *************************************************************************************

 This voyage had not been the easiest. Maybe it was because they were nearing the edge of the world that violent tempests had blighted their daily progress. Or was it that Leif had forsaken the gods? He was supposed to be a Christian these days, but he was thousands of miles away from his home shores, and the Old Ones seemed more relevant here than some gentle messiah of the desert lands. Ægir, and his consort Rán ruled this realm, and if Leif and his crew wanted safe passage, they would demand a sacrifice.

The Norsemen had taken a dozen slaves when they last made landfall. These had proved to be a poor lot, a ragged knot of half-starved peasants, but all that the raid had to offer. Now they were a burden, taking up cargo space and consuming precious victuals. Their oblation would be no great loss, but would make a fine gift to  Ægir and the ever-capricious Rán.

 In virtual silence the slaves went to their deaths almost willingly. It was only broken by the young woman clutching her child. She fought back, screaming with rage when they tried to throw her into the icy, unforgiving ocean. Leif felt a sudden pang of humanity, and he prised the tiny youngster from her mother’s arms.

“She will be safe with me,” he said, but the hatred and anger blazing in the woman’s eyes as she toppled overboard would haunt him for the rest of his days.

 It might be thought that the sea-gods would have been sated by the deaths of so many innocents, but it seemed not. Nothing improved for days. Perhaps it was the knowledge that one diminutive captive still survived that tormented them.  Leif knew what he had to do, but his promise to the child’s mother made it impossible for him to simply cast the girl into the ocean. Instead he drugged her, and set her adrift in a small rowing boat for the gods to play with as they saw fit.

 ****************************************************************************************************

 As I have mentioned on several previous occasions, the island of Hopeless, Maine enjoys a complicated relationship with time and space. It draws in those whom it chooses to grace its shores from wherever and whenever it pleases. Reggie Upton, now a man in his sixties, was once a Victorian soldier, while  Philomena Bucket, barely thirty years old, was born around the same time as Reggie’s grandmother. Philomena would probably be surprised, and not a little  amused, to learn that her adopted daughter, Caitlin, came into this world a thousand years ago. As for Leif Erikson, he was never destined to visit Hopeless. Instead, it is believed that  he was the first European to set foot on continental America when his longship, tossed by storms, eventually made landfall on the shores of Newfoundland. That, however, is another tale, and will be forever celebrated in the Icelandic Vinland Sagas.