Category Archives: Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Be Careful What You Wish For

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 “It’s beyond me where he gets it from.”  

Reverend Davies peered up from the sermon he was trying to compose, a look of slight irritation on his face.  “Sorry? Who are you talking about?”

“Durosimi,” said Doc Willoughby. ” I was saying, I wonder where he gets all of that single-malt whisky from.”  

“I would be more interested to know why he’s letting you drink any of it. He must have some ulterior motive.”  

“Not necessarily,” said the Doc, trying to sound offended. “It’s not unheard of to share a glass or two with a friend, occasionally.”  

“Indeed,” replied the Reverend, “but you know as well as I do, Durosimi doesn’t have friends. Neither do you, for that matter…  present company excepted, of course,” he added quickly.

Doc was well aware that any friendship between himself and Reverend Davies had all of the warmth of a spoonwalker’s stare, but he smiled and nodded in agreement.  “You’re probably right,” he conceded. “He was desperate to find out everything I know about Mr Squash.”  

“The Sasquatch?” said Reverend Davies in surprise. “Why on earth would Durosimi want to know what he was up to?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” replied the Doc.

Mr Squash had never liked Durosimi O’Stoat. Over the years he had visited Hopeless many times and had watched a vaguely unlikable child grow into thoroughly unlikable adult, and the feeling was, he was certain, totally mutual. Mr Squash was surprised, therefore, when, one night, the sorcerer’s angular form came out of the trees and greeted him like a long lost friend.  

“Mr Squash, my dear fellow,” he beamed. “I heard that you were back on the island. It’s good to see you.”  

“It is?” Replied the Sasquatch, somewhat taken aback.  

“Look, I know we have not always seen eye-to-eye…” began Durosimi.

“Well I am more than three feet taller than you,” said Mr Squash, dryly.

“Ha, you’re always there with a ready quip,” laughed Durosimi, “but seriously, I think it’s time that we buried the hatchet. ”  

“I didn’t know that he could laugh.” Mr Squash had the good manners to keep this observation to himself.  

“I thought you might allow me to walk with you for a while… we could talk over old times.”

Mr Squash’s brow furrowed. There were no old times to talk about. What was Durosimi up to? There was only one way to find out. “Fine,” agreed Mr Squash, and the pair disappeared into the darkness, Durosimi chatting amicably about nothing in particular.

For the next two nights Durosimi appeared from the darkness and spent a companionable hour or two with the Sasquatch. To Mr Squash’s surprise he found Durosimi to be excellent company; had he been misjudging the man for all of these years? It was only when Mr Squash mentioned that he’d be visiting relatives, and unable to join Durosimi for a night of two, that the sorcerer showed his hand.  

“Why, that sounds most interesting,” he said. ” Is it possible that I could join you, my friend? I wouldn’t get in the way… ”  

“It is too dangerous,” said Mr Squash. “Travel through the portals that I use can be perilous for a human.”  

“But I am not an ordinary person,” protested Durosimi. ” That which threatens a mere mortal is as nothing to me.”

It began to dawn upon  Mr Squash that this had been the sole reason for Durosimi befriending him.  “Very well,” thought the Sasquatch to himself. “I’ll go along with it – but people should be careful what they wish for.”  

“If I agree to this,” he said aloud, “bear in mind that however strong you might believe yourself to be, you will not find the experience at all comfortable. The best I can promise is to put you somewhere safe when we arrive.”

They agreed to meet the following night. Mr Squash advised Durosimi to wear his warmest clothes, which surprised the sorcerer. Nevertheless, he donned his thickest coat, gloves, and furry ushanka hat, with generous ear-flaps that he could tie beneath his chin. Standing in the shadow of the two toppled trees that leant against each other to form an archway,

Mr Squash asked,  “Are you ready?”  

“Of course I am,” said Durosimi testily, allowing his true self to flicker through for a moment. Before he could say another word, he felt himself swept off his feet and lifted into the Sasquatch’s huge arms.

Mr Squash had not lied when he described the experience of travelling through his portal as being ‘not at all comfortable.’ Durosimi felt as though he was being slowly turned inside out, with every atom of his body being  removed, examined, and then put back into the wrong place. Then, like a huge wave roaring in from nowhere, oblivion swept over him and, for several hours, he knew no more.

A sharp light shone through the mouth of the cave, some hundred feet from where Durosimi lay. He tried to sit up, but found the effort too great. He would just lie here for a few minutes, until he recovered a little. It took a moment or two for Durosimi to realise that much of his problem was that he was cold; bitterly cold. He needed to move, to get his circulation flowing. The sorcerer made his way to the opening of the cave, where a scattering of fresh snow carpeted the entrance. The only thing disturbing the pristine surface was the imprint of a single footprint, one that had come from a big foot. A very big foot indeed. Durosimi stepped into the daylight. There was no sign of Mr Squash, just a range of huge and imposing snow-capped mountains, for as far as the eye could see. The Sasquatch had said that he was visiting relatives. With a sinking heart Durosimi realised who those relatives might be and, if this was the case, he was now standing, lost and alone on the very roof of the world – the Himalayan Mountains.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Natural Archway

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Doc Willoughby eyed the half-full decanter hopefully. “That’s some mighty fine whisky you have there,” he said. Then he added, on the off chance that Durosimi O’Stoat had failed to fully comprehend his approval of the liquor, “Yes, that’s some mighty fine whisky indeed.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” drawled Durosimi, making no effort to replenish Doc’s empty glass.

Whenever Durosimi invited Doc to his home, in order to chew the fat, blow some smoke, shoot the breeze, and other unlikely idioms suggestive of folksy camaraderie, there was always an ulterior motive. Durosimi is incapable of camaraderie, and he certainly is not folksy. Doc knows this, of course, but the sorcerer’s unique and mysteriously endless supply of single-malt whisky is the type of bait that one such as Doc is unable to resist.

 “So,” said Durosimi, running his fingers over the decanter’s stopper, “ tell me more about this Bigfoot creature. Squash, isn’t it? What has he been getting up to?”

“I’ve heard a few bits of gossip about him,” said Doc.

He had played this game before. There was a definite art to telling Durosimi just enough to encourage him to lubricate the conversation, while keeping something back in reserve.

“Go on,” said Durosimi, removing the stopper

“Well, he’s been around the island for a few weeks now – keeping an eye on young Oldspot, apparently.”

“Oldspot?”

“Winston Oldspot, the new Night-Soil Man. Squash rescued him from somewhere or other and brought him home.”

“Oh, but that’s hardly news,” said Durosimi, putting the stopper back.

“But Squash has this unsettling habit of coming and going.”

“Coming and going? How do you mean?” asked Durosimi, suddenly interested.

“He doesn’t eat on the island,” replied Doc. “He says that the food here doesn’t agree with him.”

“That ‘s reasonable. It sounds as though he’s a sight more sensible than most,” said Durosimi. “But if he doesn’t eat on the island where does he go, and how does he get there?”

There was an excited glint in Durosimi’s eye, and by now the stopper was well and truly removed and the decanter hovering tantalisingly over Doc’s glass.

“I have no idea,” said Doc, then added hurriedly as the decanter moved further away, ‘but he did say something about a portal.”

“A portal, eh?” said Durosimi, and Doc’s ears were warmed by the comforting sound of single-malt whisky hitting the bottom of his glass. It was as though he had uttered some arcane shibboleth allowing him into Durosimi’s good books.

With the whisky safely in his care, Doc felt safe in mentioning the caveat.

“He did make a point of saying, however, that it was meant only for Sasquatches, and nowhere that a human could pass through safely.”

Durosimi harrumphed irritably. In his opinion, the usual rules governing mere mortals did not apply to him.

“Did he happen to mention where this portal is located?”

“No, sorry,” said Doc, realising that he had no more to give.

He drank his whisky in one gulp. It occurred to him that Durosimi might have wanted it back.

“I daresay you need to be getting back to work now Willoughby,” said the sorcerer, ushering his guest towards the door. “No peace for the wicked, eh?”

“You should know,” thought Doc, but what he actually said was, “No, indeed,” and he feigned a little laugh.

Durosimi knew all about portals. He had been going back and forth, for some months, to Tudor London, via The Underland, which always managed to deliver him to Doctor John Dee’s study while the old alchemist was away from home. It was a pleasant change from Hopeless, to be sure, but Durosimi was rarely satisfied, and wanted more. He wanted to see the places where the Sasquatch went.

The bright full moon that smiled down upon the state of Maine was seriously dimmed by the perpetual fog that hung over Hopeless, like a soiled sheet over a birdcage. This gloom was no great hardship to the commerce of the island, as most rarely ventured any further than ‘The Crow’ or ‘The Squid and Teapot’, after the hours of darkness. Durosimi O’Stoat, however, was not like most islanders. Armed with his magic and an overbearing sense of self-confidence, he felt match enough for anything, with the single exception of the stench of the Night-Soil Man. That was why, on this night, he was keeping well upwind of Winston Oldspot and the huge creature walking by his side. Of course, he had seen Mr Squash before, some years earlier, but he had forgotten just how massive the fellow was.

Watching from a safe distance, Durosimi saw the Sasquatch take his leave of Winston and wander off into the trees. Durosimi scuttled after him, desperate to see where  he might be heading. He saw Mr Squash arrive at a fairly unremarkable spot where two trees had seemingly fallen against each other, forming an inverted V, which no one would have looked at twice. Mr Squash walked beneath the simple, natural archway, and to Durosimi’s surprise, disappeared with a resounding snap.

“Well, that looks easy enough,” thought Durosimi, following in Mr Squash’s footsteps, and stepped confidently through the archway. I have no idea what he expected to happen, but to his disappointment there was no snap, and he was still on Hopeless with a couple of toppled trees squatting like an A frame above his head.

 Lying in his bed, some two hours later, Durosimi tried to puzzle out why the portal had not allowed him in. He could only conclude that Doc had heard correctly, and maybe you really have to be a Sasquatch to get through. But hadn’t Mr Squash carried Winston Oldspot back to the island through a portal? Durosimi suddenly sat bolt upright. That was it. He had to somehow hitch a lift with the Sasquatch. There was only one possible way to achieve this. Durosimi would have to ask the Sasquatch nicely.

To be continued…

 Errors and Corrections.

I have to apologise to Madame Miriele D’Illay-Washwell, having intimated in a recent tale (entitled ‘A Safe Place”) that she and her family inhabit the property known as ‘The Old Blomqvist House’. Madame D’Illay-Washwell has pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that she would never live in a house which is being maintained by some variety of hobgoblin, much less a Swedish one.

I should add that the residence to which I referred is currently the home of Mr and Mrs Bartholomew Middlestreet, and the guardian spirit, described by Madame D’Illay Washwell as a hobgoblin, is in fact a Tomte.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Tale of the Tales

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There is something a little different this week…

 On Good Friday, 2017, which happened to fall on April 14th, I was asked if I might be interested in contributing a little something to ‘The Hopeless Vendetta’. At the time I was enjoying a pub lunch, so I can only imagine that it was the heady combination of warm beer and Stilton cheese that prompted me to agree, saying that I would produce a few words in time for the next edition.

Appropriately for the island of Hopeless, Maine, my first effort was to write an obituary for an elderly actor manager of the Henry Irving variety, named Sir Fromebridge Whitminster. This proved to be an historic moment in the annals of Hopeless, bringing to public attention for the very first time an inn called ‘The Squid and Teapot’, Sir Fromebridge’s favourite watering hole. I think it was generally acknowledged that ‘The Squid’ would somehow take on a life of its own, and so the following week saw my scribblings appear under the banner ‘Tales from the Squid and Teapot’, and featured no less than W.S. Gilbert, of Gilbert & Sullivan fame (in ‘The Sound of the Cutlery Moving’). Gilbert was the first of several well known people to visit, including the blues musician Robert Leroy Johnson and his friend, Johnny Shines (ln ‘Spoonwalker Blues’) – after all, where better than Hopeless to meet the devil on the crossroads? Other guest appearances came from the ocean-going saints, Brendan and Malo (in ‘No Country for Old Mendicants); Captain Edward Smith of the R.M.S. Titanic (in ‘Scilly Point’); the Elizabethen alchemist Doctor John Dee (in ‘The Visions of Doctor Dee’ plus several other tales), along with his friend Edward Kelley and a brief appearance by a young Will Shakespeare (in ‘The Little Ship of Horrors, part 2’). The latest, and less obvious, famous face to be on the island is Adolf Hitler, who had turned up on Hopeless at some point, and had quite forgotten his past, reverting to the family name of Schicklgruber, which his father had changed to ‘Hitler’ in the 1870s. In the tale ‘Krampusnacht,’ Herr Schicklgruber is violently spirited away by the Christmas bogey-man Krampus, so, albeit belatedly, justice was seen to be done.

Occasionally, real-life events have inspired the tales, such as the Centralia mine fire, in Pennsylvania, which has been burning for over sixty years (in ‘Hell’s Mouth’); The legend of the Dutchman’s Gold, which was cited in the tale of that name. In ‘The Persian Runner’, a businessman named Garfield Lawnside attempts to buy Hopeless, not unlike the way in which Donald Trump had designs on purchasing Greenland in 2019.

 Several characters have arrived on the island, only to perish fairly soon afterwards. With this being Hopeless, of course, death is rarely the end and not always a disadvantage. Although disappointed and a little perplexed that things did not turn out as expected, the Jesuit priest, Father Ignatius Stamage, seems quite happy to haunt anywhere his hat is hung. When an attempt was made to bring Sir Fromebridge Whitminster back to haunt his scarf, however, he had to decline as he had taken up a position as the ghostly Man in Grey, the spirit who famously haunts London’s Lyceum Theatre (in ‘The Man in Grey’).

 Hopeless has experienced its share of fantastic beasts in the tales. Besides the ubiquitous ghouls, vampires and werewolves, the island has seen the terrifying Aboo-dom-k’n, who apparently consumed Sir Fromebridge; the Kraken, on numerous occasions; various Selkies (In ‘People from the sea’ and other tales); the charming, but hideous Argentinian monster, Manchachicoj (in ‘The Stowaway’); the native-American bird-god, Pamola (who  my spell-check, annoyingly, insisted on amending to Pamela); the demon, Buer, straight from the 16th-century grimoire, Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, with his lion’s head, from which five legs radiated like the spokes of a wheel (in ‘Bog Oak and Brass’ among other tales) and, most recently, Mr Squash, the eloquent Sasquatch, or Bigfoot, who is visiting Hopeless.

 Part of the pleasure, and indeed the pain,  in creating these tales is the research – honestly, some of them do require quite a lot of research. Before writing for The Vendetta I knew little or nothing about the people of the Passaquamoddy tribe; Selkies; The workings of the Edison-Bell phonograph; The procedure required for distilling absinthe and other spirits; The Brendan Voyage; Francis Younghusband and the British invasion of Tibet; The Quest for the fabled North-West Passage; Night-Soil Men (yes, they really did exist); Downeasters; Balloonists; The Pseudomonarchia Daemonum; The haunted Salamanca caves of Argentina; The Danse Apache and the Can-Can – which, you may imagine, obviously took a great deal of YouTube research! (incidentally, some of you may have noticed that the name of the Can-can troupe who are shipwrecked on the island, Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge, is a direct steal from Picasso’s painting, Les Demoiselles D’Avignon). I could go on, but after seven years the list seems endless.

 I was fortunate in inheriting, from Tom and Nimue’s original vision, a wealth of marvellous characters, whom they kindly allowed me to use and abuse as I pleased. Best, of all of these for me, is Drury, the skeletal hound. Drury is a gift for any dog-lover to write. He has also given me what I consider to be my best tale-title so far, being ‘The Curious Case of the Dog in the Nightdress,’ which describes his first meeting with Philomena Bucket. No one on the island knows anything of Drury’s origins, but I did attempt to suggest how things might have been in the tale ‘A Dog’s Life,’ which, I confess, reduced me to tears in the writing.

 So, I am writing this on the fourteenth of April 2024, exactly seven years after being first approached to contribute ‘a little something’ to The Vendetta. There have been a couple of short breaks during that period, but I reckon there must be about three hundred tales told in the series, so far. Occasionally, in the vague hope of continuity, I dig an early one out and have no recollection whatsoever of having written it. For all I know it could be a true account of events that have occurred, or may yet occur. As a believer in the possibility of a multiverse, therefore, I like to think that somewhere out there Durosimi, Doc Willoughby, Philomena , Reggie and all the rest – especially Drury – are wandering about in the fog, just an arm’s reach away on the island of Hopeless Maine.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Home Thoughts From Abroad

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It was a dismal April afternoon, even by the standards of Hopeless, Maine.

A cruel wind roared in from the Atlantic, bringing with it driving rain and freezing temperatures.

Reggie Upton had planned to do a spot of flaneuring that afternoon, but it would clearly be out of the question now; in order to flaneur properly one would need clement weather, preferably with a spot of sunshine.

“You definitely won’t be flanneling anywhere today,” stated Philomena Bucket, as if reading Reggie’s mind.

The old soldier had long ago given up correcting Philomena’s pronunciation.

“But if you’re at a loose end, I could do with someone tidying up in the top attic,” she added.

Reggie sighed. While he was always happy to rummage in any of The Squid and Teapot’s several attics, tidying up sounded like too much of a chore.

“What is up there that so desperately needs tidying?” he asked, imagining piles of clothing, curtains and bedding, all unwanted, even by the less than affluent residents of Hopeless.

“Books, mainly,” she replied.

Reggie brightened. He liked books.

“Very well, m’dear, I’m always happy to help,” he said.

Philomena Bucket is no fool. It was obvious to her that Reggie was going to mope around all day, getting underfoot and feeling generally sorry for himself. A few hours surrounded by a small mountain of books would do him the world of good.

From the earliest days of the Founding Families, successive landlords of the inn had salvaged every shipwrecked item that they could lay their hands on, simply on the basis that, one day, these things would eventually ‘come in handy’. By and large the policy worked well, but the number of unwanted books grew and grew each year. It is sad to relate that, with one or two exceptions, the islanders of Hopeless are not great bibliophiles.

 Reggie was sitting on a pile of slightly mildewed volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, happily thumbing through an anthology of Victorian poetry. He smiled to himself at the familiarity of some of these verses, many of which he had been required to learn by heart as a schoolboy. His eye fell upon Robert Browning’s ‘Home Thoughts from Abroad”.

“Oh to be in England, now that April’s here…’

He spoke the words aloud, and as he did so, looked out through the tiny attic window, rain-lashed and grimy, on to a cheerless vista.

“Oh to be in England, now that April’s here,” he repeated to himself, “I wonder if I shall ever see England again?”

By the following morning the storm had blown itself out. Taking advantage of the change in the weather, Reggie decked himself out in his best three-piece tweed suit, put a shine on his shoes, set his Homburg hat at a rakish angle and went off flaneuring, sword stick in hand. The true flaneur has no definite destination in mind, only a desire to watch the world go by as they meander on their way. Reggie adhered to this philosophy to a degree, but making sure that his aimless wandering would cross the path of Mr Squash, the Sasquatch who was temporarily visiting the island. In recent weeks the two had become firm friends, close enough, in Reggie’s estimation, that it would not be too impertinent to ask Mr Squash for a small favour.

 “England? No, I have not been there.” said the Sasquatch. “I hear that there are no great forests anymore in England.”

“My dear chap,” said Reggie, “there is the New Forest, the Forest of Dean, Sherwood Forest, Epping Forest…”

“These are little more than copses, compared with the vast forests of North America,” said Mr Squash, “and far too small for someone like me to live in.”

“But, even so, is there a chance that you would take me there?” asked Reggie.

“Sorry,” said Mr Squash. “Taking a human through one of my portals is perilous beyond belief – Winston was close to death, so I took a chance with him. And anyway, any portal I might have had to your homeland is long disused and dangerous. Besides, the country has probably changed a lot since you were last there. You may find that the England of today is far removed from the one you left in nineteen-twelve.”

“Nonsense,” said Reggie, emphatically. “England will never change!”

Reggie had known for a long time that Philomena was the last of a long line of powerful witches. It did not surprise or bother him. He had seen enough of the world to know that there was far more to it than that which is visible to mortal eyes. The love of his life, the Theosophist, Annie Besant, had taught him that much in India. Maybe Philomena had some means to let him see his beloved England again.

Philomena shook her head.

*I am sorry Reggie,” she said. “If I had the ability to help people to leave Hopeless, the island would be empty by now.”

“Is there nothing you can do?” Reggie was almost begging. “I would love to see the place where I grew up, just one more time.”

Philomena thought for a moment, then held out her hands. “Take my hands, close your eyes and visualise where it is that you wish to visit.”

Reggie did as he was told, and to his surprise a wonderfully vivid picture immediately came into his mind. He could clearly see the meadow where he played as a child, with the little stream running through it. It was springtime, and the grass was starred with daisies and scatterings of soft yellow primroses. A blackthorn hedge separated the meadow from an ancient, majestic beech wood, which looked dark and cool in the light of an early April morning.

A tear escaped from Reggie’s closed eyes, then he gasped.

The picture was changing.

Little by little the meadow and woodland disappeared beneath a sprawl of streets and brick-built houses; the little stream was lost forever.

Reggie could take no more, and opened his eyes.

“Is that really..?” he could not complete his sentence.

Philomena nodded and squeezed his hand. “We need to get back to The Squid and Teapot,” she said. “It’s time to go home.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Safe Place

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Since re-visiting the fog-bound island of Hopeless, Maine, following an absence of several years, Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, had spent his nights assisting Winston Oldspot, the young Night-Soil Man. During daylight hours he delighted in looking up old friends and making new acquaintances. It is fair to say that Mr Squash is, and always has been, a sociable sort of fellow, despite his fearsome appearance. This is not his fault; being nine feet tall and weighing-in at eight hundred pounds is enough to make even the most belligerent aggressor feel somewhat threatened.

“It’s good to have you back on Hopeless,” said Bartholomew Middlestreet with a warm smile.

“It is only temporary,” replied Mr Squash. “In fact, if your Night-Soil Man had not got himself lost, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

“We would ask you in,” said Bartholomew’s wife, Ariadne, apologetically. “But our new home is a bit on the small side.”

“Well, it is certainly a lot smaller than The Squid and Teapot,” said Mr Squash with a laugh. “You must miss the old place, sometimes.”

“Oh, we do,” replied Bartholomew, “but it was high time that I retired. It’s a comfort to know that The Squid is in good hands, with Rhys and Philomena running it.”

“And they’ve got some very modern ideas,” added Ariadne, approvingly. “They even have baby-changing facilities.”

Mr Squash frowned, then said in puzzled tones, “Oh well, I guess that there must be some folks who aren’t happy with the one that they’ve got.”

 It was later that day that Reggie Upton suggested that the Sasquatch should go with him to meet Septimus Washwell and his wife, Mirielle. After the birth of their twin daughters at Christmas, the new family had moved into what had long been known as the Blomqvist cottage, a comfortable but quite tiny home, out at Scilly Point. In order to meet Mr Squash, it was arranged that Ariadne would look after the children, and Septimus and Mirielle go to the Dance Studio, where Mirielle’s Can-Can troupe, Les Demoiselles de Hopeless, Maine, taught, rehearsed and, in the case of the unmarried girls, lived. This establishment was formerly known as Madame Evadne’s Lodging House for Discerning Gentlemen and, like The Squid and Teapot, is one of the larger buildings on the island, and easily able to accommodate Mr Squash’s impressive bulk.

Mirielle viewed Mr Squash with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. It must be said that this was inclined to be her default position when it came to meeting anyone, but she had, over the years, heard several stories regarding the creatures generally referred to as Bigfoot, and they did not soothe her. She was glad that the children were safely at home with Ariadne.

Meanwhile, Septimus, sitting with his fingers crossed, reflected that, all things considered, the meeting was going exceptionally well and, so far, Mirielle had not said anything remotely insulting or insensitive, as she was often inclined to do.

Then things changed.

“Monsieur Squash, one thing puzzles me…”

“And what might that be, my dear?” asked Mr Squash, half suspecting what might be the cause of the dancer’s puzzlement.

She waved vaguely in the area of the Sasquatch’s groin and said, “You appear to have no… what is the word…?

No one rushed to supply her with the word that had mercifully eluded her.

You will have noticed that any pictorial depictions of a Yeti, Bigfoot, or whatever you wish to call the creature, have always appeared to be coy in this respect. When confronted by Mr Squash in the flesh (or fur, to be more correct), however, it quickly becomes obvious that coyness has played no part in the matter. Mr Squash, and presumably others of his species, appear to be completely devoid of any obvious sexual characteristics. This feature – or the lack thereof – had been the ‘Elephant in the Room’ on more than one occasion. Certainly no one on Hopeless had felt moved to mention the matter; that is, until now.

“Oh, I certainly do,” said Mr Squash, without a hint of embarrassment. “Would you like to see?”

Mirielle’s face lit up with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “Mais oui…” she began.

“May we spare you the inconvenience,” broke in Reggie hurriedly. “I am sure everyone here is perfectly happy to take your word on this, old chap, though it is no one else’s business, of course.” He gave Mirielle his best parade-ground frown, but she disregarded him.

“But where…?”  she insisted.

“You know how a kangaroo has a pouch..?” began Mr Squash.

“What’s a kangaroo?” asked Septimus.

The others ignored him.

“Well,” continued Mr Squash, “we Sasquatches have a similar arrangement, but we don’t carry our young in our pouch. It has another function altogether, a little gift from nature, allowing us to safely convey and protect our…”

“Fascinating, fascinating,” broke-in Reggie, once more. “Thank goodness that’s cleared that puzzle up. Now, maybe we should go to…”

“A pouch is a most useful, not to say versatile, thing to possess,” reflected Mr Squash. “You humans have to wear clothes with pockets, or carry bags, whereas we Sasquatches have a built-in safe place to store all sorts of useful things. Oh, that reminds me…”

His hand disappeared into a hitherto unnoticed fold in his fur and, after a certain amount of rummaging, extracted a large slice of starry-grabby-pie. “Philomena gave me this earlier,” he explained, “I don’t really like it. Does anyone want a bite?”

Reggie, Septimus and Mirielle hurriedly thanked him, politely pointing out that they had just eaten and could not possibly manage another thing.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Friends Reunited

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“Well, I must say, you smell a darn sight better than when I saw you last.”

Rhys Cranham, who had been sweeping the courtyard of The Squid and Teapot, stopped abruptly in his tracks. He recognised those deep, velvety tones at once, despite it being a voice that he had not heard for years.

He turned slowly on his heels, hardly daring to believe that it could really be…

“Mr Squash, as I live and breathe,” he said, his face wreathed in smiles. “What brings you to Hopeless again? I thought that you hated the place.”

“Oh, just he usual,” said the Sasquatch, a twinkle in his dark brown eyes. “Getting young Night-Soil Men out of trouble.”

Rhys grinned, remembering how Mr Squash had extracted him from a most unpleasant encounter with a ghoul, many years earlier. But he was young and green then, not much older than Winston Oldspot is now…

“Winston!” he exclaimed, worriedly realising what the Sasquatch had said. “Is he okay?”

“He is fine,” said Mr Squash. “He just wandered into somewhere where he shouldn’t.”

 “I had no idea that you two knew each other,” said Reggie Upton. ”I brought Mr S over, thinking that he might like to meet Philomena.”

Rhys had been so taken with meeting his old friend again that he had not noticed Reggie. This was understandable, for even Reggie’s military bearing was completely overshadowed  beside the Sasquatch’s nine foot height and eight-hundred pound bulk.

“Yes… of course,” said Rhys, uncertainly. “I’ll go and fetch her.”

Philomena had seen all sorts since coming to Hopeless, but maybe she ought to be assured, before seeing Mr Squash, that he was friendly.

Before anyone could move there was a clatter on the cobbles that sounded not dissimilar to a dinner-service falling out of a cupboard, onto concrete. Then Drury, the skeletal hound, burst around the corner, an array of freshly washed underwear in his mouth.

On seeing Mr Squash he drew up noisily, did a double-take, then bounded joyfully towards him, hurling himself at the mountainous bulk of the Sasquatch with a force that would have knocked a lesser body on its back. If anyone had doubted their friendship before, Drury’s frantically wagging tail would have put them right.

“Drury, you old rascal,” laughed Mr Squash, scratching the dog’s bony skull in the place where his ears would have been. “Are you still here? You must be almost as old as I am.”

Just then a flustered-looking Philomena Bucket appeared, brandishing a broom.

“Drury, you no good bag of bones…” she cried, then, seeing the strange tableau in front of her, drew to an abrupt halt.

“What the devil…” she began.

“Um… Philomena, meet my old friend, Mr Squash,” said Rhys.

The heavy oak door of The Squid and Teapot is usually large enough to accommodate most of the inn’s patrons, but the Sasquatch had to bend almost double to get through it. Once in, however, he could comfortably stand. The oldest part of The Squid was once a church, possibly the earliest structure built on the island. Since then, through its various incarnations, the building had been added to, both outwards, upwards and even downwards. Happily for Mr Squash the original high ceilings of the church, where the bar is now located, remain as lofty and impressive as ever.

 Mr Squash lowered himself down onto the stout wooden settle that runs along one wall of the bar. The others looked on in trepidation, mentally crossing fingers that the seat was sufficient to the task. Luck, and the joints of the settle, held and all was well.

Despite his bulk and appearance, Philomena found their guest to be as well-mannered and charming as any whom she had met, and soon felt at ease in his company.

“That’s an unusual name you have there,” she said, ignoring Rhys’ disapproving gaze.

“It is,” agreed Mr Squash, “though it’s one that I have had for quite a few years now.”

“Go on then,” said Philomena. “Spill the beans.”

Rhys glared at her again, but she pretended not to notice.

“I used to ramble all over the country, back when there were more trees and fewer roads,” began Mr Squash. “One day a young fellow, not more than a boy, took a pot-shot at me with some pea-shooter of a fire-stick… I don’t know what you call them.”

“Rifle, I imagine,” volunteered Reggie.

“Whatever it was, I admit it stung a bit and it got me riled up enough to pick him up by his neck and shake him. Then I saw the fear in his eyes, and I dropped the lad, badly twisting his ankle. I felt awful about that, and to cut a long story short, I picked him up and carried him back to the settlement where he lived. After that he would seek me out, and we became friends. I showed him the secrets of the forest and he taught me to speak English. I watched him grow into a strapping young man, who eventually married and raised a fine family. He had a daughter named Jemima, and she was the one who first called me Mr Squash.”

“But why did she call you that?” insisted Philomena.

Rhys could see that she was not going to let this go, so he gave up trying to catch her eye.

“Well, one day, after we had known each other for a while, this young fellow asks me my name. Until then a name was nothing that I had any need for, so I told him what the people in the North-West used to call me, when I lived among them.

“Sasquatch will do fine,”  I said. “ So what’s your name?”

“Daniel Boone,” he replied. “But you can call me Dan.”

Mr Squash had a dreamy, distant look in his eyes.

“That was a long time ago,” he said. “But like I told you, it was little Jemima Boone who started calling me Mr Squash, because Sasquatch was too darned tricky for her to say. And it caught on, as simple as that!”

It was later that evening, and the Sasquatch had left to forage for some food.

“There is nothing suitable for me to eat on this island,” he had declared, “but I’ll be back in an hour or so to help Winston.”

“Where does he go to eat?” asked Philomena.

“Through one of his portals to somewhere far away,” said Rhys. “And don’t get excited. You couldn’t pass through even if you knew where it is.”

“He’s a strange one, for sure,” said Philomena. “And he’s really old, as well.”

“So are you,“ said Rhys.

“No I’m not. I was just born a long time ago,” she retorted. “And Daniel Boone was around years before that.”

“Those must have been the days when people had manners, and didn’t pry into other folk’s business,” said Rhys, expertly ducking to avoid the broom aimed for the back of his head.

 Author’s note: In the tale ‘About Time’, Philomena revealed to Reggie that, despite being only thirty, she was born in the year 1795. As has been previously mentioned on several occasions, Hopeless Maine has a complicated relationship with time and space.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Yeti

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Reggie Upton, as you may recall, has no sense of smell, a relic of his days as an army officer in the India of the British Raj. As a result of this, and unlike others, he is able to happily enjoy the company of Winston Oldspot, the young Night-Soil Man, without fainting, gagging or throwing up.

There had been a recent occasion when Winston had gone missing for the best part of a week. Reggie had been terribly worried, and made a promise to himself that he would, in future, keep an eye on the lad, and make sure that he stayed safe. For a short while there seemed to be no threats to Winston’s well-being, then, one evening, to his horror, he discovered the young man apparently entertaining what appeared to be a Yeti. Although Reggie felt immediate panic, the old soldier that he was came swiftly to the fore, and he chose not to betray his feelings. Instead, he set his homburg firmly on his head, and prepared himself to join the pair with a jaunty air, a welcoming smile, and his trusty sword-stick at the ready.

You may ask why Reggie believed Winston’s companion – whom we know as Mr Squash – to be a Yeti, or indeed, how he had even heard of such beings. This is no great mystery; it was simply because the creature bore a marked resemblance to a sketch he had once been shown by a certain Lieutenant Colonel Francis Younghusband, a fellow officer who had led a British expedition to Tibet in the early 1900s. Reminiscing on his adventures a year or two later, Younghusband claimed, over a few drinks in the mess one evening, to have encountered a family of very large, ape-like animals, high in the Himalayas. As if to prove his point, he produced a sketch of the group, which he had purportedly drawn from life.

“Our Sherpa guides called them ‘Metoh Kangmi’ which translates as ‘The Scruffy Snowman’,” he explained. “It’s not a very complimentary moniker, is it, chaps? To my eyes they seem quite noble, in their own way. I prefer the other name by which they’re known, which is ‘The Bear of the Rock-Strewn Places.’ That’s a bit of a mouthful in English, but in Tibetan it sounds something like ‘Yeti.’

Until now, Reggie had taken Frankie Younghusband’s account with a large pinch of salt. It had become evident to all that, since returning from Tibet, the fellow had taken onboard quite a few rum ideas which he had picked up on his travels. However, seeing Mr Squash in the flesh, as it were, certainly forced Reggie to reconsider his opinion; Younghusband might have been on to something, after all. This ‘Metoh Kangmi’ with Winston, however, was far from scruffy and bore not the remotest resemblance to a snowman. As for being a ‘Bear of the Rock-Strewn Places,’ the impressive pelt of dark brown hair was somewhat bear-like, but there the similarity ended.

 “Reggie, meet my very good friend, Mr Squash,” said Winston, proudly.

Although Winston was obviously comfortable in the Yeti’s company, Reggie remained wary, but good manners dictated that he should be polite, at least until he knew more.

“How do you do,” said Reggie, instinctively offering a handshake, then immediately feeling foolish for having done so. He was surprised, therefore, to find that Mr Squash extended his own, huge leathery hand in response, and caught him in a firm, but gentle, grip.

“It is very good to meet you,” said Mr Squash in dark, velvety tones.

Despite his previous concerns, Reggie felt immediately at ease. Very few things fazed him anymore, and the fact that Mr Squash could engage in intelligent conversation seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Dash it, this chap was considerably more civilised than most of the people who lived on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

Winston looked on with approval as his two best friends conversed amicably; it was almost as though they had known each other for years.

 “Yeti?” said Mr Squash. “Is that what the humans call my relatives who live in The Land of Snow? Unfortunately, I don’t get to visit them very often these days – once every fifty years or so at best, I suppose. Oh, it isn’t about distance. These doorways we use – portals, you could say – mean that we’re only ever a few steps away from anywhere, but honestly, it’s too darned cold up there in those high, snowy mountains for me. Give me forests any day. Why, even this island is a better option.”

 “I hate to interrupt,” said Winston, “but I need to get to work, and time is getting on. You two carry on talking, I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Nonsense,” said Reggie.“Go and get your bucket, and put your boots on, lad. I’m sure that Mr Squash will be happy to walk with us.”

The Sasquatch nodded in agreement and, for the first time that evening, rose to his feet. Reggie gasped audibly and looking up, nearly lost his hat. He had not fully appreciated how incredibly huge the fellow was.

“With an army of chaps like him you could conquer the world,” he mused to himself. “It is a jolly good job that we’re on the same side,”

A thought crossed his mind and he caught Mr Squash’s eye.

“I must introduce you to a very dear friend of mine,” he said, with a mischievous grin. “Her name is Philomena Bucket…”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Watcher

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“Five days?” Winston Oldspot looked aghast. “That can’t be right, surely.”

“Five days,” confirmed Reggie Upton. “You were absent without leave for fully five days, m’boy. If it hadn’t been for the ghostly wisdom of Granny Bucket, who knows about such things, we would have assumed that you were dead.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Winston. “I went into a cave to shelter from a storm. I remember dropping off to sleep, and when I woke up the storm had passed. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple of hours.”

“I can promise you, you were gone for more than a couple of hours,” said Reggie. “It was as much as any of us could do to stop Rhys Cranham from getting back into his Night-Soil togs. It’s only for the fact that you’d taken the bucket with you that made him change his mind.”

Winston shook his head, bemused.

“And nothing at all strange happened, as far as you know?” enquired Reggie.

“Only a few weird dreams, which I’ve forgotten,” replied the young Night-Soil Man.

“Although… but no, that’s me being silly.”

“Go on, “ said Reggie. “There is no harm in saying it.”

“Well… ever since I’ve been back, I feel as though someone is watching me. That’s all.”

 A huge and hairy creature known as Mr Squash had, indeed, been watching Winston.

Upon discovering the boy unconscious, and apparently close to death, high on the Appalachian Trail, the Sasquatch carried him gently back to Hopeless, via one of the many hidden portals that only certain gifted beings, such as himself, can see. Mr Squash had used this portal to visit Hopeless on several occasions previously, and had cultivated no great love for the island. He especially disliked its perpetual fog and lamentable lack of anything resembling a primal forest. He had, however, developed something of an affection for Winston, and felt duty-bound to protect the lad. Unlike most others (not including Reggie Upton, who had long ago lost his sense of smell) he had no problem with the all-pervading reek of the Night-Soil Man.

 (This may be a good point to speak about the species to which Mr Squash belongs. From Siberia to Australia, via Asia and North America, tales are told of huge, hair-covered man-like creatures. Depending upon the location, they may be known as Sasquatch, Bigfoot, Skunk Ape, Yeti, Abominable Snowman, Elmasti, Mansi, Yowie, Almas… the list goes on. While many deny their very existence, there are others who insist that they have crossed paths with them, for good or ill. The one common trait linking all of these cryptids, as they may be described, is their elusiveness. They leave few traces, and seem to have the ability to disappear at will. In view of this, I can only assume that they all share Mr Squash’s gift for being able to swiftly dive into hidden portals and transport themselves to some distant spot.)

 Meanwhile, back in the tale… within a day or two of returning to Hopeless, Maine, Winston fell back into his old routine of sleeping during the day, and traversing the island at night to service the privies, thunder-boxes and, occasionally, cesspools, of an often less than grateful public. To all intents and purposes, little had changed in his life, except this creepy feeling of being constantly observed. It was only when he visited Ghastly Green, and the hermit, Neville Moore, did he have any clue as to who or what might be watching him.

Neville tended to keep late hours, mainly because his pet raven, Lenore, refused to come in before midnight, and spent her time gently rapping, rapping at his chamber door; only that, and nothing more.

“Good evening, Winston,” called Neville, a dozen yards away and safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man. He was standing on his porch, which, as porches go, was grander than most, its fluted columns lending the hermit’s cottage a look that would not disgrace a mausoleum. The overall effect was somewhat spoiled, however, by the many unsightly streaks of raven guano, but no one was going to mention that to Lenore.

 Winston waved back in greeting.

“I see that you have Mr Squash helping you these days,” shouted Neville. “It must be nice to have some company.”

“Mister who? Sorry I don’t understand…”

“Mr Squash. I haven’t seen him about for a year or two. It’s good to have him back.”

Winston was nonplussed. He had no idea as to what, or whom, Neville was referring.

The hermit, who rarely spoke more than he needed to, retired indoors, Lenore flapping noisily after him, fiercely intent on reaching the bust of Pallas, where she frequently liked to perch.

 Gathering all of his courage, Winston turned and spoke quietly into the dark, foggy stillness of the night.

“Will you come out to where I can see you, please, whoever you are?”

There was a rustling in the darkness, and Winston froze, suddenly confronted by nine feet and eight hundred pounds of hair and muscle.

For a long moment the night was wreathed in utter silence, then Winston said,

“I saw you… you were in my dream the other day.”

“That was not a dream,” said Mr Squash. His voice was as deep and dark as you might expect.

“You can speak!” exclaimed Winston in surprise.

“Of course I can speak,” said Mr Squash, sounding slightly offended. “What do you think I am, a sock-puppet?”

“No… no of course not,” stammered Winston.

“That’s alright, then,” said Mr Squash, amiably. “Come on, let’s get these privies emptied, and then you can fill me in with everything that’s been happening on the island since I was last here. Is Durosimi O’Stoat still alive?”

Winston’s heart dropped. If Mr Squash was a friend of Durosimi, that could not be good.

“Yes… well he was last week,” he said cautiously.

Mr Squash sighed.

“That’s a shame,” he said. “Still, you can’t have everything.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Mr Squash

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Having secretly followed Durosimi O’Stoat into the Underland, Winston Oldspot, Hopeless Maine’s newest Night-Soil Man, found himself in the mysterious Crystal Cave. While Durosimi had mastered some of the secrets of the cave, and could use it as a portal to Elizabethan England, Winston had no such skill, and was, instead, deposited onto a seemingly never ending woodland path. Eventually he came upon a sign informing him that he was walking along something called the Appalachian Trail, and heading for Mount Katahadin, in Maine. This, at least, was good news. Winston knew that he lived on an island in the state of Maine, and reasoned to himself that, in that case, he could not be too far away from Hopeless.

How wrong could he be? The Night-Soil Man had been walking for hours, without food or water. What he had hoped would be a short stroll home had become a gruelling, endless torment. Night had fallen and Winston felt afraid, vulnerable, and – more than anything else – exhausted. He dragged himself into a natural shelf scooped out beneath some tree roots, and fell into a deep, bone-weary, sleep.

Mr Squash had been patrolling parts of the Appalachian Trail pretty much since the very first sections were opened, back in nineteen twenty-three. He had, over the years, walked its entire length at least a hundred times, he reckoned. During that time he had made it his business to look out for the welfare of the trail’s many hikers, and keep them safe from bears, cougars and anything else that might threaten them. Not that everyone was grateful, but that didn’t stop Mr Squash. He had learned that he could be anonymous, keep back in the trees, and still help the folks who walked along the trail. Not all were hikers, though. There were some who came out here to do no more than whoop, bang sticks on the trunks of trees and generally try to raise Cain. Sometimes he had the distinct feeling that they were making all that fuss just to grab his attention. Heck, one or two fools had even been known to pour some sort of white muck into his footprints. Much as he was happy to help anyone, he wasn’t in the business of making friends with them. No sir! He had seen the sort of mess that friendships like that can make too many times.

It was the stink that first grabbed his attention. It reminded Mr Squash of some of the less thoughtful hikers who left their scat uncovered too close to the trail. It was a smell which was pretty much like that, but a hundred times stronger. Not that it bothered him. Smells – natural smells, at any rate – were a fact of life. Why, he had even heard himself described as being smelly. That was rubbish, of course, but this fellow sleeping under the tree roots was more than a little ripe.

I ought to mention that Mr Squash was fully nine feet tall and covered in thick, chestnut-brown hair. His face was neither human, nor ape, but somewhere in between. You could understand why his appearance might cause fear, but it is never wise to judge by outward appearances. Mr Squash had hidden abilities. When he put a huge, leathery hand on Winston’s brow, the young Night-Soil Man’s history was revealed to Mr Squash as easily as if it had been in a book (in fact, as Mr Squash was somewhat less than literate, Winston’s life, revealed in book-form, would have remained a total mystery to him). The Sasquatch, Skunk Ape, Bigfoot, call him what you will (but always Mr Squash to his face, of course) hefted the sleeping Winston into his arms as easily as if he were a feather, and carried him away from the trail to a place where two big old trees had fallen into each other’s branches, like reunited lovers. Their trunks formed an archway, through which Mr Squash carried Winston, and immediately disappeared.

The Night-Soil Man yawned, stretched and lay, for a few moments, with his eyes closed. The soft earth of the cave was beneath him, and he realised, with some relief, that he must have nodded off to sleep when the storm was raging outside. He recalled how he had been plunged into some very strange dreams; dreams that were now quickly fading. With a sigh, he picked up his bucket, secured the lid, and made his way to the cleft in the rocks, which had led him into the cavern. It was still not daylight outside, so he couldn’t have been there for too long.

Mr Squash had been around for too many years not to know where the secret portals lay. How many times had he wandered into a cave, or through some other natural gateway, to find himself far away from his intended destination? This morning, however, he was exactly where he needed to be, looking out onto the island of Hopeless, Maine. He had visited the place a few times before and, quite honestly, was not too fond of it. There were not enough trees here for his liking. But it seemed to be the place where the stinky kid called home, though. Standing in deep shadow he watched Winston make his way along the headland. He felt almost fatherly to the boy. Maybe he would stick around for a while and keep an eye out for him. He knew how hazardous the island could be. But not hazardous for him, of course. Nothing much ever troubled Mr Squash.

Author’s note: As you may know, the Appalachian Trail is about two thousand two hundred miles long. It runs from Georgia to Maine, passing through no less than fourteen states.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Way Through the Woods

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While sheltering from a storm, Winston Oldspot, Hopeless Maine’s new Night-Soil Man, had been surprised to see the sorcerer, Durosimi O’Stoat, appear at the entrance to the cave in which he had sought refuge. Intent on his mission, Durosimi, with his lantern held aloft, hurried upon his way, disappearing into the darkness. It was obvious from the confident manner in which he moved that the sorcerer had trodden these pathways many times before.

His curiosity whetted, Winston decided to follow. While staying well back, he made sure to keep the glim of the lantern in view, until eventually finding himself at the mouth of the mysterious Crystal Cave. Regular readers will be aware that the Crystal Cave is strange and liminal, providing a portal to anywhere that it wishes to send you in time and space. Winston was totally ignorant of this. Durosimi, on the other hand, had mastered many of its secrets. His very first visit had deposited him in the study of the Elizabethan alchemist, Doctor John Dee. Fortunately, Dee had been in Poland at the time with his friend and associate, Edward Kelley, leaving Durosimi free to peruse the Doctor’s library and notebooks to his heart’s content. It was there that Durosimi had learned the secrets of the Crystal Cave, and the means by which he could control when and where it conveyed him. Winston had no such advantage, however, and was destined to be deposited wherever and whenever the cave’s capricious nature took him.

The eerie luminosity of tens of thousands of crystals had drawn Winston, moth-like, into the cave. Once inside, however, the light became subdued, and he suddenly found himself standing upon a well defined trackway, deep within a forest. He turned, and was relieved to see that the mouth of the cave was still visible, just a few yards away. It resembled a dark, egg-shaped patch, somehow stitched incongruously upon a tapestry of tall trees. Suddenly, his relief turned to dismay as the egg-shaped patch diminished, until all that remained was little more than an orb, the size of a tennis ball. He watched it hanging in the air for a moment, until, with a brief crackle of crystal light, the orb flared into nothingness.

Winston felt suddenly alone. He had no idea where he was, or what to do. He took a deep breath and persuaded himself not to panic, reasoning that the path upon which he was standing must eventually lead to somewhere, and Hopeless was only an island, after all. Home could not be too far away… could it? It felt to Winston that he had walked for miles. The daylight was fading and there seemed to be no end to the path through the forest. It was then that he heard voices. For a moment his heart leapt; here was rescue at last. Then he realised that, because of his particular odour, the noxious reek that has been the trademark of every Night-Soil Man who has ever lived, that it would be unlikely that anyone could bear to be within a dozen yards of him. Maybe it would be a better plan to disappear into the trees and follow whoever was coming from a discreet distance.

From a vantage point upwind of the path, Winston spied upon the two walkers. The boy and the girl looked to be around his own age, or possibly a year or two older. To the Night-Soil Man’s eyes, everything about the pair was outlandish. For a start, each carried an unfeasibly large pack on their back. It made him think wistfully of his lidded night-soil bucket, abandoned in the cave when he first stopped for shelter. Their jackets were shiny, and brightly coloured, but strangest of all, both wore short trousers. As far as he knew, no one on Hopeless would be likely to wear short trousers, certainly not that short, anyway. It would not be sensible, given the perpetual foggy weather… and then Winston’s world came crashing down. Where was the fog, the ribbons of mist? He had never known a day go by without seeing mist of some description.

For the first time that day he realised that he had been walking under a canopy of sun-dappled leaves, and not a wisp of fog in sight? Where was this place? By now the two hikers had gone, apparently walking back towards wherever it was that Winston had started his journey. They were a strange couple, to be sure, but they must have come from some sort of habitation. He scrambled back on to the pathway, and carried on heading, he guessed, in a vaguely north-easterly direction. After little more than ten minutes hope flared in his heart. He could see a signpost in the distance. Things, at last, were looking up.

Winston stared up at the signpost with confusion written all over his face. The pole itself was topped by diamond shaped board, with wooden eaves to keep the rain off. It reminded Winston of a birdhouse. On the board a thick black arrow pointed upwards, and encircling the arrow were the words ‘APPALACHIAN TRAIL – MAINE TO GEORGIA’. Immediately beneath the sign was a finger post proclaiming ‘1,090.5 Springer Mt’, followed by a large letter S. Beneath that was another finger post. An equally large N was followed by the legend ‘Mt Katahdin 1,090.5.’

Winston breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that he lived in the State of Maine, and there it was, marked on the signpost. General geography had never been on the curriculum at the Pallid Rock Orphanage, mainly because anywhere beyond the rocky shores of Hopeless was a mystery to most of the islanders, However, Winston had always prided himself upon his knowledge of mathematics and measurements. He knew that a mile consisted of five thousand two hundred and eighty feet, or one thousand seven hundred and sixty yards. If he was only just over a thousand yards from that mountain in Maine, why, he would be home within the hour. He strode into the dimming of the day with renewed hope and a light heart.

To be continued…