“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.
