(Cosplay by Tracie Tink Voice, costume by Bronte Jade Voice, text by Nimue)
Usually, jellyfish women can be found in the sea. They favour shallow pools that are neither dried out by low tides nor entirely swamped by high ones. They also like sheltered coves – the sort that are ideal for launching small fishing boats.
It is therefore rather unsettling to have a sighting of one in the woods. Is this a new development for jellyfish women, or have they aways been able to get out of the sea at will? We’ve all seen the occasional migrations of lobsters between the woods and the shore, and we know that tentacles get everywhere, but there has been some comfort in thinking that mostly what lives in the sea stays in the sea.
“Ah! Good old Hopeless fog. By Jove, you cannot imagine just how much I’ve missed it.”
Reggie Upton inhaled the damp morning air with the brisk appreciation of someone contemplating exercise in an expensive Swiss health resort.
“We were gone for less than a day,” Philomena Bucket commented drily. “And it was your idea to go looking for sunshine, after all.”
“I won’t be doing that again in a hurry,” said Reggie.
Their brief sojourn in Tudor London, courtesy of Durosimi O’Stoat’s passage through the Underland, had seen Reggie being bundled into a priest-hole to avoid being burned as a heretic. All in all, the trip had been less than successful; it had, however, apparently cured him of any desire to be anywhere other than on the island of Hopeless, Maine, which he now considered to be his home.
“I must say, the London of the sixteenth century was a bit of a disappointment,” added Reggie. “All that filth and squalor! Not to mention having to make sure that one was batting for the right religion. So much for Merrie England!”
Drury, the skeletal dog, wandered in and sniffed the air, hoping that they had brought some of those interesting smells back with them. Disappointed, he shook himself noisily and settled into his favourite corner spot with a clatter.
“Don’t get too comfortable old chap,” said Reggie, “I was hoping that you might accompany me in a spot of beachcombing today.”
Always ready for an adventure, Drury leapt back up, wagging his bony tail happily.
“It will be good to be able to wander around unmolested, free to belong to any religion, or none, and blaspheme without fear or favour.”
Philomena rolled her eyes.
“He’s not going to let this go,” she thought to herself.
“Well, just make sure that Father Stamage doesn’t hear you,” she said. “If you start blaspheming in front of him, he won’t be too happy.”
“I’ll keep away from whichever bit of The Squid he’s currently haunting,” promised Reggie. “After all, I wouldn’t want to upset our resident holy ghost.”
As if to test the sincerity of Reggie’s newly-found fondness for all things fog related, the visibility along the beach that morning was down to just a few yards. The heavy mist rolling in from the sea blanketed everything, muting colours and sounds. Even the waves, relentlessly pounding the rocks, seemed quieter than usual. Reggie could not help but think that the atmosphere was decidedly eerie, even by Hopeless standards, which began to bother him a little. Drury, on the other hand, was completely unfazed, and trotted in front with his tail held high, a bone-white beacon for his companion to follow.
Under the circumstances, it was hardly surprising that Drury failed to see the upturned boat. He clattered awkwardly over its hull, to descend on the other side into an unseemly pile of bones and festooned in seaweed.
“Dashed bad luck, old chap,” said Reggie, quietly thankful that Drury had been the one leading the way.
The osseous hound clambered to his feet and shook himself vigorously, broadcasting bits of seaweed everywhere. He then proceeded to sniff the boat.
“Have you found something, my friend,” asked Reggie, as the dog began to dig furiously in the sand.
“They have been gone an awfully long time,” said Philomena to her husband, Rhys. “The mood Reggie was in this morning could get him into trouble in some places.”
“Aren’t they beachcombing? I can’t imagine them running into difficulties doing that,” replied Rhys, “especially as Drury is with him. I don’t mind taking a stroll along the beach, though, if it would make you feel happier.”
“Let’s go together,” said Philomena, grabbing his arm. “It will be just like when we were courting.”
*
“I am jolly glad to see you two,” said Reggie as Philomena and Rhys emerged through the mist. “Drury seems convinced that there is someone or something trapped under this boat, but I am dashed if I can turn it over on my own.”
Rhys grinned. His previous role as Night-Soil Man had bestowed muscles upon him that were the envy of every young man on the island. It was the work of seconds for him to turn the boat over, and expose whatever it had been concealing.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie.
The child lying on the sand was no more than two or three years old. She was still alive, but breathing shallowly.
Philomena could not take her eyes away from the girl, whose hair was long and matted, but so fair as to be almost white in colour, as was her skin.
“Albino,” she whispered to herself.
“The poor child,” said Reggie. “We must get her to the orphanage. Miss Calder will know what to do.”
“No,” said Philomena, urgently. She gave Rhys a long and lingering look.
“Can we?” she mouthed, soundlessly.
Rhys wiped an uncharacteristic tear from the corner of his eye.
“She looks enough like you to be your daughter,” he said, a tremor in his voice.
Philomena knelt down and scooped the girl into her arms.
“Our daughter,” she corrected him. “And it’s time to take her home.”
(Image kindly donated by Captain Kuppa T, text by Keith Errington)
Standing by the railing of the Airship Lady Grey, Captain Horatio KuppaT surveyed the skies. It was a beautiful clear day, and he could see from the spires of Oxford right across the Cotswolds. After a few moments, he turned and appraised his craft. It wasn’t a large airship by any means, but in the Captain’s mind, it was a perfectly formed vessel crewed with loyal shipmates. He scanned the deck, checking that everything was suitably airship-shape.
As he was doing so, his first mate, Stoker Sam, popped his head up from below and joined the Captain, who then tutted loudly.
“Captain?” queried Sam, who could see the Captain was not happy.
“Your balls, man!” The Captain said.
“What?” Sam was taken aback and immediately checked his trousers.
“Stow your balls.” The Captain ordered.
“I… err…”
“Your cannonballs, man. They are about to become loose. We can’t have your balls all over the deck – what would Lady Mojo say!”
“Aye, aye, Captain – I’ll get on it straight away.” And Sam went to attend to the task.
As if summoned by the mention of her name, Lady Mojo sauntered across the deck. As always, she was attired in a most colourful and splendid outfit. She exuded grace and charm.
“Good Morning, Captain.” She said. “Everything okay!”
“Oh, Yes. Just talking to Sam about his balls.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh,” the Captain sighed. “Look, err… Never mind. “Are you ready for it?”
“What?” Lady Mojo looked shocked.
“Are you ready for the experiment?”
“I think three people is enough, Captain. I don’t think I could handle one more. Although that waiter the other day was very fit…”
“I’m not talking about the band, Lady Mojo.”
“Neither was I, to be fair.” Countered Lady Mojo, smiling wistfully.
“Are you ready to try the new drive? The experimental airship drive?”
“Oh, yes, Captain – all ready”, replied Lady Mojo, composing herself. “It’s all very exciting, isn’t it?”
Sam had returned from the minor task and was waiting expectantly.
“Stoker Sam, fire up the prototype Oolong drive!” The captain commanded.
It was only a few days ago that the experimental displacement drive had been installed amidships under the watchful eye of the maker, Herr Doktor. The drive was based on an idea dreamed up by Professor Elemental. The Captain was honoured that these two titans of the steampunk world had chosen his airship to test it out. Although, at the back of his mind, he did rather wonder why they didn’t test it themselves. Still, they seemed awfully keen that someone else should have the honour of its maiden voyage, which was very humble of them.
Sam disappeared behind the machinery and a faint rumble issued from the drive.
“Brace yourself!” Warned the Captain.
“We are not doing that again!” said Lady Mojo sternly.
The Captain was about to point out he was only referring to the drive when the whole ship shimmered… no… actually… everything shimmered. The airship, the landscape below them, the clouds and themselves. There was a whoosh, followed by a sucking noise, and then their ears popped, and they appeared to be somewhere else. The blue skies had gone to be replaced by a grey, slightly foggy sky. In between wisps of fog, they could see land below, but it certainly wasn’t England. It was dark and, somehow, menacing.
There was a slight grinding noise as the Captain announced, “It worked! It bally worked!
“Ahem.” Said Sam, who had just run up to the Captain and was now standing to attention.
“We’ve been transported somewhere else!” Said the Captain excitedly. “Well, I must admit I had my doubts, but those two scallywags have actually done it! Total displacement!”
“CAPTAIN!” Sam shouted as the grinding stopped, and the airship lurched slightly.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Sam.” The Captain chided, “Can’t you see this is a significant moment? We are the first people to be displaced!”
“There’s a slight problem…” said Sam.
“Slight?” Asked the Captain.
“Minor, really.”
“How minor?
“The sort of crashing into the ground, minor,” replied Sam.
“Ah… WHAT?”
“Well, the motors that keep the airship moving have failed – and for some reason, the balloon is not keeping us in the air. We are drifting…
“Aha…”
“And slowly descending.”
“I see. Well, can we use the Oolong drive again? Asked the Captain.
“Not without the motors – they power the Oolong drive too.”
“Oh, cannonballs!” Exclaimed the Captain loudly. “Hmm. Well, in that case, there is only one thing for it.”
“What’s that?” asked Sam.
“I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
“Excellent thinking, Horatio!” affirmed Lady Mojo.
A few minutes later, sipping his tea, the Captain could see they were indeed sinking.
“So where are we, Sam?” Asked the Captain.
“We appear to be above an island, but not one that’s on any map. There seems to be nothing but spikey vegetation directly below us. We are going down. It’s hopeless.”
“Ah. I’ve been thinking.” The Captain stated.
“Is that wise?” Asked Lady Mojo.
Ignoring her gentle chide, the Captain continued, “If we were lighter, we might go up. Which would buy us some time.”
“Yes, Captain.” Agreed Sam.
“Right, start tossing Sam.” Ordered the Captain.
“What? Here? Now?” Sam looked aghast.
Dear Lord, thought the Captain, why did his crew not understand simple English? “Jettison all unessential supplies.”
“Aye, aye!” Sam looked relieved.
Sam did as he was told. Minutes later, it was clear that tossing several crates of supplies overboard had only slowed their descent.
“It’s not enough, Captain!” Sam pointed out.
“I can see that. Quick, find something else we can lose. What’s left?”
“Well, there is one thing…”
“Do it, man! This is life and death here!”
“Are you sure, Captain?”
“Look, just get on with it, will you – no time to waste!”
More crates were tossed overboard. They were perilously close to the ground now. But the airship had finally stopped descending.
“Not sure how long it will last without fixing the motors. If only we could fix them, we could inflate the balloon and get moving again.” Explained Stoker Sam.
“Right, well, yes. I think more tea is called for, don’t you, Lady Mojo?”
“Certainly Horatio. Tea!” Agreed Lady Mojo.
“Ah…” said Sam in a significant way.
“Ah?” queried the Captain.
“Well, the last thing we dumped…”
“Yes?” said the Captain slowly, drawing out the word.
“Was all our tea,” explained Sam.
“My God, man! Are you serious?”
“Yes”
“Why the bally badger would you toss the tea? We’re not colonials, you know. What were you thinking?”
“But you said it was life and death,” Sam protested.
“Be reasonable, man! Tea IS life and death!” The Captain shuddered. “Dear Lord, the situation is worse than I thought. We are in dire need!”
The Captain struck a heroic pose. He found it helped him think. “Right, what’s wrong with the motors?”
“As far as I can tell, the drive belt was displaced by effects of the Oolong drive”.
“Displaced? Where?”
“I don’t know, Captain, somewhere else.”
“Hmm.” The Captain struck a second, even more heroic pose.
After a few seconds, the Captain asked, “How long is it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. This is getting ridiculous. How long is the drive belt?”
“Oh. It’s only a small one – four or five feet maximum.” Answered Sam.
“Aha!” The Captain exclaimed. “Here, take my scarf; it’s made of Unbelievabum – strong as steel!”
“I knitted it myself!” Lady Mojo added proudly.
Sam shook his head but did as he was told. He disappeared, and for a few minutes, there were muffled sounds of work.
Suddenly, there was a low humming that the Captain and Lady Mojo recognised.
“The engines!” They exclaimed together.
“Yes,” said the Captain, “They do seem to be running again.”
Within minutes, the balloon was reinflating, and the ship began to rise. Sam returned to them with a slightly smug look on his face.
“Fantastic!” He said, smiling. “That ridiculous trick with the scarf worked! Thank Goodness. We can go home now.”
The Captain looked appalled. “Are you insane, man? Somewhere down there is the tea. Our tea! We have to find it, land and get it back!
I love you like spoonwalkers love spoons. But there’s only one of you, so I cannot show my adoration by piling you into heaps and then laying my eggs on you.
I love you like the mist loves the island. Clammy and clinging, wanting to wrap myself around you so entirely that my dampness permeates you, right to the depths of your soul. I want to be the reason you can’t see the sun, the reason you shiver at night. Breathe me in, feel me on your skin. I will never leave you.
I love you the way very small cows love hiding under things where there really speaking isn’t enough room for them in the first place.
I love you like donkeys love being on roofs. Some things don’t have to make sense. It isn’t about physics, or physiognomy. It’s the uncanny clatter of hooves at night when there is no sensible way the hooves could have got to a place of clattering. Love is irrational like this.
I do not love you in the way that tentacles love everything. Tentacles are indiscriminate, and will give their attention and affection to absolutely anything. It means nothing, to have the emotional promiscuity of a tentacle. To sneak into everything, as tentacles like to do, writhing shamelessly for anyone to see them. Not like that, then. My love is more subtle and particular, although given half the chance, I would certainly slide, tentacle-like across your face in the darkness. But only your face, no one else’s would do.
(Image and text entirely the responsibility of Nimue Brown.)
The story so far… Reggie Upton, having endured the perpetual fog of Hopeless, Maine, for over a year, one day decided that he desperately needed to see some sunshine. With the aid of a surprisingly accommodating Durosimi O’Stoat, he and Philomena Bucket ventured through the Underland to Doctor John Dee’s study in Mortlake, then out into the heart of Elizabethan London. To their dismay, the skies over the smoky city were little clearer than those of Hopeless. Adding to their discomfort, the air was foul and the gutters ran with filth.
Before the two were able to make their way back to the Underland, Reggie was mistaken for a distant ancestor, Sir Walter Upton. It appeared that Sir Walter was a notorious heretic, wanted by the authorities for sheltering priests, a crime punishable by an unpleasantly fiery death. While it had been fortunate that the person accosting Reggie was one of Sir Walter’s fellow conspirators, in the haste to get him off the street, he and Philomena had become separated.
If Philomena was surprised to see the ghost of Granny Bucket flickering in the shadows, she didn’t allow herself to show it.
“I don’t suppose you have any idea what I’m supposed to do now, by any chance?” asked Philomena.
“You know me,” said Granny, breezily. “I’m full of good ideas. Here’s one; why don’t you just go back the way you came?”
“Back to Mortlake, and leave Reggie to his fate? I’m not going to do that!”
“Well, if you insist on making your life difficult, be my guest,” sighed Granny, then paused. “Oh, I suppose that you had better come with me,” she added, huffily.
Philomena smiled inwardly. This was typical of one of Granny’s games. She had obviously followed them, and was quite aware that her granddaughter would never leave her friend high and dry.
Without another word the ghost weaved her way through the crowd, passing through people and obstacles as if they did not exist, but always staying within Philomena’s line of vision. Only two citizens in that heaving throng appeared to even notice that Granny was there.
“They must have ‘the sight’,“ thought Philomena. “That’s a dangerous gift to possess in these times.”
A dangerous gift indeed, but had she known it, at that moment Philomena was being led into the very core of danger.
While Philomena was busily pursuing the ghost of Granny Bucket through a maze of city streets, Reggie Upton’s would-be rescuer had garnered the aid of two accomplices. Protesting to deaf ears, Reggie found himself being roughly bundled into a mule-cart and covered with a pile of empty sacks which, in the very recent past, had been used for the transportation of some anonymous, but less than fragrant cargo.
“Don’t you worry, Sir Walter,” said the somewhat less-than-confident voice of someone obviously crossing their fingers. “We’ll get you out of here soon enough.”
Reggie found little comfort in this. The only place where he wanted to be at that moment was back in the safety of The Squid and Teapot.
Philomena had walked for miles and was not at all happy that Granny Bucket had decided to disappear without a word of explanation. Looking about her, the awful realisation dawned that she was back in Mortlake, not far from Doctor Dee’s house. For the first time in her life she felt betrayed by her grandmother. Her dear friend Reggie was stranded somewhere in Elizabethan London, and Granny had deserted him totally. Philomena felt wretched.
She was suddenly startled by the sound of heavy bolts being drawn back. It was only upon turning to discover the source of the noise that she realised that she was standing in front of the grandest house in Mortlake – at least, it had been grand at one time; now she sensed sad neglect oozing out of every brick. A door opened in what might once have been the porter’s lodge, revealing the slender form of a girl, barely into her teens.
“Are you Mistress Bucket?”
Philomena swallowed hard. This was bizarre.
“I suppose I am,” she said warily. “Who is asking?”
The girl said nothing, but beckoned her to follow.
The two made their way through a gateway that showed all the signs of having once sported a portcullis, then through an open courtyard and into the body of the house. Philomena did not know whether to feel comforted or threatened that there seemed to be no one in this huge, decaying building but her and the girl.
They climbed a flight of stairs which brought them to a gallery. Half way along its length the girl stopped, wordlessly pushed open a heavy door, and ushered Philomena into a room where every wall, from floor to ceiling, was lined with books.
“Welcome to my library, Mistress Bucket.”
Philomena turned abruptly at the sound of the man’s voice.
He was a finely dressed, typical Elizabethan gentleman, casually sitting in the corner and eating an apple, which he sliced with a silver knife.
“You must be Mistress Bucket, I assume?”
Philomena looked nervously at the knife, and nodded.
As if on a predetermined cue the girl quietly left the room, closing the library door behind her.
“Excellent,” said the stranger, laying the apple – but not the knife – upon a small side-table.
“Welcome to Mortlake Manor – or what is left of it.”
Then, to Philomena’s surprise, he began to pull the books from one the shelves, until the whole of the panelled wall behind it was exposed.
“You realise that you have now gone beyond the point of no return?” he said, fingering the blade, which suddenly looked worryingly lethal.
Philomena had no idea what he meant by this, but nodded in agreement. She had no wish to upset her host.
It was then that the strangest thing happened. One of the wall panels flipped up, and the familiar face of Reggie Upton poked through the gap.
“My dear Philomena,“ he beamed, “what an absolute pleasure to see you at last. You have met Father Anthony, I see.”
“Father Anthony?” she said, regarding the knife-wielding dandy standing in front of her.
“I can hardly wear my priestly garments, can I?” explained Father Anthony. “Any hint of popery is a death-warrant these days.”
He paused, then added, “And yes, I would have killed you if necessary. Mortlake Manor is too valuable a resource to lose to betrayal.”
“How did you know I would be there?” asked Philomena, as she and Reggie made their way along the road to Doctor Dee’s study and the Underland.
“It was Granny Bucket. ” said Reggie. “She followed the mule-cart which took me to Mortlake Manor. That priests-hole in which they hid me was cramped, I can tell you!”
“Oh, that woman!” fumed Philomena. “Why couldn’t she just have told me where you were?”
“That’s ancestors for you,” said Reggie. “Mine are as bad. If it hadn’t been for dear old Sir Walter Upton, that might have been a fairly tolerable excursion.”
“We’ll give Tudor England a wide berth in future,” said Philomena. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Reggie. “I can’t wait to get back to The Squid and have a stiff drink.”
Author”s note:
Mortlake Manor started life as one of the palaces of the Archbishops of Canterbury, pre-dating the Norman Conquest of 1066, and was visited over the following five hundred years by a multitude of English kings. In 1536 Henry V111 gifted the manor to his first minister, Sir Thomas Cromwell, who had been newly elevated to the peerage as 1st Baron Cromwell of Wimbledon, as a reward for his part in the downfall of Anne Boleyn. Cromwell wasted no time in subjecting the manor to an enormous building programme. By 1540, however, he had fallen out of favour and had his come-uppance when Henry had him executed for treason.
At the time of our tale, Mortlake Manor was in a dismal state of disrepair, with bits of it being spirited away to build and furnish other residences. By the early years of the eighteenth century the building had been pulled down completely.
This week, Dr Abbey shared this rather wonderful statement over on Facebook, and I didn’t want anyone to miss it. It’s very encouraging news. I’ve edited out some of the more personal content from the original post.
“Hello my true friends
I decided to get back to academic area and creative field. Do you see some of my drawings? They are mainly concept art of “Hopeless Mirage”, written by Nimue Brown the marvelous UK writer.
Tom Brown encourages me and he guides me to fantasy graphic. Also he showed me how to draw. I respect him and owe him so much.
Their work”Hopeless, Main ” is great masterpiece,
My Ph.D. in art and three master degree should be useful to explain how my client and friends are wonderful.
Looking up at the sky, stepping on the road.
I am always your wizard.
Expect my magic.
Doc M Aby rises again and again.
Mirage is a project that I wrote based on Abbey’s ideas – I’ve been hoping for a long time that he would illustrate the story, so this is exciting progress. More updates when we have them.
Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, or simply Reggie Upton, as he prefers to be known, was desperate to once more see some sunshine. He had lived for more than a year on the island of Hopeless, Maine, and during that period had cheerfully endured almost all of its various privations. The only proverbial fly in his equally proverbial ointment was the eternal fog that envelops the island, a fog that sullenly insists on veiling any hint of sunlight that dares to struggle through the clouds. Having spent much of his military career soldiering in Africa and India, locations not generally known for permanently overcast skies, a desire for an occasional glimpse of the Eye of Heaven, as the bard had so ably expressed it, is not wholly unreasonable.
As you may have discerned from earlier tales, not far beneath the old warrior’s tweedy exterior surged the spirit of derring-do that had seen him through a multitude of conflicts, each apparently vital to the continuation of the British Empire. While this might be viewed as an admirable trait, it worried his friend, Philomena Bucket, the landlady of The Squid and Teapot. She was aware that Reggie was more than likely to attempt an escape from the island, an attempt which would almost certainly prove to be fatal. Philomena decided that rather than risk him dashing off on some madcap adventure, if he wanted another look at pure, unsullied sunlight, she would arrange it for him,
This is how, with the unlikely assistance of Durosimi O’Stoat, the pair found themselves standing in Doctor John Dee’s study, sometime in the mid fifteen-eighties, when the old alchemist was safely away in Poland. Reggie was adorned in the finery of an Elizabethan gentleman, while Philomena, posing as his servant, found that her daily work-wear was unremarkable enough to raise no Tudor eyebrows.
John Dee’s home was in Mortlake, a village some seven miles from the centre of London.
If Reggie or Philomena had entertained a vision of the idyllic ‘Merrie England’ of times past, this was soon dispelled as soon as they stepped into the street.
“They really need a Night-Soil Man around here,” said Philomena.
“No m’dear,” said Reggie, “they need a battalion of them. I had no idea London was quite so unhygenic in Tudor times.”
“Oh, it gets a lot worse than this,” said Philomena, lifting the hem of her long skirt to avoid it trailing in the filth that littered the cobbled streets. “But at least you can see the sun.”
“By Jove, so I can,” said Reggie. “It’s a good job that we’re this far away from the city, though. From here the dashed place looks as bad as Hopeless.”
A smoky pall hung over the huddle of buildings in the distance.
“So that is Tudor London,” he added. “Fascinating. Despite all, it would be a pity not to take a look while we’re here.”
The carrier looked askance at the fine gentleman and his pallid, pretty, servant, uncomprehending why they should want to ride on his humble cart into the heart of London. However, whatever they were up to, a groat was a groat; it was none of his business.
If the streets of Mortlake were dirty, they were nothing compared to the squalor of the city centre. Livestock of all varieties were being herded along the streets, leaving a trail of filth behind them, while the gutters ran with the detritus issuing from the huddle of shops and homes. The stench was atrocious.
“I think I’ve seen – and smelt – more than enough,” said Reggie. “In fact I…”
He was cut short when a heavy hand grasped his shoulder and spun him unceremoniously around.
“Upton! I thought it was you. By God’s teeth, you have some nerve coming into London.”
The speaker was a thick-set, bearded man with glittering eyes.
“But I… “ began Reggie, but before he could say any more, the newcomer grabbed his arm and bundled him roughly through a doorway. Things were happening very suddenly and Philomena could barely keep up.
The door closed behind them and the bearded man’s eyes flashed in the gloom.
“Whatever possessed you to come into the city?” he rasped. “You have put us all into danger. I’ll try to get you to safety, or we’ll be feeding the flames before tomorrow dawns.”
For possibly the first time in his life, Reggie was rendered speechless. This chap seemed to know his name. It was then that he recalled his first encounter with the ghost of Lady Margaret D’Avening. At the time he had been relieving himself in the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot.
“What are you doing here, Uncle Henry?” she had asked.
It turned out that Reggie was a dead-ringer for one of Lady Margaret’s beloved relatives, a cavalier who had perished in the English Civil War. It seemed obvious that the Upton side of the family had managed to stamp an identical face upon various, selected, sons throughout the ages .
“Blasted ancestors,” Reggie thought to himself.
Taking his silence to be obstinacy, the stranger shook him by the shoulders.
“God’s teeth, Sir Walter, you know what fate befalls a heretic, especially one who has sheltered a priest.”
Although the stranger seemed to be more than a little obsessed with the deity’s dentistry, his use of the word ‘heretic’ struck home like a thunderbolt.
Reggie’s forebears had been devout Catholics, doggedly sticking to their faith throughout the turbulent years of persecution. This chap, Sir Walter Upton, with whom Reggie was being mistaken, was obviously into the thing up to his eyeballs. All in all, this suggested that now would be an excellent time to get back to Hopeless.
Reggie turned to look at Philomena. She would know what to do, but Philomena was nowhere to be seen.
Should I get in the sea? If you have asked yourself this question recently please read the helpful answers below.
There are dead people in the sea. Some of them are people who got into the sea of their own free will. You might not enjoy being close to them. You really won’t enjoy becoming one of them.
Even if the air is unusually warm and you’ve seen the sun, the sea will be very cold. Cold like the merciless depths of space. Cold like the uncaring madness of elder gods. Unless you in fact are an elder god, the odds are it will not be a ‘refreshing dip’.
Can you swim? If the answer is no, then getting in the sea is just going to kill you. We have tides, currents, pointy rocks and angry sea life. You are soft and squishy and easy to break.
If you can swim, you probably learned somewhere else where the sea is not so hostile. Our sea is full of beings who can swim faster than you and who are also hungry.
We’ve got mermaids. They can swim faster than you, and they are always hungry. We’ve also got jellyfish women who might not be fast, but are subtle and deadly. There are quite a few sea monsters out there, or possibly just the one sea monster with considerable diversity of body parts. Best not to try and establish the truth on that score.
I don’t care who told you that cold water swimming brings many health benefits. They weren’t from round here, clearly.
Being an island with limited resources and somewhat lacking in technology, there were few entertainment options available to the long-suffering islanders of Hopeless, Maine. Apart from drinking in the pub, watching the sea, and spying on the neighbours, the main entertainment was organised by the community. There were many events, festivals and revels on offer throughout the year, from the inane Snipeworm Watch Week, as an example, to the erudite, such as The Philosophy of Near-death Experiences, held on the first Tuesday of the month. Most of these were barely attended and often short-lived. However, there was a very popular type of diversion that had been running for years and was always well-attended by residents. These were the monthly Dance & Social evenings.
Clem Soulby had been living on the island for many years, having been shipwrecked here back in his teens. He had always been a lonely man, kept himself to himself and was, therefore, somewhat lacking in interpersonal skills. He was, however, reasonably good at business, trading in this and that, buying at a keen price and selling on at a profit. He was known as the ‘Go-to Man,’ if you wanted something, especially something unusual, then Clem could probably get it for you… for a price. Thus, he provided himself with a comfortable income, lived in a good-sized house and wanted for very little in terms of practical needs. However, he had reached that point in his life where his heart was unfulfilled. He had started to yearn for companionship, and as they say in the small ads, maybe more.
He had concluded that the only way forward was to attend a Dance and Social, something he had never contemplated before. In fact, the very thought filled him with dread. He felt he could probably handle the social side of the evenings, but he was heavily handicapped in the other element: dance. He could not dance, never learned, never even tried. He knew it would be quite a challenge. He often tripped over his own shoelaces just crossing the street. But just recently, his eye had been caught by a small card on the town notice board:
FERNANDO, Dance Teacher to the Stars. Learn from the Terpsichorean Master. No previous experience necessary. Reasonable rates.
Clem decided to go visit this Fernando and establish just how reasonable his rates were. But first, he needed to look up a certain word in the dictionary.
Clem had a meeting with the maestro, and they agreed on costs and a ten-week programme of instruction.
“By the end of my tuition, you will dance like a butterfly on ice skates – Perfetto!” Fernando declared.
Fernando rented a small hall in the quiet corner of town. He was said to be Spanish by some, others reckoned Italian, and a few thought he might be Swiss. Franky, it was difficult to tell as his accent wavered wildly, and words came from his lips in a variety of different, slightly mangled ways. He was flamboyant and fierce, certainly a force to be reckoned with. He always carried a cane, which he would stamp on the floor with great gusto when emphasising something important or when chiding a pupil. Occasionally he would use it to point out a recalcitrant limb which had not moved in the correct manner, punctuating his forceful admonishments by poking the offending member.
Clem knuckled down and did his best. Fernando would chide him with helpful comments such as “Pah, you move like a badly wounded moth!” or “You are not the graceful matador, but more like the bull with intestinal trouble!” or “You walk like a three-legged, drunken armadillo!” At one point after Clem had fallen over his own feet, Fernando uncharacteristically muttered, “Blimey, this one’s got two left plates on his pins,” before recovering and saying slightly louder, “You are definitely improving señor, your falling to the floor is more graceful this week”.
Despite his trips and his falls, Clem steadily improved, and by the end of the ten weeks, he felt like he was ready. Fernando agreed, or rather, he felt that no amount of further money could recompense him for the anguish of coaching his toughest-ever pupil to a higher level.
But Clem could actually dance. Fernando’s methodical instruction had paid off. The first week, he had concentrated on Clem’s arms, starting with the left side and moving on to the right the following week. Legs were next, and eventually, they put the whole thing together, and Clem glided back and forth and around and around the dance floor.
They said their goodbyes, and Clem set off home. He was so pleased with himself. Finally, he could go to the dance, not make a spectacle of himself, and maybe, just maybe, garner some romantic interest. His loneliness was about to end.
He found himself humming the tune they had used for practice. He thought about the dancing method; left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg, and found himself dancing down the street. Filled with joy, he started singing the song:
You put your left arm in, your left arm out, In, out, in, out, you shake it all about, You do the hokey cokey and you turn around And that’s what it’s all about!
“I cannot believe,” declared Reggie Upton, “that I have been living on this island for over a year, and we haven’t had a single day without being blanketed in fog of some description.”
“If it’s any consolation,” replied Philomena Bucket, “I’ve been here for five years, and it’s been wall-to-wall fog for me, as well.”
“Well, it just isn’t good enough,” spluttered Reggie. “We’re almost into July, dammit, and there is still no sign of the sun.”
Philomena gave him a meaningful look, and asked, “So, what do you propose we do about it?”
“Do?” said Reggie. “There is nothing we jolly well can do, is there? I’m sure, if there was, Durosimi O’Stoat would have waved his wand, or whatever it is that he does, and sorted something out by now.”
It was unlike Reggie to be so tetchy, but Philomena was aware that he had spent his military career in some of the hottest places on the planet. Since coming to Hopeless, sixteen months earlier, he had not seen the sun, except opaquely through a veil of mist. For Reggie that must have been verging on the intolerable.
“Besides,” he went on, “I am an animal lover; most of all, I like horses. There are none, apparently, on the island. In fact, the only creatures wandering about are aberrations that belong in a freak show or a bad dream.”
The pile of bones that had been snoring quietly in the corner of the room stirred, and a canine skull eased itself out of the osseous heap to glare at the speaker.
“Present company excepted, of course,” added Reggie, hurriedly.
Philomena sighed.
“What you are really saying,” she said, “is that you’re getting fed-up with Hopeless, and pining after civilization.”
“I suppose that you’re right,” admitted Reggie. “It’s not that I dislike living on the island, but there are so many things that I miss – especially sunshine.”
“At least you don’t mind living here,” said Philomena. “That’s more than most can say, even the ones who have been here for all of their lives.”
“If I’m honest, it’s since that Bencombe fellow was swallowed up in that time-vortex shenanigans. It made me acutely aware of what’s happening to all of us; Time is the old enemy, m’dear. It gobbles us up and spits us out.”
“Hmmm… you’ve given me an idea,” said Philomena. “Time might be on our side, after all.”
*
“You want me to do what?” asked Durosimi, incredulity in his voice.
“I want you to take Reggie Upton to Tudor England,” said Philomena. “I know that you have found another path to the Underland… and that you always find yourself ending up in Doctor John Dee’s study.”
Durosimi sighed.
“There is no reason to deny it,” he said. “It is frustrating that on every visit I find myself in the same time-loop. It is always the same few days in the mid fifteen-eighties, when Dee was safely away in Poland, or some such place, with his associate, Edward Kelley.”
There had been a noticeable thawing of relations with Durosimi since he and Philomena had collaborated to rid Hopeless of the time-vortex that had claimed the life of Benjamin Bencombe. Whether Durosimi considered that this was sufficient excuse for him to be asked to take Reggie Upton to the London of Good Queen Bess, however, was another matter.
“So, will you do it?” asked Philomena.
Durosimi fell silent as he considered her request, then he said,
“I don’t think so. If any accident should befall Upton while we’re away, you would lay the blame on me.”
“Then tell me where your path to the Underland is, and I’ll do it myself,” said Philomena. There was noticeable anger in her voice.
“Such a shame you chose to destroy your own pathway there,” smirked Durosimi. “However, I am not a vindictive person. I will show you how to get there; better than that I’ll find some suitable clothing. Upton would stick out like a sore thumb in his tweeds.”
“What am I supposed to wear?” asked Philomena.
“Madam,” replied Durosimi, coldly, “unless you wish to resemble anything other than the peasant you most obviously are, your wardrobe will be more than sufficient.”
“Being a peasant is fine by me,” said Philomena defiantly.
*
“I know I said that I wanted to see the sun,” said Reggie, “but I had no idea at what cost.” He looked down miserably at his trunk hose, the puffed out short satin breeches beloved by Elizabethan gentlemen.
“These are bad enough, but the pink tights are really too much,” he complained.
“You look splendid,” said Philomena, stifling a grin. “You are a nobleman and I am your servant – we look the part, and that is all that matters.”
And strangely, they did.
“Come on, Reggie, chin up,” she said, as they entered the cave leading to the Underland. “You’re going on holiday. Just be careful that you don’t snag your tights.”
