You may recall that the sorcerer, Durosimi O’Stoat, had persuaded Mr Squash to take him through a mystic portal to some distant location. As has been described in the previous tale, Mr Squash was less than happy to transport a frail human through a doorway which, in a less adventurous Health and Safety conscious society, would doubtless have carried a notice, proclaiming in large, angry letters:
‘DANGER – NO ADMITTANCE. HUMAN ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. SASQUATCHES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.’
Durosimi, being Durosimi, had argued that he was no mere mortal. I suspect that Mr Squash might have secretly thought that a trip through a ‘Sasquatch only’ portal would teach him a lesson. As it was, Durosimi found the whole experience to be extremely unpleasant, but managed to survive. He was unconscious when Mr Squash left him to recuperate in a cave, while the Sasquatch wandered off to visit some cousins. It was only when Durosimi felt strong enough to leave the cave did he realise who these relatives were. Even on the island of Hopeless, Maine, everyone had heard of the fearsome Yeti, who happened to live high in the Himalayan Mountains.
An icy blast chilled Durosimi to the bone. He wrapped his long coat around him and shivered uncontrollably.
“Ah, you’re awake at last!”
He turned as quickly as his ravaged frame would allow. Mr Squash was striding cheerfully through the snow, leaving behind him a trail of impressively big footprints (or should that be Bigfoot prints?)
“Have you found your relatives yet?” asked Durosimi.
“Found them? I’ve been living with them for a week,” laughed Mr Squash. “And now, it’s high time we got back to Hopeless.”
Durosimi reeled. A week? That was impossible. Had he been unconscious for all of that time? Besides, he still felt dreadful. He hurt and ached in bits of his body that he didn’t even know he possessed.
“I can’t go back yet,” he protested. “I honestly think that another trip through your portal, at the moment, would kill me.”
“I hate to say I told you so,” said Mr Squash, “but I did warn you… and I really need to get back today. There’s more to being a Sasquatch than rescuing Night-Soil Men and giving free rides to sorcerers.”
“Then you’ll have to go without me,” said Durosimi. “Would your cousins put me up for a few days until you can come back?”
Mr Squash frowned.
“I’m not sure,” he said at last. “And it might be more than a few days. I usually only come to the Himalayas once every ten years, or so. These high altitudes play havoc with my sinuses.”
“Ten years!” exclaimed Durosimi, aghast.
“I’ll do what I can,” said Mr Squash, “Now let me go and talk to my cousins.”
The two made their way through the snow, Mr Squash striding unconcernedly, Durosimi stumbling.
“It’s here that we part company,” said Mr Squash, when they reached a spot that looked worryingly similar to every other location in that hostile terrain.
At first Durosimi thought that he was being abandoned in the mountains. There was nothing to see but huge rocks and endless snow.
“You need to look properly, and you will see them,” said the Sasquatch, in as low a tone as he could muster.
“I am looking!” said Durosimi crossly. “And there is nothing to… Oh!”
They were indistinct at first, but little by little Durosimi could see them.
“Oh! indeed,” said Mr Squash.
The creatures were suddenly all around them, huge, white and shaggy, dwarfing the Sasquatch.
“The Tibetan people refer to my cousins as The Spirits of the Glaciers,” he carried on, “and have revered them for thousands of years.”
“I can see why,” replied Durosimi. It was extremely rare for him to feel awe-struck, but awe-struck he was. We can only put it down to his being weakened by the journey through the portal.
“I will arrange for one of them to take you to a nearby monastery. You will find it more comfortable there.”
Durosimi breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t particularly fancy spending any time alone with these massive creatures, however revered they might be.
Much later, when the moon over Hopeless Maine was, as usual, fighting a losing battle with the fog, Mr Squash met up with Reggie Upton and Winston Oldstone, the Night-Soil Man.
“So you’ve left the old rogue up in the Himalayas,” said Reggie. “It must be tempting not to bring him back.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that. After all, I made a promise of sorts,” said Mr Squash. “Besides, the monks wouldn’t thank me if I lumbered them with Durosimi for the rest of his days.”
“So when do you intend to rescue him?” asked Winston, hefting the lidded bucket onto his back.
“I’ll give it a week,” said Mr Squash. “I imagine that after several days on a diet of nothing but tsampa and butter-tea he’ll be more than ready to come home.”
The three ambled off into the foggy night, chatting amiably.
Meanwhile, almost half a world away, Durosimi O’Stoat dozed in the chilly eyrie of a mountain monastery. Despite himself, he felt almost content, listening to the hypnotic chanting of the burgundy-robed monks, while the afternoon sun lit his simple room and gilded the highest peaks and snowfields of the majestic Himalayas.
After some recent experiments, it’s becoming apparent that leaving the island is much more feasible than it used to be. Parties have successfully reached The Devil’s Fingers on numerous occasions now – only to turn straight back because there’s nothing out there except seaweed and angry birds.
Intrepid explorers have now successfully reached other nearby islands. Bloodly Useless is described as a big, slippery rock with absolutely nothing to recommend it. Mermaid Island does indeed have a large mermaid population, so no one disembarked there.
In light of these exciting discoveries, Captain Macko Castleton suggests that we revive piracy. “It’s a good old tradition,” he told the Vendetta, “and I think it’s really important that we keep our folk customs alive. They give a community a real sense of coherence.”
The island’s folklorists have been wholly supportive of this plan and are also investigating the possibility of starting up some smuggling rings. What exactly we could hope to smuggle from where is an interesting question, and if this is to be of any fun at all we’d really need someone to oppose it in some way. Discussions continue.
Meanwhile, Captain Macko has re-purposed one of the larger fishing boats for piracy and is looking to recruit a crew. You don’t have to make a full time commitment as the intention is to live on the island most of the time and go pirating when the weather isn’t too bad.
Captain Macko said, “I reckon the trick will be to get to ships before they wreck on the rocks, we’d get far more stuff off them that way and it wouldn’t all be so wet. We might not get so many people drowning, too.”
I pointed out to him that this sounded more like having a lifeboat than like piracy, but he assured me that the important bit was nicking people’s gear, and that the benevolent bit would just be a side effect of that.
Little Tristania Moongloss thought she was a ghost.
Everywhere she went, whether it was those fog-shrouded streets she loved so well, or the fog-shrouded hillsides and even the fog-shrouded sea shores, no one ever saw her.
She would practice her dancing – particularly her pirouetting for she loved that – on every different kind of surface she could find. She was never shouted at for dancing on people’s roofs. Spoon-walkers skittered past her, even when she balanced a teaspoon on the end of her nose. She would stroke dogs, and caress the skinny rats that sometimes lived in stinky houses in Guttermore Lane, and they would all shift and whine and stare around as if they couldn’t see her.
Over time, little Tristania Moongloss did not grow up, though she grew colder and sadder. All she wanted was an audience, a friend, even a creature that would curl up beside her and give her warmth. She still performed, she still pirouetted and carried out her little dances, but they became fragmented, shorter, bitter; they left her feeling not so good as they once had.
At last, one day, little Tristania Moongloss lay down and died.
She rose the next day, truly, as a ghost.
People still paid her no heed, but now, at last, she could dance and pirouette upon the waves that battered the shore of Hopeless, Maine. She danced and pirouetted through the clouds, causing them to rain more, causing the fog and mist to fall heavier, to weave thicker.
She danced, and was happy, and the world ignored her for she was an orphan ghost.
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.
In the last few days there have been multiple reports of Hernessa sightings in the woods to the south of the Gyddynap Hills. Several paths now have warning skulls placed clearly upon them. If you see a skull in your path it is strongly recommended that you turn around and go back to wherever you came from.
Hernessa has not been seen for some years, and like most of our active, dangerous folklore, is much debated as an issue. As a longstanding commentator on island issues I am confident that this entity truly exists, unlike The Tablecloth Man and Twitching Bob for whom no actual evidence has evern been found. Whether Hernessa is a non-human entity, or some role or curse passed down from one human generation to the next is unclear.
Hernessa protects the wild places, and is most particularly involved with small furry creatures that squeak. I’ve been trying to persuade people for some years now that it would be more accurate to describe them as murder shrews, but we still seem to be using the long name. Small furry creatures that squeak are fairly harmless on their own, but at certain times amass into large hunting packs. Hernessa’s role in this is unclear, but Hernessa sightings generally tally with evidence of murder shrew hunting packs.
For the time being, stay out of the woods. Stay out of the woods more than you were doing a few weeks ago when we had sightings of The Little Drummer Boy. Really, really stay out of the woods.
I know there are rumours that it is in in fact Steven C Davis who has summoned Hernessa, and it certainly wouldn’t be out of character for him to try. I remain unconvinced that summoning terrifying elder gods is a good answer to the problems caused by the presence of other terrifying elder gods, but no one ever listens to me when it comes to matters of religion, or science, or folklore. I do sometimes wonder why I keep trying to write informative pieces that may save lives. It is the triumph of hope over experience, certainly.
Madam! I feel I must object to the membership of the above-mentioned gentleman within the Hopeless Philosophical Society, as the misdemeanours of which he stands accused are of the most serious nature. Even if acquitted (which I am sure he will be), the failure to eat research orphans in the name of research is an appalling breach of etiquette within the Society and I consider that I have absolutely no option but to register my disapproval in the strongest possible terms. One hopes most strongly that Mr Hayes will see the (alleged) error of his ways, and tuck in to the upcoming Midsummer Mists Feasting with appropriate gusto and enthusiasm – in the presence of suitable witnesses.
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.
Legend has it that the Jones family of Hopeless, Maine became a founding family by dint of shipwrecking as a pirate crew. They were a Welsh crew, and every last one of them had the surname of Jones.
Welsh pirates were of course a source of great alarm during the peak of piratical activities, and were widely feared for their aggressive use of piano accordions.
It is widely speculated that, given the fearsome reputation of Welsh pirates, many especially fierce pirates were assumed to be Welsh, while any would-be pirates who had so much as been to Wales for a visit often claimed that identity. Infamous pirate captain Gurdybird Jones is said to have hailed from the south west of England. For purposes of Hopeless mythology, that apparently also counts as Wales.
Rather than using accordions to strike fear into the hearts of her victims, Gurdybird favoured the eerie tones of the hurdygurdy and had a reputation for appearing through the mist, ancient dance tunes blazing as she set upon unsuspecting vessels. Many surrendered at once and it was thus rare that any of her crew had to go so far as to set fire to their own beards.
It may well have been that fondness for mist which drew them to their fateful collision with the island. Hopeless has long been shrouded in fog, and not reliably mentioned on maps of the area – people who find it seldom being able to leave again. The sheer weight of gold in the hold of the ship caused it to sink quickly, with a great deal of treasure being lost beneath the waves.
If you have ever caught sight of a sea monster wearing a crown as a bracelet on one of its tentacles, this is probably the cause.
The Jones pirates settled on the island and thrived here, no doubt assisted by their fondness for mist and their willingness to make alcohol out of absolutely anything.
You can tell by looking at him, that absolutely no orphans have been consumed by this gentleman.
One of the things folklore has taught us is that it is important to be polite. This is why we refer to fairies as good neighbours, even if they do steal our milk and our children and take our cows for weird nighttime adventures. Not that fairies are usually the ones to blame around here, but they make for a nice, safe, example. The odds of offending them are pretty slim, as they are such good neighbours as to not be neighbours at all.
It is also a good idea to praise the helpfulness of goblins rather than complaining about what they borrow. ‘Steal’ is such a judgemental word. Goblins often pay for what they take, or leave gifts. If you have ever found unexpected bones in your home, this is probably why.
Sometimes it is best not to risk causing offence by naming an entity in too blunt or derogative a way. It is best therefore to say that Mark is a fine gentleman. A very sensible and reasonable gentleman. Definitely not someone who would at any point have felt to urge to so much as nibble a research orphan. Certainly not someone who would take an orphan as an apprentice, conduct hideous experiments on them and then eat the results.
That definitely didn’t happen, and I for one will sleep more soundly at night for having been so very clear on the subject.
(This unfortunate incident was brought to you by Mark Hayes and Nimue Brown)
