Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Hermit

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By Martin Pearson

It was around 300 BCE, give or take a year or two, that Ptolemy I, and his son, unimaginatively named Ptolemy ll, founded an institution, which they named the Mouseion. This seat of culture and learning, which is said to have housed the legendary Library of Alexandria, was dedicated to the nine daughters of Zeus, known forever as the Muses.  The Mouseion featured a roofed walkway and airy communal areas where scholars and philosophers met to share and debate ideas. As you may know, or have already guessed, it is from these august beginnings that blossomed the modern concept of the museum.

Sad to relate, the Hopeless Museum bears no resemblance whatsoever to its noble ancestor. It is dark, damp and pokey, and the most interesting thing on display is the battered and less-than-hygienic lidded bucket, bequeathed by the island’s first Night-Soil Man, Killigrew O’Stoat. The most interesting things not on display, however, are a cherry-red frock coat and a top hat, belonging to one Tom Long, an early Victorian postman who, for undisclosed reasons, had absconded from Britain many years earlier. Long had left in such a hurry that he was still wearing his uniform when he boarded the ill-fated ship which had floundered upon the rocks around the island of Hopeless, Maine. Old habits die hard, and Tom Long, apparently missing the weight of a pouch hanging from his shoulder, soon made it his business to volunteer for the hazardous, but otherwise undemanding, role of the island’s first postman.

Upon discovering the uniform, folded up in a crate in a dusty corner of the museum, Reggie Upton immediately fell in love with the bright red coat and its shiny brass buttons; it was not military but, for want of anything better, was fondly reminiscent of his army days in India. He at once decided to revive the job of postman, and don the impressive livery at every possible opportunity. This, of course, is old news to those who have read the tale ‘The Postman’, but it is the backstory to how he came to be standing outside a hermit’s mausoleum-like house in Ghastly Green one midnight, clutching a parcel and being croaked at by a raven.

Happily, Reggie was not alone in this venture. His friend, Rhys Cranham was with him (you’ll recall that Reggie was unique, inasmuch as his being able to mix comfortably in the company of the Night-Soil Man, having lost his sense of smell).

““I may be mistaken,” whispered Reggie, “but that croak sounded distinctly like a word.”

“It did,” agreed Rhys.

“And did it say what I thought it said?” 

“I think that it might have,” agreed Rhys.

Reggie looked at the Night-Soil Man uncomfortably,

“Finish the line for me Rhys, or please tell me that I am wrong,” he said.

“Quoth the raven…”

“Nevermore!” exclaimed Rhys.

“No she didn’t”

The voice came from the now open doorway of the house, where a small, balding man stood brandishing a rolling-pin.

“Who are you, and what do you want, turning up here at this time of night?” he demanded.

“I’m the postman,” Reggie called back. “I have a package for someone named Neville. Is that you?”

“Yes,” said the small, balding man. “That’s me. Neville Moore.”

“Ah, so that’s what the raven said,” declared Reggie, enlightenment dawning upon him. “But how is it that she can speak?”

“She’s my pet. I taught her. Her name is Lenore, and for your information, she was calling for me; she was asking to be let in,” said Neville.

 ‘That came out a little icily’, Reggie thought.

“Definitely not ‘nevermore’, then?” he asked, still not convinced.

“Why would she say that? It makes no sense. Are you bringing that parcel over to me, or what?”

“Of course…” said Reggie.

“And if it happens to be both of you that I can smell, stinking like a cesspool, you can take it back,” said Neville, brusquely.

“I’ll leave you to it,” muttered Rhys, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Neville doesn’t seem over-friendly, so be careful.”

Reggie picked his way over to the strange house, where its equally strange, not to say rude, occupant was still standing in the doorway.

 “Come on in,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Reggie.

“I was talking to Lenore,” snapped Neville, as the raven swept over Reggie’s head, folding its wings to expertly navigate through the open door.

“You’d better come in, too,” he said, grudgingly.

The hermit’s parlour was dimly lit by a few smoky tallow candles. Reggie gazed with interest at Neville’s bookshelf, which groaned beneath the weight of several ancient tomes.

“I see you have a few quaint and curious volumes of forgotten lore here,” he said, examining the titles on the spines of the books.

“Yes, Philomena often sends me various books, and any other bits and pieces that she finds mouldering up in the attics of The Squid and Teapot. Anything that she thinks might be of interest to me, in fact,” said Neville. His tone was markedly friendlier now that he could see that Reggie was, indeed, a genuine and suitably uniformed postman.

“And, I believe, she has sent you some more in here,” said Reggie, placing the parcel on the table.

“She is a kind girl,” said Neville. “I must send her a little something in return.”

While the hermit was fussing through various drawers, looking for a suitable gift for Philomena, Reggie took the opportunity to inspect the room. Long, slightly faded, purple curtains hung at the windows – no doubt salvaged from attics of The Squid, he decided. In the grate a few dying embers cast a sullen glow across the hearth. Quietly, Reggie edged around the room, until he found himself standing next to a narrow door that led to a small, unlit chamber. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable, sensing that he was being watched. Reggie turned his head slowly. Perched upon the marble bust of a Greek goddess, the raven stared malevolently at him, obviously resenting the late visitor who stood by the chamber door.  It was only that, and nothing more.

The awkward silence was at last broken by the hermit.

“Ah here’s something Philomena can have,” he said, holding aloft a delicate silver bracelet.

“It belonged to a lady I once knew,” he explained.

“Really? Is she still on the island?” enquired Reggie.

“Sadly no. She was a rare and radiant maiden who died many years ago. Strangely, the raven arrived not long after her death, and I named her after my lost love. It gives me solace.”

‘That’s not even vaguely unsettling,’ thought Reggie, vainly trying to convince himself.

“I have my memories,” continued the hermit, “and the time has come for her bracelet to grace another’s wrist. It is no use to me.”

“I am sure that Philomena will treasure it,” said Reggie, slipping the bracelet into his coat pocket, and suddenly keen to go outside and find Rhys.

“Forgive me,” he added, before leaving. “But who shall I say that it is from? I’ve quite forgotten your name…”

The hermit opened his mouth to speak, but it was the raven who answered.

“Neville Moore!”

Hopeless inhabitants

Hideous pinks

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Nikki Price’s Monster with illustration by Tracey Abrahams

Strange beast, long in shape, six ugly heads each head with nine eyes.

Fed on bodies of fallen visitors, unable to say at this time if it is able to kill, or just feasts on the remains.

The end of the tail seems to contain a stinger. If you disturb it, it will swish towards you. It is able to stand almost upright so the stinger can easily reach a person’s throat.

I ran away before it could reach me. Luckily, whilst in motion it seems quite slow. It is pink in colour and stays amongst the pink shrubs which makes it hard to find.

(We’re not absolutely saying that anyone had licked a dustcat ahead of this monster encounter, but this is an unusually cheerful colour for an island entity and some of us are suspicious!)

Hopeless inhabitants

Rhys Quinn – resident

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The curious thing about Rhys is how often he turns out to have been at the scene of terrible accidents, killings and events that were possibly murders. And yet, somehow he’s never actually looking the right way at the time. Sometimes he hears the screams, he tells us, but by then it tends to be too late.

More conspiracy-minded folk amongst you may have leapt to the conclusion that Rhys is a master-criminal who has, for many years, escaped both detection and justice.

You’d be wrong about that.

Often there are other witnesses about who are able to confirm that Rhys certainly was where he said he was and that he cannot possibly have caused whatever thing it was this time.

The more superstitious amongst you may be wondering if there could be some uncanny or magical reason why Rhys causes terrible things to happen to other people. Is his cane a cursed item? Is there a demon following around?

One of our gentlemen of the Scientific Society explained to me that Rhys causes a fortune entanglement because he emits an etheric wave rather than a particle, which can be demonstrated if you get Mr Quinn to stand in front of a large mirror while entirely covered in mud. So far Mr Quinn has declined to repeat this experiment and we can hardly disapprove of his reluctance!

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Ghastly Green

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By Martin Pearson

Except for the gifts of starry-grabby pies, bottles of ‘Old Colonel’ ale and the occasional notes promising undying love, all left on his doorstep by Philomena Bucket, Rhys Cranham led a solitary life. The overpowering stench of the Night-Soil Man was enough to deter even the most evil of creatures, so human company was rarely a real possibility. Once, not so long ago, Rhys had employed a succession of apprentices, but fate had claimed them all. And while Drury, the skeletal hound, happily scampered along beside him, and the ghostly Miss Calder sometimes indulged in a spot of clumsy flirtation, it was not really the same as having the companionship of another flesh-and-blood person. Then, one day, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton appeared on the island, with his many eccentricities, a love of walking and no sense of smell whatsoever. The Night-Soil Man at last had someone to talk to.

Regular readers may recall that Reggie had recently volunteered for the role of postman for the island of Hopeless, Maine. This enthusiasm had been spawned by his discovery of a Victorian postal worker’s uniform, which had been carefully stowed away in a corner of the Hopeless Museum. The red livery had immediately reminded him of his far-off days in India, when he was an officer in the British army. In those days a bright red coat with shiny brass buttons was the true mark of a soldier. Reggie had always had a soft spot for a smart uniform, and, if the truth is to be told, the chance to wear it was the sole reason for his interest in the job. It was fortunate, therefore, that being the island’s postman was by no means an arduous mode of employment, for few islanders had the resources, or indeed the will, to communicate with anyone who stood further away than spitting distance. When his services were required, however, Reggie would don his uniform and ensure that his delivery coincided with the Night-Soil Man’s round, when the two would venture out into the night, chatting amiably while Drury, as ever, rattled alongside.

“Reggie, There’s no great rush to get it delivered, but I’ve got a package for Neville, the hermit who lives on the far side of the island.”

Reggie looked at the small parcel that Philomena held.

“A hermit, eh? I can’t say that I’ve heard of the chap,” said Reggie.

“Not many have,” replied Philomena. “He likes it that way. That is why he’s a hermit.”

“Each to his own,” said Reggie, who was far too sociable to even contemplate such an existence.

“It’s only a couple of books from the attic,” said Philomena.  “Plus a few tallow candles. The nights are beginning to draw in.”

Reggie nodded absently. He had not really noticed. It was his first year on Hopeless, and he had barely registered any difference in the unfolding seasons.

“Rhys will know where he lives,” he said. “I’ll see when he is going out that way, and will take it over.”

Philomena thanked him and smiled wistfully, thinking how lucky Reggie was, being able to accompany Rhys whenever he wanted to. If all had gone to plan she would be married to the Night-Soil Man by now. He had been ready to resign from the role and pass the lidded-bucket and ceremonial shovel on to his apprentice, Naboth Scarhill. On the day of their wedding, however, Naboth had been viciously killed, and all dreams of wedded bliss had to be put on hold. No replacement apprentice had come forth, as yet, and it would take at least a year, or maybe two, to train a new lad properly.

“I know where the hermit lives,” said Rhys, later that evening. “It’s on a bit of the island called Ghastly Green.”

“Ghastly Green?” said Reggie. “That does not sound too pleasant.”

“It’s even worse than that,” replied Rhys. “Put it this way, it’s more ghastly than it is green. I think that’s why he chooses to live there. Even by Hopeless standards, it’s fairly inhospitable.”

“Live in a cave, does he, this hermit chap?” asked Reggie.

“Anything but,” laughed Rhys. “It’s a gaunt old Gothic place. It looks more like a mausoleum than a house. I have no idea who built it, or why.”

“It sounds delightful,” said Reggie, without enthusiasm.

“I’m due to service a couple of places not too far from there,” said Rhys. “Ghastly Green would not be too far out of our way. We could go tomorrow night.”

“Capital,” said Reggie. “I will dust off the uniform.”

As arranged, late on the following evening, Reggie, resplendent in his postman’s livery, turned up on the Night-Soil Man’s doorstep, and with Drury in tow, they set off, just as the full moon was struggling up from the ocean and into the misty sky. At Philomena’s insistence, nestling next to Neville’s parcel, Reggie had stowed some bottles of Old Colonel and a whole starry-grabby pie in his pouch. That should keep them going. It would be a long walk to Ghastly Green, and Rhys did not envisage them being there much before midnight.

As Rhys had promised, Ghastly Green was indeed ghastly, and not remotely green. He had not lied about the hermit’s house resembling a mausoleum, either. It sat, in all of its decaying splendour, in a small copse of sinister-looking spindly trees. Several poorly sculpted statues graced the crumbling portico that more resembled the entrance to a tomb than someone’s home.  In the pale moonlight the building’s weathered stonework, generously festooned in ivy, gleamed a ghostly grey. A dim, yellow glimmer glowed sullenly through a small arched window.

The two men stood motionless in the eerie silence. Even Drury remained stock-still. It was as if a spell had been cast.

The quiet of the night was suddenly broken by the sound of urgent tapping, close by.

“What was that?” asked Reggie.

Drury growled.

“Look,” whispered Rhys.

Perched on the head of a statue, long rendered featureless by time and weather, was a huge raven, looking as old and black as the night itself. Slowly the raven inclined its head toward them and fixed the trio with a malevolent stare. Then it flapped its great wings and croaked ominously.

“I may be mistaken,” whispered Reggie, “but that croak sounded distinctly like a word.”

“It did,” agreed Rhys.

“And did it say what I thought it said?”  

“I think that it might have,” agreed Rhys.

Reggie looked at the Night-Soil Man uncomfortably,

“Finish the line for me Rhys, or please tell me that I am wrong,” he said.

“Quoth the raven…”

“Nevermore!”

To be continued…

Hopeless inhabitants

Murderous cheese!

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A few years ago we had a spate of deaths by cheese – most infamously EP Eriksson and Amanda Gardham. At the time it was hard to tell whether the cheese was just intrinsically dangerous or consciously malevolent. However, JJ Bannister has recently reported to the Scientific Society a sighting of semi-sentient cheese and has provided us with a picture of said.

We don’t have a location for the cheese at present, but we do know that it is armed, and it looks angry. However hungry you are, do not approach this cheese. Do not attempt to eat this cheese as it may be perfectly capable of attacking you. Do not ascribe sightings of this cheese to mushroom consumption or to having licked a dustcat. We can’t absolutely promise that it isn’t a hallucination, but for the time being it seems best to err on the side of caution.

Have you been afflicted by cheese recently? Do you know where this cheese is at present? Have you got ideas for a cheese trap? Tell us.

Hopeless inhabitants

Mat McCall – pirate

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You wouldn’t know it from his surname, but Mat McCall is part of the Jones family – on his father’s side. This is a little bit complicated, his father having been born a Jones but with an unusual longing to stand out from that massive island clan he took his wife’s name upon marriage.

Legend has it that the Jones clan originally came to Hopeless when their pirate ship wrecked here many years ago. They were Welsh pirates, which is why they all had Jones as a surname, or so the story goes. For various reasons, there are some islanders who have their doubts about the details of this tale, but that’s a thing to ponder on another day.

Mat McCall is one of the few islanders to have maintained the Jones tradition of piracy. It’s a challenging career to follow given how short a distance boats leaving the island are able to travel. Add to that the probability that any boat not occupied by fisher folk is probably sinking by the time anyone sees it, and piracy becomes a tricky consideration.

However, as Mat likes to point out, there’s more to piracy than just stealing stuff from other boats. There’s the rum, the setting fire to your beard, aggressive use of the piano accordion, the aesthetic, the rum, the preposterous stories and the digging on beaches in search of treasure. Mostly the rum, though.

Jones family pirate art by Tom Brown, with an uncanny depiction of Mat McCall (bottom right) drawn before he’d met any of the Hopeless crew in person.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Secret Scandal

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By Martin Pearson

Had Father Ignatius Stamage not been a ghost, he would have breathed a sigh of relief. As it was, he emitted an eerie groan that sent tingles down the spines of most of the wedding congregation.

“My sincere apologies,” said the phantom priest, seeing their reaction. “But that is my first wedding in a long, long time and I am only too relieved that it went almost without a hitch.”

“It was a lovely wedding, Father,” said Philomena, “and didn’t Septimus and Mirielle look like the perfect happy couple?”

Stamage nodded. Since he had agreed to officiate at the wedding, he had grown quite fond of Septimus and Mirielle. Because of his Jesuit credentials, they had jokingly referred to him as their ‘Holy Ghost’. Father Stamage was not sure whether he should approve of this; after all, it amounted to blasphemy. However, since his untimely death, nothing had turned out quite as Father Stamage had hoped or expected, so, in the scheme of things, it did not seem to matter anymore.

The ceremony, which had been held in the Town Hall, had gone well enough, although some of the guests would have preferred it if the non-living population of Hopeless had not been quite so well represented. Mirielle had insisted that the celebrant of their nuptials had to be a Catholic priest. It was inevitable, therefore, that Father Stamage, who was the only available candidate, alive or dead, should be present. However, the wraith of The White Lady, Lady Margaret D’Avening was not universally welcomed. A few eyebrows were raised when a stone block was carried from the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot in order for her to attend. No one had ever seen her so excited; after all, the last wedding she had been to was her own, and that was in 1646. With her head tucked firmly beneath her arm, Lady Margaret cut an alarming figure, drifting as she did through the trestle-tables and knots of wedding guests.

The Little Drummer Boy, who had invited himself, marched up and down, thankfully outside the Town Hall, rat-a-tat-tatting for all he was worth, and the maiden-ladies of the Mild Hunt dropped by, with their yappy spaniels and flatulent mules. The only ghost who made an effort to be unobtrusive was Granny Bucket, who lurked in the shadows, quietly disapproving of the antics of the dead and undead alike.

“What is Reggie Upton looking so worried about?” she asked Philomena, her long-suffering granddaughter. “He looks as though he’s lost a shilling and picked up a penny.”

“He is concerned that something awful is going to happen when Septimus reaches his twenty-first birthday, in a few days’ time,” said Philomena. “It is about him being a seventh son, or something.”

It was true. Reggie was convinced that Septimus was going to unconsciously unleash an awful revenge upon everyone who had ever upset him, when the full power of the Seventh Son was released on his birthday. During the previous few days Reggie had been wandering around the island, or flâneuring, as he preferred to call it, surreptitiously making enquiries into Septimus’ past, and enemies he may have gathered along the way.

“The lad is a walking war-zone,” he had confided to Bartholomew Middlestreet. “I don’t think that there is a family on the island with whom he has not had some grudge. Especially the Chevins! And then there was that Rimsky-Korsakov incident with his brother, Egbert.”

“Rimsky-Korsakov? What was that about?” asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

“It was the classical concert night, and Septimus was in charge of introducing the music being played on the phonograph,” explained Reggie. “Egbert was doing his damnedest to make Septimus embarrass himself by trying to make him say ‘Rips His Corset Off’.”

Bartholomew grinned.

“That’s brothers for you,” he said.

“Indeed,” agreed Reggie, “but this particular brother is like a time-bomb waiting to go off. I won’t lie to you, Bartholomew, I am worried.”

Granny Bucket made herself invisible, and drifted through the ranks of wedding guests, to where Mabel and Seth Washwell were sitting, surrounded by their family. The Washwells had been blessed with a set of male twins, followed by four more boys, before Septimus had been born. The reluctance of each son to settle down and raise a family had been a source of bafflement and concern to both of their parents.

“Look how happy your brother looks with his new wife,” said Mabel, to any of the young Washwells who would listen. “There are plenty of nice girls on this island to choose from.”

This last statement might not have been strictly true, but, Mabel reasoned to herself, there were still three Moulin Rouge dancers available.

Suddenly, a cold chill ran down Mabel’s back.

“Oh, someone just walked on my grave,” she said with a shudder.

“No they didn’t,” thought Granny. “It was just me, poking around.”

“Reggie, you look as though you have seen a ghost.”

“I have seen several today, Granny, your good-self included, and not one of those disturbs me in the least. However, I must confess, I am a worried man.”

Ever since his army career in India, when he had enjoyed a brief flirtation with the Theosophist, Annie Besant, the supernatural had become almost commonplace for Reggie. Upon arriving unexpectedly on the island some months earlier, the man previously known as Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton had taken the ghosts and strange creatures of Hopeless in his stride. In fact, he had become quite friendly with Granny Bucket, Father Stamage and Lady Margaret, with whom he shared a common ancestor.

Granny, who by now was only slightly transparent, gave the old soldier a reassuring smile.

“Reggie, my lad, are you still fretting about this seventh son business with Septimus?”

“Philomena told you? Yes, it is a matter of grave concern.”

“It need not be,” said Granny. “Look at them Washwell twins. What do you see?”

“Perfectly ordinary lads, nothing of consequence,” said Reggie, wondering where this conversation was going.

“Look at their earlobes.”

“What?” Reggie was confused. “Their earlobes? They look like perfectly good earlobes to me.”

“Look at Mabel and Seth’s earlobes. Have a good look, go on.”

“Granny, it’s rude to stare… oh, by Jove, I see what you mean. Is that significant?”

“It most certainly is,” said Granny with a self-satisfied grin. “Those twins have got attached earlobes and the rest of the family haven’t. Between you and me, I feel almost certain that they were not fathered by Seth. I doubt that he knows, and quite possibly, neither does Mabel either. If I was a betting woman, which I used to be when I was alive, I would wager that those two lads were thought to be born a few weeks prematurely. Just early enough to make everyone feel happy that they were little Washwells.”

“Which means that Septimus is not Seth’s seventh son,” said Reggie, relief in his voice.

“It is most unlikely,” said Granny. “To be honest, it would not have been too much of a scandal, this being Hopeless, but I reckon it’s best that only you and I know about it.”

“Absolutely!” exclaimed Reggie. “A secret scandal. Who would have guessed?”

“Only someone very, very clever,” said Granny smugly. 

Hopeless inhabitants

Carnivorous puddle ooze

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We recently invited people who had shipwrecked on the island (at Stroud Steampunk weekend) if they’d seen anything strange that they’d like to share. It’s part of an ongoing project from the Hopeless, Maine Scientific Society to try and identify more of the island’s flora and fauna. The more we know about what might kill us, the better our chances of survival.

This is what Sarah Snell-Pym found in a puddle…

Hopeless inhabitants

Do not bury David Feasey

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If you chance upon David Feasey and believe him to be dead, please do not bury him. While our unburialist, Gregory O’Regan has thus far managed to dig David up on every occasion of mistaken interment, it would be much less stressful for all concerned if we could avoid that henceforth.

This includes situations in which Doc Willoughby has declared David to be deceased, because he’s already got that wrong on three separate occasions. It was fortunate that Gregory was on hand to unbury David each time.

Generally speaking, it does not seem to be a good idea to bury people simply because Doc Willoughby has declared them dead. The most recent occasion when David was mistakenly buried he had been pushing his latest device down the street and was entirely in motion at the time. Doc Willoughby shouting, “You’re dead, damn you man will you not stay buried,” is believed to be the prompt that caused several well meaning but uninformed citizens to carry David off to the nearest cemetery. 

We can’t currently explain David’s condition, as at times he does become very still and assume an eerily corpse-like pose. The diagnosis of ‘definitely dead’ clearly isn’t right and with our only medical expert so dreadfully wrong, it’s hard to know what to think. Possession seems like a distinct possibility, as does some kind of ailment currently unknown to science. Given how many things remain unknown to science here, this seems like a realistic explanation, although one that offers us very little by way of utility.

(David Feasey participated in a recent Hopeless, Maine event at Stroud Steampunk weekend and very kindly offered to be an islander.)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Seventh Son

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“He’s been doing that flannel thing again; it’s not natural.”

“Flannel thing?” Mirielle D’Illay eyed her soon-to-be mother-in-law, Mabel Washwell, with curiosity.

“That Reggie fellow. He’s flannelling again.”

“Oh that,” smiled Mirielle. “Flâneuring, not flannelling. Don’t worry, it is fine. Baudelaire did it all the time in Paris.”

“Well, maybe she did, but this ain’t Paris and folks on Hopeless find it strange.”

“Reggie is strange,” said Mirielle, suppressing an urge to laugh, “but that is because…”

“He is English!” said Mabel, finishing the sentence for her. “Yes, you’ve said that before, at least a hundred times, and I can’t help but wonder why you want that mad old fool to give you away when you marry Septimus.”

“Because he is clever, and brave and well-mannered. All things that I wish my own father had been.”

Mabel knew that Mirielle’s father had been sent to the guillotine for strangling her mother.  They seemed to be a headstrong family.

“And he talks to himself,” Mabel said, disapprovingly.

Mirielle had heard enough. She stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

“She’s as mad as Reggie,” muttered Mabel. “I just hope that Septimus knows what he’s getting himself into.”

Reggie had, indeed, been flâneuring, wandering aimlessly around the island, waving his sword stick and, apparently, involved in deep conversation with no one in particular. 

“How on earth the family aren’t aware is beyond me, but is it my place to tell them?”

There followed a short pause, then Reggie said,

“But you don’t know that for certain, Annie, after all… no, please don’t interrupt, just hear me out…”

“Is everything alright, Reggie?”

The voice was that of Philomena Bucket. She and Drury were on their way back to The Squid and Teapot, after a bracing walk on The Gydynap Hills.

“What? Oh yes, all is tickety-boo thank you m’dear. Just thrashing out a few thoughts.”

“Only I heard you mention Annie. Is she trying to get out again?”

Annie was Reggie’s tulpa, the thought form he had created years before in India, while serving in the British army.

“No, she’s behaving herself,” smiled Reggie. “I was just running a few things by her.”

“You could run them by me instead,” said Philomena. “It would be a lot safer. You know what happened before…”

She recalled how the tulpa had escaped, and had it not been for a few well-chosen spells and copious amounts of absinthe, the experience might have cost Reggie his life.

Reggie nodded; the prospect of sitting in the snug of The Squid with Philomena, while nursing a tankard of Old Colonel, seemed much more appealing than wandering through an increasingly dismal day, talking to the shadow- form of someone who had walked out of his life twenty years earlier.

“Do you know the legends surrounding a seventh son?” asked Reggie.

Philomena looked at him questioningly. What a strange thing to ask. But surely he meant to say the seventh son of a seventh son?

“I am surprised that you haven’t sensed the power residing in that young man,” said Reggie. “I certainly have, and you are far more attuned to these things than I am.”

“You’re talking about Septimus? He’s nothing special, I don’t think.”

“Look closer, m’dear. I have seen it before. Whatever is brewing inside that lad, it is like a volcano, just waiting to blow its lid.”

“I thought it was only the seventh son of a seventh son who had such power,” said Philomena, suddenly realising what Reggie was trying to say.

“No, not necessarily,” said Reggie. “Occasionally it can fall to the first generation. How old is Septimus?”

“Twenty-one next birthday, I believe,” said Philomena.

Reggie groaned.

“Let me tell you a story” he said. “When I was in India, one of our young subalterns, a chap by the name of Arlingham, was being given a difficult time by some of the more senior officers. You know the sort, they’ll turn against anyone from the wrong class, wrong school and so forth. One way and another, they made his life Hell.”

Philomena wondered where this tale might be going.

“To young Arlingham’s credit, he did not make any fuss about it, he just kept his head down and scribbled away in his notebooks, keeping himself to himself, as far as possible.  On his twenty-first birthday I shared a drink with him, and it was then that he told me that he was a seventh son. Of course, I didn’t think any more of it. I didn’t know as much then as I do now. You see, that was before I met the Theosophist, Annie Besant.”

“So that was the mysterious Annie’s full name,” thought Philomena, storing the information away for later investigation.

“Anyway, I digress. From that moment on, strange things began to happen. My fellow officers started dying off in unusual circumstances. I could not help but notice that there was one common denominator in this spate of fatalities, and that was Charles Arlingham. Each and every victim had at some point given Arlingham a bad time. Outwardly, there was nothing to link him to the deaths, or indeed connect them together. A hunting accident, a snake bite, a mysterious illness, a fall from a building… all random mishaps, to all intents and purposes. But, with each new death, Arlingham looked increasingly petrified, as if waiting to be blamed. However, as I said, there was no way that he, or anyone else, could have been held responsible.”

Reggie took a generous swig of Old Colonel and stared into the fire for a few seconds.

“Then there was the final death,” he said. “That of Charles Arlingham himself. There was no doubt who did it, either. He took half of his head away with his rifle.”

Philomena winced. She sat quietly, waiting for the tale’s dénouement, and how it might affect Septimus.

“When, after his suicide, we went through Arlingham’s notebooks, we found that he had described, in great detail, the manner of death of each of his tormentors. It made no sense; he could not have planned the murders, and indeed, none of the fatalities could even have been ascribed to murder.  Nothing came of it, of course. Even if things could have been explained, the British Army are not in the business of drawing attention to such things. Arlingham and his colleagues were quietly buried with a few military honours and no more was ever said about the incident.”

“So why are you worrying about this now?” asked Philomena.

“I can see the same latent power in Septimus that – admittedly with hindsight – I noticed in Charles Arlingham. What I didn’t tell you, Philomena, was that he had listed that catalogue of deaths several weeks before they occurred. They were fantasies; wishes, if you like, not deeds, but once Arlingham had his twenty-first birthday, and the power of the seventh son was released, those wishes became flesh, so to speak. When he learned of the enormity of that which he had done, it drove the poor chap to take his own life.”

“And you’re worried about Septimus doing something similar?”

“Septimus is the first to admit that he has a violent side – that was how he came to take up Le Danse Apache, as you recall. If that lad has any malign thoughts towards anyone, they need to be purged now, before his birthday.”

“I don’t know what I can do?” said Philomena.

“Your grandmother might have some idea.”

Philomena nodded. Although she had been dead for years, the ghost of Granny Bucket could usually be relied upon to find a solution to most problems of an occult nature. The only problem was that Granny came and went as she pleased, and there was no way of getting hold of her if she had no wish to be contacted.

“She has invited herself to the wedding,” said Philomena, “and that is a few days before Septimus celebrates his twenty-first.”

“That’s cutting it fine,” said Reggie. “In the meantime, I’ll try and ascertain if that young man is harbouring any dark thoughts. Maybe Mirielle might know.”

“Good luck with that!” thought Philomena.

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