By Martin Pearson
he reality of his situation was gradually dawning upon Septimus Washwell. At twenty-one years of age he was a married man with a child on the way. Had you told him, just a year ago, that he would be saddled with such responsibility in such a short time, he would have laughed in your face. The Septimus of last year was a confirmed bachelor, a free spirit, with a reputation for fighting his way in and out of trouble with monotonous regularity. And then Mirielle D’Illay, of the dance troupe Les Demoiselles de le Moulin Rouge, had come into his life, and his world was turned upside-down. Mirielle had transformed Septimus’ aggressive tendencies into a passion for dancing, much to the surprise of his parents and the amusement of his six brothers.
“Why do you worry so? The baby is not due until just before Christmas. Everything will be okay.”
Mirielle did not like to see her husband quite so distracted.
“But I do worry,” said Septimus. “Having a baby is big. Really, really big.”
“It will be fine,” reassured Mirielle. “Just keep that drunken quack, Doc Willoughby, well away from me, or I will not be responsible for my actions. Philomena has promised to take care of everything.”
“That’s just as well,” said Septimus, “she has helped deliver a few babies since she’s been on the island. What bothers me is how we’re going to manage.”
“The way everyone else does,” said Mirielle, sounding exasperated. “Mon Dieu, your mother had seven children. Do you think she worried about having to manage?”
“Well I want my kid to have the best of everything,” said Septimus.
Bartholomew Middlestreet stood in the cellar of The Squid and Teapot, surrounded by a variety of barrels of all sizes.
“I’m not used to people asking if they can have a barrel of ale,” he said, “especially people like Durosimi O’Stoat. I can’t imagine why he wants one so much – he’s not known for throwing parties.”
“How big a barrel does he need?” asked Reggie Upton, whose encounters with Durosimi, to date, had not been memorable for their cordiality.
A firkin – that’s nine gallons, and as small as I’ve got,” replied Bartholomew.
“What was it that my prep school teacher used to tell us? A pint of water weighs a pound and a quarter… why, that’s ninety pounds, plus the weight of the barrel,” said Reggie, doing a rapid calculation.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to lug it along to chez Durosimi,” he added. “I am not the man I once was, y’know. I recall an occasion, just after the battle of Spion Kop…”
“No, of course not,” broke in Bartholomew, keen to derail any long anecdote that Reggie might be planning to inflict upon him. “I’m going to ask young Septimus if he’ll wheel it along in the barrow, later.”
“Good show,” said Reggie, “It will give the lad something to do. He’s been moping around a lot lately. Worried about the trials of parenthood, I’d imagine.”
Septimus stood on Durosimi’s doorstep, plucking up the courage to knock on the door. Like most of those who lived on Hopeless, Maine, he regarded Durosimi with a mixture of fear and awe. What was it that people called him? Sorcerer, or something similar. Warlock as well. Septimus knew what they meant. But Philomena had used words he had not heard before; thaumaturgist and necromancer. Were they good or bad?
While contemplating this, Septimus had not noticed that Durosimi had noiselessly opened the door and was standing in front of him.
“Yes?” it was surprising how much menace could be invested in a single syllable.
“Sorry, Mr O’Stoat. I’ve got your ale from The Squid. Sorry.”
“Why are you sorry that you have my ale?”
“Oh, sorry.”
“For goodness sake, stop apologising man, and bring it along to the kitchen.”
Septimus looked at the mud-splattered barrow and decided that wheeling it through the house might not be the popular thing to do.
Cradling the firkin in his arms, he dutifully followed after Durosimi.
Over the years, Septimus had visited several houses on the island. There was very little variation in their décor and furnishings. Out of necessity islanders depended upon anything that they could salvage to make their homes as comfortable as possible. This often led to some very odd combinations of furniture and fixtures, but these were generally functional and fulfilled a need. Durosimi’s house, however, was like none he had seen before. There were no sea-stained tables and chairs, upturned orange-boxes or cracked plates and mugs. Everything was pristine. Everything looked new and expensive. Septimus gazed, open mouthed; he had no idea that such opulence existed on Hopeless.
“Come on lad. Put the barrel down in the corner,” said Durosimi, then paused.
“You’re not even breaking a sweat,” he said. “That barrel must weigh eighty pounds, at least.”
“A hundred, according to Reggie Upton,” said Septimus, then paled visibly. He would not want Durosimi to think that he was trying to correct him.
“Indeed? You’re a strong fellow, I’ll give you that,” said Durosimi, sounding uncharacteristically pleasant. “You wouldn’t be wanting a job, by any chance?”
“A job? What sort of job.”
“Working for me occasionally. I could use someone like you,” said Durosimi.
“Someone like me?” said Septimus, warily.
“Someone with a bit of strength. I am not as young as I used to be, and some of my transactions… “
He let the sentence trail off, as though he had said too much.
“Look,” he went on. “I know you’ll have a growing family to support soon…”
“How do you… ?” began Septimus, but Durosimi held up his hand to silence him.
“Just hear me out. I saw you casting covetous eyes over the modest possessions I have in my parlour. Things like those could be yours, for no more than a few hour’s work occasionally.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” said Durosimi. “But you must tell no one. Not even that pretty little French bride of yours.”
The hair on Septimus’ neck prickled. Durosimi seemed to know more about him than he was comfortable with. But all the same…
“What do I need to do?” he asked.
“Nothing at the moment. I’ll send for you in a few days… and yes, I know where you live. I will be in touch with you soon, and remember – tell no one.”
“He will do nicely,” Durosimi thought to himself, with a mirthless smile, as he watched Septimus make his way down the hill. “Strong in the arm, and not too much in his head. Perfect!”
To be continued…
