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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Spirits of the Glaciers

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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.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Yeti

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Reggie Upton, as you may recall, has no sense of smell, a relic of his days as an army officer in the India of the British Raj. As a result of this, and unlike others, he is able to happily enjoy the company of Winston Oldspot, the young Night-Soil Man, without fainting, gagging or throwing up.

There had been a recent occasion when Winston had gone missing for the best part of a week. Reggie had been terribly worried, and made a promise to himself that he would, in future, keep an eye on the lad, and make sure that he stayed safe. For a short while there seemed to be no threats to Winston’s well-being, then, one evening, to his horror, he discovered the young man apparently entertaining what appeared to be a Yeti. Although Reggie felt immediate panic, the old soldier that he was came swiftly to the fore, and he chose not to betray his feelings. Instead, he set his homburg firmly on his head, and prepared himself to join the pair with a jaunty air, a welcoming smile, and his trusty sword-stick at the ready.

You may ask why Reggie believed Winston’s companion – whom we know as Mr Squash – to be a Yeti, or indeed, how he had even heard of such beings. This is no great mystery; it was simply because the creature bore a marked resemblance to a sketch he had once been shown by a certain Lieutenant Colonel Francis Younghusband, a fellow officer who had led a British expedition to Tibet in the early 1900s. Reminiscing on his adventures a year or two later, Younghusband claimed, over a few drinks in the mess one evening, to have encountered a family of very large, ape-like animals, high in the Himalayas. As if to prove his point, he produced a sketch of the group, which he had purportedly drawn from life.

“Our Sherpa guides called them ‘Metoh Kangmi’ which translates as ‘The Scruffy Snowman’,” he explained. “It’s not a very complimentary moniker, is it, chaps? To my eyes they seem quite noble, in their own way. I prefer the other name by which they’re known, which is ‘The Bear of the Rock-Strewn Places.’ That’s a bit of a mouthful in English, but in Tibetan it sounds something like ‘Yeti.’

Until now, Reggie had taken Frankie Younghusband’s account with a large pinch of salt. It had become evident to all that, since returning from Tibet, the fellow had taken onboard quite a few rum ideas which he had picked up on his travels. However, seeing Mr Squash in the flesh, as it were, certainly forced Reggie to reconsider his opinion; Younghusband might have been on to something, after all. This ‘Metoh Kangmi’ with Winston, however, was far from scruffy and bore not the remotest resemblance to a snowman. As for being a ‘Bear of the Rock-Strewn Places,’ the impressive pelt of dark brown hair was somewhat bear-like, but there the similarity ended.

 “Reggie, meet my very good friend, Mr Squash,” said Winston, proudly.

Although Winston was obviously comfortable in the Yeti’s company, Reggie remained wary, but good manners dictated that he should be polite, at least until he knew more.

“How do you do,” said Reggie, instinctively offering a handshake, then immediately feeling foolish for having done so. He was surprised, therefore, to find that Mr Squash extended his own, huge leathery hand in response, and caught him in a firm, but gentle, grip.

“It is very good to meet you,” said Mr Squash in dark, velvety tones.

Despite his previous concerns, Reggie felt immediately at ease. Very few things fazed him anymore, and the fact that Mr Squash could engage in intelligent conversation seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Dash it, this chap was considerably more civilised than most of the people who lived on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

Winston looked on with approval as his two best friends conversed amicably; it was almost as though they had known each other for years.

 “Yeti?” said Mr Squash. “Is that what the humans call my relatives who live in The Land of Snow? Unfortunately, I don’t get to visit them very often these days – once every fifty years or so at best, I suppose. Oh, it isn’t about distance. These doorways we use – portals, you could say – mean that we’re only ever a few steps away from anywhere, but honestly, it’s too darned cold up there in those high, snowy mountains for me. Give me forests any day. Why, even this island is a better option.”

 “I hate to interrupt,” said Winston, “but I need to get to work, and time is getting on. You two carry on talking, I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Nonsense,” said Reggie.“Go and get your bucket, and put your boots on, lad. I’m sure that Mr Squash will be happy to walk with us.”

The Sasquatch nodded in agreement and, for the first time that evening, rose to his feet. Reggie gasped audibly and looking up, nearly lost his hat. He had not fully appreciated how incredibly huge the fellow was.

“With an army of chaps like him you could conquer the world,” he mused to himself. “It is a jolly good job that we’re on the same side,”

A thought crossed his mind and he caught Mr Squash’s eye.

“I must introduce you to a very dear friend of mine,” he said, with a mischievous grin. “Her name is Philomena Bucket…”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Watcher

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“Five days?” Winston Oldspot looked aghast. “That can’t be right, surely.”

“Five days,” confirmed Reggie Upton. “You were absent without leave for fully five days, m’boy. If it hadn’t been for the ghostly wisdom of Granny Bucket, who knows about such things, we would have assumed that you were dead.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Winston. “I went into a cave to shelter from a storm. I remember dropping off to sleep, and when I woke up the storm had passed. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple of hours.”

“I can promise you, you were gone for more than a couple of hours,” said Reggie. “It was as much as any of us could do to stop Rhys Cranham from getting back into his Night-Soil togs. It’s only for the fact that you’d taken the bucket with you that made him change his mind.”

Winston shook his head, bemused.

“And nothing at all strange happened, as far as you know?” enquired Reggie.

“Only a few weird dreams, which I’ve forgotten,” replied the young Night-Soil Man.

“Although… but no, that’s me being silly.”

“Go on, “ said Reggie. “There is no harm in saying it.”

“Well… ever since I’ve been back, I feel as though someone is watching me. That’s all.”

 A huge and hairy creature known as Mr Squash had, indeed, been watching Winston.

Upon discovering the boy unconscious, and apparently close to death, high on the Appalachian Trail, the Sasquatch carried him gently back to Hopeless, via one of the many hidden portals that only certain gifted beings, such as himself, can see. Mr Squash had used this portal to visit Hopeless on several occasions previously, and had cultivated no great love for the island. He especially disliked its perpetual fog and lamentable lack of anything resembling a primal forest. He had, however, developed something of an affection for Winston, and felt duty-bound to protect the lad. Unlike most others (not including Reggie Upton, who had long ago lost his sense of smell) he had no problem with the all-pervading reek of the Night-Soil Man.

 (This may be a good point to speak about the species to which Mr Squash belongs. From Siberia to Australia, via Asia and North America, tales are told of huge, hair-covered man-like creatures. Depending upon the location, they may be known as Sasquatch, Bigfoot, Skunk Ape, Yeti, Abominable Snowman, Elmasti, Mansi, Yowie, Almas… the list goes on. While many deny their very existence, there are others who insist that they have crossed paths with them, for good or ill. The one common trait linking all of these cryptids, as they may be described, is their elusiveness. They leave few traces, and seem to have the ability to disappear at will. In view of this, I can only assume that they all share Mr Squash’s gift for being able to swiftly dive into hidden portals and transport themselves to some distant spot.)

 Meanwhile, back in the tale… within a day or two of returning to Hopeless, Maine, Winston fell back into his old routine of sleeping during the day, and traversing the island at night to service the privies, thunder-boxes and, occasionally, cesspools, of an often less than grateful public. To all intents and purposes, little had changed in his life, except this creepy feeling of being constantly observed. It was only when he visited Ghastly Green, and the hermit, Neville Moore, did he have any clue as to who or what might be watching him.

Neville tended to keep late hours, mainly because his pet raven, Lenore, refused to come in before midnight, and spent her time gently rapping, rapping at his chamber door; only that, and nothing more.

“Good evening, Winston,” called Neville, a dozen yards away and safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man. He was standing on his porch, which, as porches go, was grander than most, its fluted columns lending the hermit’s cottage a look that would not disgrace a mausoleum. The overall effect was somewhat spoiled, however, by the many unsightly streaks of raven guano, but no one was going to mention that to Lenore.

 Winston waved back in greeting.

“I see that you have Mr Squash helping you these days,” shouted Neville. “It must be nice to have some company.”

“Mister who? Sorry I don’t understand…”

“Mr Squash. I haven’t seen him about for a year or two. It’s good to have him back.”

Winston was nonplussed. He had no idea as to what, or whom, Neville was referring.

The hermit, who rarely spoke more than he needed to, retired indoors, Lenore flapping noisily after him, fiercely intent on reaching the bust of Pallas, where she frequently liked to perch.

 Gathering all of his courage, Winston turned and spoke quietly into the dark, foggy stillness of the night.

“Will you come out to where I can see you, please, whoever you are?”

There was a rustling in the darkness, and Winston froze, suddenly confronted by nine feet and eight hundred pounds of hair and muscle.

For a long moment the night was wreathed in utter silence, then Winston said,

“I saw you… you were in my dream the other day.”

“That was not a dream,” said Mr Squash. His voice was as deep and dark as you might expect.

“You can speak!” exclaimed Winston in surprise.

“Of course I can speak,” said Mr Squash, sounding slightly offended. “What do you think I am, a sock-puppet?”

“No… no of course not,” stammered Winston.

“That’s alright, then,” said Mr Squash, amiably. “Come on, let’s get these privies emptied, and then you can fill me in with everything that’s been happening on the island since I was last here. Is Durosimi O’Stoat still alive?”

Winston’s heart dropped. If Mr Squash was a friend of Durosimi, that could not be good.

“Yes… well he was last week,” he said cautiously.

Mr Squash sighed.

“That’s a shame,” he said. “Still, you can’t have everything.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Mr Squash

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Having secretly followed Durosimi O’Stoat into the Underland, Winston Oldspot, Hopeless Maine’s newest Night-Soil Man, found himself in the mysterious Crystal Cave. While Durosimi had mastered some of the secrets of the cave, and could use it as a portal to Elizabethan England, Winston had no such skill, and was, instead, deposited onto a seemingly never ending woodland path. Eventually he came upon a sign informing him that he was walking along something called the Appalachian Trail, and heading for Mount Katahadin, in Maine. This, at least, was good news. Winston knew that he lived on an island in the state of Maine, and reasoned to himself that, in that case, he could not be too far away from Hopeless.

How wrong could he be? The Night-Soil Man had been walking for hours, without food or water. What he had hoped would be a short stroll home had become a gruelling, endless torment. Night had fallen and Winston felt afraid, vulnerable, and – more than anything else – exhausted. He dragged himself into a natural shelf scooped out beneath some tree roots, and fell into a deep, bone-weary, sleep.

Mr Squash had been patrolling parts of the Appalachian Trail pretty much since the very first sections were opened, back in nineteen twenty-three. He had, over the years, walked its entire length at least a hundred times, he reckoned. During that time he had made it his business to look out for the welfare of the trail’s many hikers, and keep them safe from bears, cougars and anything else that might threaten them. Not that everyone was grateful, but that didn’t stop Mr Squash. He had learned that he could be anonymous, keep back in the trees, and still help the folks who walked along the trail. Not all were hikers, though. There were some who came out here to do no more than whoop, bang sticks on the trunks of trees and generally try to raise Cain. Sometimes he had the distinct feeling that they were making all that fuss just to grab his attention. Heck, one or two fools had even been known to pour some sort of white muck into his footprints. Much as he was happy to help anyone, he wasn’t in the business of making friends with them. No sir! He had seen the sort of mess that friendships like that can make too many times.

It was the stink that first grabbed his attention. It reminded Mr Squash of some of the less thoughtful hikers who left their scat uncovered too close to the trail. It was a smell which was pretty much like that, but a hundred times stronger. Not that it bothered him. Smells – natural smells, at any rate – were a fact of life. Why, he had even heard himself described as being smelly. That was rubbish, of course, but this fellow sleeping under the tree roots was more than a little ripe.

I ought to mention that Mr Squash was fully nine feet tall and covered in thick, chestnut-brown hair. His face was neither human, nor ape, but somewhere in between. You could understand why his appearance might cause fear, but it is never wise to judge by outward appearances. Mr Squash had hidden abilities. When he put a huge, leathery hand on Winston’s brow, the young Night-Soil Man’s history was revealed to Mr Squash as easily as if it had been in a book (in fact, as Mr Squash was somewhat less than literate, Winston’s life, revealed in book-form, would have remained a total mystery to him). The Sasquatch, Skunk Ape, Bigfoot, call him what you will (but always Mr Squash to his face, of course) hefted the sleeping Winston into his arms as easily as if he were a feather, and carried him away from the trail to a place where two big old trees had fallen into each other’s branches, like reunited lovers. Their trunks formed an archway, through which Mr Squash carried Winston, and immediately disappeared.

The Night-Soil Man yawned, stretched and lay, for a few moments, with his eyes closed. The soft earth of the cave was beneath him, and he realised, with some relief, that he must have nodded off to sleep when the storm was raging outside. He recalled how he had been plunged into some very strange dreams; dreams that were now quickly fading. With a sigh, he picked up his bucket, secured the lid, and made his way to the cleft in the rocks, which had led him into the cavern. It was still not daylight outside, so he couldn’t have been there for too long.

Mr Squash had been around for too many years not to know where the secret portals lay. How many times had he wandered into a cave, or through some other natural gateway, to find himself far away from his intended destination? This morning, however, he was exactly where he needed to be, looking out onto the island of Hopeless, Maine. He had visited the place a few times before and, quite honestly, was not too fond of it. There were not enough trees here for his liking. But it seemed to be the place where the stinky kid called home, though. Standing in deep shadow he watched Winston make his way along the headland. He felt almost fatherly to the boy. Maybe he would stick around for a while and keep an eye out for him. He knew how hazardous the island could be. But not hazardous for him, of course. Nothing much ever troubled Mr Squash.

Author’s note: As you may know, the Appalachian Trail is about two thousand two hundred miles long. It runs from Georgia to Maine, passing through no less than fourteen states.