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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

When you walk through a storm…

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Winston Oldspot dragged on his boots, and peered out of the window with little enthusiasm. Since taking on the role of the official Night-Soil Man of the island of Hopeless, Maine, he had so far enjoyed his work. While there was always mist, and frequently thick fog, this was somehow a comfort; a cotton-wool blanket seemingly keeping the world at bay. Not that he needed anything like that, of course. Even as a comparative novice, the overarching stench of his calling was enough to keep even the most ravenous predator at bay. Tonight, however, there was the promise of a storm brewing. Something in his young bones told him that he needed to get to work, do as little as was absolutely necessary, then hurry back home before the skies burst and the wind threatened to blow him and his lidded-bucket out to sea.

It took less than an half-an-hour for Winston to realise that he had drastically underestimated the mood of the weather. It was very soon apparent that this was not going to be some gentlemanly tempest which allowed him time to fulfil his obligations before, almost apologetically, deciding to start playfully ruffling the trees. What was sweeping in from the wild Atlantic was a full-on, no-nonsense bruiser of a storm that roared across the island, screaming ‘Come on out if you think you’re hard enough,’ to anyone who cared to listen. Discretion had to be the better part of valour on a night like this and, with his bucket barely sullied, the young Night-Soil Man was forced to seek shelter.

Hopeless is honeycombed with caves, and it took next to no time for Winston to find a narrow cleft in the rocks, which opened out into a spacious cavern. He flopped gratefully onto the soft, sandy floor and prepared to sit patiently until such times as the storm eased sufficiently for him to return to the House at Poo Corner, the place that many generations of Night-Soil Men had called home.. That was the plan, anyway; the reality was that, within minutes, he had eased onto his back and allowed himself to drift into a comfortable slumber.

When he awoke the wind had stopped whistling through the cavern and the sound of rain outside had lessened. He reasoned to himself that in order for the storm to have blown itself out, several hours must have passed. With his joints aching, Winston pulled himself to his feet, then stiffened. There was a faint light illuminating the cave’s mouth. Someone was outside with a lantern and they were coming in. Quietly, he slipped into a recess,deep in the darkness of the cave, far enough away from anyone entering for them not to see, or more importantly, not to smell him.  Even if the newcomer was no threat, Winston had no wish to meet anyone; he did not enjoy the company of others. That is why he had chosen to become a Night-Soil Man.

The yellow gleam of the lantern pierced the gloom of the cave, casting long shadows that swept up the walls. Winston pushed himself further into the recess and watched intrigued, as the sinister shape of the lantern-bearer strode confidently along. It quickly became obvious to the Night-Soil Man that this could be only one person – Durosimi O’Stoat. He had seen the sorcerer skulking around the island in the depths of the night before. It was also clear that this was not the first time that Durosimi had walked this path. On a whim, Winston resolved to follow him, being careful to keep the glimmer of the lantern in view, but maintaining a safe distance; he needed to be far enough behind to ensure that his malodour was not going to betray him.

Following the dancing light of Durosimi’s lantern, Winston lost all sense of time and distance. He may have been walking for an hour, or possibly only for ten minutes, when the darkness became impenetrable. Either Durosimi had doused his lantern, or he had gone into a part of the cave which shielded the flame completely. Winston stopped, straining his ears for the slightest movement, but there was none. He remained standing stock-still for some minutes, until his curiosity, and a sudden cramp in his left leg, forced him to move. Gingerly feeling his way along the wall, he ventured deeper into the cave. He had been aware that the path was gradually descending for some time, but now the gradient became more obvious, then his outstretched hand felt nothing; the wall had disappeared. It took but a moment to realise that he had reached a junction, and that the path had taken a ninety-degree turn. That was why the lantern’s glow had disappeared. Before him, now, he could see a pale, unearthly glow. It emanated from the entrance to yet another cavern. The memory of a snatch of conversation stirred in his mind. It was something that he had overheard  some months earlier, before Rhys Cranham had retired and Winston was still an apprentice. Rhys had been talking to Reggie Upton about Philomena Bucket closing the pathway to somewhere called the Underworld. No, that was not right. It was the Underland. Reggie had said something about some girl getting lost after straying into the Crystal Cave, and that is why the way to the Underland was being shut off for good.

Winston gulped. If that was really the Crystal Cave ahead, and Durosimi was in there, he wasn’t making any noise. Maybe he needed rescuing. Taking his bucket off his back, and placing it on the stony ground, he decided that it was no more than his duty to come to the aid of the notorious Mr. O’Stoat; maybe he would be rewarded for his trouble. Besides that, he was curious to see for himself what all the fuss was about, concerning the mysterious Crystal Cave. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation he made his way in…

To be continued.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Job

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By Martin Pearson

“Why are you so distracted, Septimus?”  

Mirielle D’Illay barked the words at her husband as he stumbled over his dance routine for the third time. 

“Sorry,” stammered Septimus. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” 

“Well, move it off your mind and concentrate on the dance. We’ll be performing in front of an audience in a few days, and it needs to be perfect.” 

“A few days?” said Septimus, paling. 

“Yes – it’s your mother’s birthday party, or have you forgotten?” 

“But I won’t be able to…” 

“You won’t be able to do what?” Mirielle regarded him darkly. “I hope that you’re not going to say you won’t be dancing at Mabel’s party.” 

Septimus had recently agreed to help Durosimi O’Stoat complete some mysterious task or other, and had, that very morning, received a message from the sorcerer informing him that he would be required to start work on the following day. Septimus had been reminded to tell no one. 

“So where will you be?” Mirielle demanded. 

Septimus, who had become suddenly and unaccountably uxorious since learning that he was to become a father, was reluctant to lie to his wife. Durosimi, however, had sworn him to secrecy, and Durosimi was not the sort of person you wanted to disobey. 

“It’s just something I’ve been asked to do at The Squid and Teapot,” he said, not totally untruthfully. A few days earlier Septimus had delivered a firkin of ale to Durosimi. That was when the offer of a job had arisen. The firkin was now, apparently empty and needed to be returned to the inn, and another one taken to Durosimi. How the sorcerer had got through nine gallons of ale in such a short time, and now needed a further supply, was beyond Septimus’ comprehension. 

“So you would rather mess about in the cellar of The Squid than going to your mother’s party and dancing with me?” 

“Of course not, but I really have to…” 

“I don’t know why you don’t move into The Squid and Teapot, like Reggie Upton,” Mirielle broke in angrily.  “You might as well be married to that mad Englishman. You two deserve each other.” 

“That’s just being silly…” began Septimus, but he was talking to himself. Mirielle had already left the building. 

“It is a simple enough task,” said Durosimi. “I just need you to break up few rocks. It is easy enough work for a youngster such as yourself.” 

Septimus gazed into the gaping mouth of the cavern with some disquiet. It was all very well Durosimi seeing him as being a strong young man. No one had said anything about needing to be brave. 

“That looks a tad creepy in there, Mr O’Stoat,” he said, nervously. 

Durosmi smiled a mirthless smile that was meant to be reassuring. 

“Nonsense, lad,” he said, laying a hand on Septimus’ shoulder. “You will have a lantern, and it is perfectly safe, I can assure you, and you won’t be alone. There are some other fellows in there, all willing recruits like you. They seem very happy. I would do the job myself, but alas, I am not as young as I used to be.” 

Septimus wondered what that had to do with anything. True, Durosimi certainly had a few years under his belt, but surely, he was no older than Septimus’ own father, Seth, who was still as strong as an ox. 

Holding his candle lantern aloft, Septimus gave a sigh. His shoulder tingled, where Durosimi had touched him, and his mind was growing foggy. 

“They seem very happy,” he said dreamily, and wandered, like a sleepwalker, into the cavern.  

“I thought he’d never go,” muttered Durosimi. 

“He has been gone for three days,” wailed Mirielle. “I was too harsh with him, what have I done? Mon Dieu, what have I done?” 

“Whatever it is that has happened, it is not your fault,” reassured Philomena Bucket. “I checked with Bartholomew, and he said that the last time he had seen Septimus, he was in the cellar of The Squid, and about to swap Durosimi’s empty firkin for a full one.” 

“Durosimi?” said Mirielle, aghast. “Durosimi O’Stoat?” 

Philomena nodded. She did not know anyone else called Durosimi, and did not imagine that Mirielle did, either.  

“I am uneasy if Septimus is associating with that man.” 

“Me too,” said Philomena, wishing that Granny was around, so that she could at least to ask for her advice. True to form the ghost of Granny Bucket made a point of turning up when you least wanted her but failed to appear when needed.  

“If only we could find where he is gone,” whimpered Mirielle. 

“Maybe we can,” said Philomena, after some thought. “I think I know who can help.” 

Philomena Bucket had always been wary of the priesthood, but, in recent months, Father Stamage had become the exception. It helped that, since his unfortunate death, his views on the afterlife had been drastically revised.  

“Septimus is lost?” said the ghostly Jesuit. “Of course, I would be very happy to help, but I can’t really see what use I would be.” 

“You do yourself a disservice, Father,” said Philomena. “You’ll help no end, as long as you’re happy to team up with Drury for a spell.” 

Father Ignatius bridled a little at the word ‘spell’. He was only too aware of what the Bucket women were capable of when it came to spells. Then he realised that this was no more than a figure of speech. 

“With Drury?” he said, his curiosity roused. “Why, yes, I get on with the old chap quite well these days, but I can’t really see…” 

“You will,” said Philomena with a grin. “Leave it to me.” 

Had you been standing outside The Squid and Teapot, later that evening, you may have spotted a skeletal hound slip out from the shadows, with a bible-black hat firmly held between his jaws. Drury was notorious for stealing various items of discarded clothing, but his usual tactic would be to dash away with it, causing as much mayhem as possible in the process. This evening, however, he slunk along, his bony nose firmly fixated upon the ground. Occasionally he would put the hat down, sniff the air, then finding his bearings, pick up the hat once more and continue with his mission.  

As I have mentioned in other tales, you and I might find no more than the odours of sweat, cheap brilliantine and faded incense in the priest’s somewhat battered Capello Romano. For Ignatius Stamage, however, to haunt his hat was to walk, once more, through the cool, venerable corridors of his old alma mater, Campion Hall, in Oxford. 

It was less than an hour later that Drury found himself standing at the forbidding mouth of a dark cavern. The ground was thick with scents, but he could easily distinguish that of Septimus from the others. Laying the hat upon the ground, he gave a low bark, intended to summon the ghost of Father Ignatius. Without a word, the ghostly priest drifted from the comfort of his hat and Campion Hall, and into the gloom-laden cavern, unseen and unheard by any who might be watching.  

To be continued… 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Crystal Cave

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You may recall that Philomena Bucket, with skirts tucked into the waistband of her sturdy Victorian underwear, had made her way down the long, vertical ladder which would take her from the attics of The Squid and Teapot to the tunnels which led to the Underland. Why she needed to go there was a mystery, but the compulsion was so great that wild spoonwalkers could not have kept her from her mission.

Unbeknownst to Philomena, after Trickster had discarded the rapidly failing body of Marigold Burleigh, he had attempted to possess her instead. What neither he, nor indeed Philomena, knew was that she was descended from the mysterious Tuatha de Danann, the Old Gods of ancient Ireland, latterly regarded as being Faerie folk, and their blood flowed strongly in her veins. Trickster was confounded; he was no match for power such as this and now he found himself trapped. As for Philomena, totally unaware of what was happening, she had the weirdest sensation that something was bursting to get out of her, wriggling and squirming inside both her mind and body. She did not dare to open her mouth or relax until she had found a place of safety. This was why the Underland was calling.

As she made her way through the underground passage, where the rush lights on the walls burned continuously, every step became more difficult, as though whatever it was that raged within her was furiously resisting her progress. Upon reaching the mouth of the magical cavern, at the end of the tunnels, Philomena stopped, not knowing what to expect. In the past it had been a portal to Doctor Dee’s study in Tudor England. She nursed a faint hope that he would be waiting for her again. Gingerly she stepped through the mouth of the cave, half-expecting to be greeted by the wily old alchemist. But there was no John Dee – just an empty space; the inside of a hollow hill. Minutes ticked by, and Philomena gasped in wonder as the walls gradually took on an eerie light of their own; they were studded now with crystals, as faint and plentiful as stars.  Then, as if somehow called, spectral figures materialised all around her.

“Ghosts? No, these are not ghosts,” she thought to herself, though she had no idea what or who they might be. Each one was tall and slender, pale and beautiful, yet not a little terrifying, at the same time.

“Welcome daughter,” they whispered as one, though in no language that she had heard before, but yet understood.

“You bring a gift for us.”

For the first time in hours Philomena opened her mouth to speak, and as she did so, Trickster tumbled out on her breath, and lay writhing upon the floor of the cave.

Try as she might, Philomena found it impossible to discern the creature’s true shape. The angry tangle of life, thrashing and twisting before her in the crystal light, resembled no more than an indistinct, smoky kaleidoscope image of human and animal forms. Without knowing why, Philomena instinctively recognised the identity of the protean being who had tried to possess her, and as if in confirmation of her knowledge, the strange throng began to chant, though their voices were barely audible, and the shining walls of the crystal cave whispered back the litany of Trickster’s many names.  

To her own surprise, Philomena felt no fear or apprehension as the company gathered closer around her. She knew now, in her heart of hearts, that here she was safe, secure in the bosom of her ancient kinfolk.  She reached out in an effort to embrace each and every one, but they glided through and past Philomena, becoming no more than a dazzling, yet ever diminishing mass, an imploding star with the strange, dark storm that was Trickster at its core. And then they were gone and the crystal cave was empty.

Outside the entrance, the air seemed to be becoming brighter, as if bathed in the light of a spring morning. That was impossible, she reasoned. But the impossible seemed to be commonplace that day, for Philomena could see her own form quite clearly, as if viewed from afar. She watched herself turn, looking to take her leave. Everything about her glowed, her pale hair and skin reflecting the crystal light.

“I am glimmering,” she murmured to herself, then smiled. Glimmering? Whoever used that word? She had no idea where it had come from.

“Time to go,” she thought, and found herself running through the mouth of the crystal cave and out into the brightening air, redolent with the scent of apple-blossom.

She had no memory of her journey back through the tunnels, or the ascent of the vertical ladder to the inn’s attics. In fact, she had only a vague awareness that something quite wonderful had happened. It felt as though the darkness that had been festering within her had been replaced with a pure white light.

“Your friend, Marigold, gave us a fright. She looked half dead when Rhys left her at our door, but she seems fine now,” said Ariadne Middlestreet, the following morning.  “The first thing she said to us, after recovering consciousness, was, ‘Is Philomena alright?’ She will be relieved to know that you are alive and well, that’s for sure. She was quite convinced that whatever it was that had attacked her had decided to set upon you.”

“No, I’m okay, never better,” Philomena smiled, “I wonder whatever put that thought into her head?”

She wandered into the kitchen, rolling her sleeves up. There was plenty to do before the doors of The Squid and Teapot opened for the day. Drury, the skeletal hound, was already there, his tail wagging happily, glad that the worrying version of Philomena, whom he had watched the night before striding purposefully down the Gydynap Hills, seemed to have gone.

As if reading his thoughts, she looked at him and said, thoughtfully,

“You know, Drury, it really feels as though a dark chapter of my life is closed for good.  Hopeless is not the easiest place to live, but I’ve got some good friends and that’s worth a lot.”

Drury wagged his tail again, inclined his head to one side and nuzzled Philomena’s hand with his bony face. Philomena closed her eyes and felt a velvet muzzle, and a soft warm tongue brush against her fingers. A single tear ran down her pale cheek.

“Now then, you old rogue, that’s enough of that,” she gently chided. “And these starry-grabby pies won’t make themselves…”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Black Tent

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Philomena Bucket and Doctor John Dee stood hand in hand, gazing into the mist-filled mouth of the mysterious cavern that lay deep beneath the island of Hopeless, Maine.  Philomena was on a mission to unleash the magic which, apparently, resided within her. She had enlisted the aid of the sixteenth-century alchemist, Doctor Dee, who, until being hurled through time and space to the island, had been Court Astrologer to Queen Elizabeth. Exactly how this magic was to be released, however, neither had any idea; they were led here purely by Philomena’s intuition that this cavern was the place where her magical abilities were choosing to manifest.

The two looked around them in wonder. As soon as they had stepped through the misty cave mouth, they found themselves transported to somewhere deep within a rich, green forest, where dappled sunlight played through the leaf canopy, high overhead. The air was filled with birdsong and the scent of the wild garlic and bluebells, growing in profusion all about them.

“It must be Springtime here,” observed Dee. “What a delightful place this is.”

“Well, I’d bet anything that we’re not on Hopeless,” said Philomena. “Spring flowers? Birdsong? No, it is all too perfect. I wonder what we’re supposed to do, now that we’re here?”

“We could look in there,” said Doctor Dee, pointing to a ragged-looking black tent, that neither had previously noticed. It was squatting beneath the branches of an equally ragged-looking black tree.

“It must be there for a reason,” declared Dee, not particularly convincingly.

As they drew closer it became clear that, at some point, the tree had been struck by lightning, leaving its branches blackened and skeletal. The tent, which had obviously seen better days, was based upon a yurt-like design, but without any indication of the comfort that such structures usually provide. Doctor Dee unhitched the door flap and, with no little amount of trepidation, the two ventured in.

Philomena looked about her with a certain amount of disappointment. Daylight showed through the threadbare sides and roof of the tent, while the floor had no covering. Could it possibly have any relevance to her mission? She turned to ask John Dee his opinion.

“Do you think…” she began, but the sentence died on her lips as she watched Dee gradually fade away into nothingness. Her last sight of his semi-opaque form was to see him reaching out to her. She thought that she could hear him calling her name, but the sound came from far, far away. She tried to touch his outstretched arms, but they were as insubstantial as a sunbeam, and then he was gone. Philomena was not a woman who cried easily, but, feeling suddenly alone, she fell to her knees and wept.

Upon entering the tent, John Dee was surprised to find that he was in his study, at home. Everything was as he had left it; his obsidian scrying bowl was still on the floor, where it had dropped when Philomena, Norbert and Bartholomew had first appeared. He turned to speak to Philomena, and was not a little shocked to find her disappearing before his very eyes. He reached out, at the same time anxiously calling her name. As he did so, the thought crossed his mind that, until now, he had always referred to her as Mistress Bucket. It was ironic that it was only when he was losing her that he felt familiar enough to call her Philomena.

“And who is Philomena? Some bawd or other, I do not doubt.”

Dee turned to see his wife standing in the doorway.  

“Jane, my precious, I… I was just contemplating writing a treatise upon Saint Philomena,” he stammered, crossing his fingers behind his back.

“I cannot say that I am familiar with her,” replied his wife, suspiciously. “Anyway, I came in to remind you that you have an appointment with Sir Francis Walsingham in an hour.”

An appointment with Walsingham? Dee suddenly remembered that he had been due to meet with the Queen’s spymaster on the very afternoon that he had been whisked away to Hopeless. It dawned upon him that, incredibly, those weeks of his life spent on that strange little island in the New World had apparently passed by in but a few minutes in Elizabethan England.

“Walsingham… yes Walsingham, indeed my love. I will make myself ready,” he said hurriedly, gathering his composure and relieved that he had somehow succeeded in getting away with inventing a Saint Philomena.  Incidentally, and apropos to nothing at all, it would be another three hundred years before the bones of the third-century Philomena of Corfu, patron saint of Infants, babies and youth, would be discovered, and the girl eventually canonised.

Philomena Bucket was feeling anything but saintly. She was angry; angry with herself for coming to this place, angry with John Dee for disappearing and angry beyond words because she could not find a way out. She wandered back along the path that she was certain they had taken, but there was no welcoming cave mouth to guide her back to The Squid and Teapot. She searched the forest all day, but to no avail. The light was fading and Philomena was tired and hungry. She realised that she needed to get back to the black tent, and shelter within its thin walls for the night. Her main concern was, however, that she would never find it again. She had walked miles, and in no particular direction. What were her chances of stumbling upon it once more? And then the realisation came upon her, that she was here to unearth her latent magical abilities, and doubtless, the forest, the tent and the lightning-tree all had a part to play if this was to be achieved. There was no point in being frightened, or resisting the inevitable. All she needed to do was to surrender to whatever it was that had created this illusion, for illusion it surely was, and hope for the best.   

No sooner had these thoughts formed in her mind than the lightning-tree came into view; the black-tent still sitting beneath its branches. Accepting whatever might befall, Philomena slipped inside its dark interior and closed the door-flap behind her. In the gloom she could see that a pitcher of water had been placed on the ground, next to a simple straw palliasse. Gratefully Philomena drank some water, then sank, exhausted, onto the little bed, desperately wishing that Drury was there to keep her company.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Cavern

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“Well!” exclaimed Philomena Bucket, “I really didn’t this expect this.”

Bartholomew Middlestreet and Norbert Gannicox stayed silent, but wordlessly acknowledged to themselves that the barmaid was right; what they had found was totally unexpected. An hour earlier the three had discovered a secret passage beneath The Squid and Teapot, and along with Drury, the skeletal hound, had clambered down countless steps, hoping to come upon the fabled long-lost tunnel which would take them to the mainland.  Instead they had walked into this vast, cathedral-like space, lying deep beneath the fog-strewn island of Hopeless, Maine.

“Maybe this was a smugglers’ den,” said Bartholomew, “and if that is the case, there ought to be another tunnel somewhere, leading to the sea.”

It seemed to be a reasonable assumption, and they immediately set about exploring the area. The meagre light of their candle-lanterns, however, was no match for the blanket of darkness that surrounded them, and there looked to be little hope of finding another way out; then Philomena spotted a sconce attached to the stonework. Further exploration revealed that there were several arrayed around the perimeter of the walls, each one filled with dry rushes. It was obvious that these had, at some point long ago, been prepared in readiness for a gathering of some description. Norbert, who was the tallest of the trio, reached up and lit one of the sconces with his candle. In an instant the rushes burst into flame, casting huge shadows that danced alarmingly against the harsh, unforgiving grey walls that soared high above them.

Norbert lit two more of the torches. It was only then that the trio truly appreciated the space in which they were standing. This was no simple subterranean cavern, but a huge underground chamber with walls of dressed granite, and close-fitting flagstones beneath their feet. Any clue as to who had constructed this, much less the when and why, was apparently lost long ago.

“Over there…” said Norbert, pointing to a point on the far wall that lay in deeper shadow.

He had spotted the mouth of a tunnel, gloomy and uninviting, on the opposite side of the room. The three intrepid explorers were in no hurry to go on, and it was only Drury who seemed to be unfazed by the prospect of entering. With his bony tail wagging and his feet clattering on the hard floor, he wandered nonchalantly across and sniffed at the threshold of dark passage. Filled with uncertainty, the others followed.

“Well, if Drury is happy with it, I have no problem in following,” declared Philomena, stoutly.

Bartholomew looked at Norbert and raised his eyebrows. Unlike Philomena, both men had lived on Hopeless for all of their lives, and were aware that tunnels and passageways were not the nicest of places to frequent at the best of times. Compared to the denizens of The Underland, the creatures who lived above the ground were warm and cuddly. Besides this, Drury was not exactly a barometer of common-sense. It was only the fact that the dog was seemingly immortal, that had saved him from many a scrape in the past.

“I don’t think we should…” began Bartholomew, but he saw the look in Philomena’s eye and hurriedly amended the remainder of his sentence. “I don’t think we should go into these unknown areas completely unprepared. Your idea about taking various bits of equipment with us was sound, Philomena.”

(If you recall, in the tale ‘The Underland’, Philomena had, indeed, suggested that they take a small mountain of equipment on the expedition.)

Before the words were out of his mouth, however, Drury gave a bark and disappeared into the depths of the tunnel.

“Hey, wait for me…” cried Philomena and, with her candle-lantern held aloft, dashed after him.

“Philomena…” shouted Bartholomew, but it was too late, she was out of sight.

For the second time in as many minutes the two men looked at each other with eyebrows raised.

“Ah, what the heck,” said Norbert, getting as perilously close to cursing as he ever did. “In for a penny…”

Reluctantly the two men disappeared into the gaping maw that yawned before them.

Meanwhile, far away in time and space, two men sat hunched over their respective flagons of warm ale. One was Doctor John Dee, necromancer, and Court Astrologer to Queen Elizabeth the First of England; the other, much younger man, was his friend and associate, the spirit-medium and would-be alchemist, Edward Kelley. They had come to The George Inn, in Southwark, in the knowledge that they would not be recognised. This part of the city of London was largely populated by a colourful array of whores, vagabonds, conmen, thieves, escaped criminals, mountebanks, wandering minstrels and other ne’er do-wells. When not guarding their own lives and property, each and every one of these citizens was far more interested in watching the bloodshed occurring in the bear pits, the bullrings, and the alehouses that staged bare-knuckle fights, than spying on Dee and Kelley.

Looking furtively over his shoulder, Doctor Dee opened a nondescript leather satchel and pulled out an ancient looking book.

“What’s that?” demanded Kelley

“Navigatio Sancti Brendani Abbatis,” said Dee, triumphantly.

To John Dee’s disappointment Edward Kelley looked singularly unimpressed.

“The voyage of Saint Brendan the Abbot,” he translated. “So what? I can’t get excited about the antics of some old Irish monk taking a pleasure-trip.”

“Edward… Edward,” hissed Dee, urgently. “Do you not know of Brendan’s discoveries. I grant you, much related in these pages might be brain-addled rubbish from drinking salt-water, but there was one island that he mentions, towards the very end of his voyage, that really seems to be a portal between earth and all the hidden realms beyond. Imagine that, Edward, from that island we can reach the very shores of Heaven and Hell themselves. Who knows what we may discover? I have permission to mount an expedition in the Queen’s name – and at her expense, obviously – and you and I shall find this island, far away on the edge of the New World, and discover all of its secrets.”

“Sorry, I cannot,” replied Kelley, “I’ve just gained a position as alchemist to King Rudolf of Saxony. I’ll be leaving London at the end of this month.”

Dee’s face darkened.

“How on earth do you think that you are going to turn base metal into gold?” he asked brusquely. “The last time I looked, the only alchemical transformation that you’ve managed successfully is turning sour ale into piss!”

“Rudolf doesn’t know that, but I’m sure I’ll be fine” replied Kelley, breezily ignoring the insult. “Anyway, I am sorry I can’t join you on your voyage.  By the way, what is the name of this place you’ll be sailing to?”

“As far as I can tell, Brendan did not name it,” said Dee. “Though, upon returning to Ireland, when asked to describe the place, he clutched his head at the memory, curled up in a ball, and wailed, “It’s Hopeless, I tell you. The island is Hopeless!”

To be continued…

Author’s note: Over the years the George Inn, in Southwark, has been a favourite watering-hole of many famous people, including Shakespeare, Dickens, Chaucer and Winston Churchill. It was rebuilt following the Great Fire of Southwark in 1676.

(Cave image in this post is a chapter cover from Victims, and has a goblin in it, which may cause confusion, but that’s what goblins do…)