While sheltering from a storm, Winston Oldspot, Hopeless Maine’s new Night-Soil Man, had been surprised to see the sorcerer, Durosimi O’Stoat, appear at the entrance to the cave in which he had sought refuge. Intent on his mission, Durosimi, with his lantern held aloft, hurried upon his way, disappearing into the darkness. It was obvious from the confident manner in which he moved that the sorcerer had trodden these pathways many times before.
His curiosity whetted, Winston decided to follow. While staying well back, he made sure to keep the glim of the lantern in view, until eventually finding himself at the mouth of the mysterious Crystal Cave. Regular readers will be aware that the Crystal Cave is strange and liminal, providing a portal to anywhere that it wishes to send you in time and space. Winston was totally ignorant of this. Durosimi, on the other hand, had mastered many of its secrets. His very first visit had deposited him in the study of the Elizabethan alchemist, Doctor John Dee. Fortunately, Dee had been in Poland at the time with his friend and associate, Edward Kelley, leaving Durosimi free to peruse the Doctor’s library and notebooks to his heart’s content. It was there that Durosimi had learned the secrets of the Crystal Cave, and the means by which he could control when and where it conveyed him. Winston had no such advantage, however, and was destined to be deposited wherever and whenever the cave’s capricious nature took him.
The eerie luminosity of tens of thousands of crystals had drawn Winston, moth-like, into the cave. Once inside, however, the light became subdued, and he suddenly found himself standing upon a well defined trackway, deep within a forest. He turned, and was relieved to see that the mouth of the cave was still visible, just a few yards away. It resembled a dark, egg-shaped patch, somehow stitched incongruously upon a tapestry of tall trees. Suddenly, his relief turned to dismay as the egg-shaped patch diminished, until all that remained was little more than an orb, the size of a tennis ball. He watched it hanging in the air for a moment, until, with a brief crackle of crystal light, the orb flared into nothingness.
Winston felt suddenly alone. He had no idea where he was, or what to do. He took a deep breath and persuaded himself not to panic, reasoning that the path upon which he was standing must eventually lead to somewhere, and Hopeless was only an island, after all. Home could not be too far away… could it? It felt to Winston that he had walked for miles. The daylight was fading and there seemed to be no end to the path through the forest. It was then that he heard voices. For a moment his heart leapt; here was rescue at last. Then he realised that, because of his particular odour, the noxious reek that has been the trademark of every Night-Soil Man who has ever lived, that it would be unlikely that anyone could bear to be within a dozen yards of him. Maybe it would be a better plan to disappear into the trees and follow whoever was coming from a discreet distance.
From a vantage point upwind of the path, Winston spied upon the two walkers. The boy and the girl looked to be around his own age, or possibly a year or two older. To the Night-Soil Man’s eyes, everything about the pair was outlandish. For a start, each carried an unfeasibly large pack on their back. It made him think wistfully of his lidded night-soil bucket, abandoned in the cave when he first stopped for shelter. Their jackets were shiny, and brightly coloured, but strangest of all, both wore short trousers. As far as he knew, no one on Hopeless would be likely to wear short trousers, certainly not that short, anyway. It would not be sensible, given the perpetual foggy weather… and then Winston’s world came crashing down. Where was the fog, the ribbons of mist? He had never known a day go by without seeing mist of some description.
For the first time that day he realised that he had been walking under a canopy of sun-dappled leaves, and not a wisp of fog in sight? Where was this place? By now the two hikers had gone, apparently walking back towards wherever it was that Winston had started his journey. They were a strange couple, to be sure, but they must have come from some sort of habitation. He scrambled back on to the pathway, and carried on heading, he guessed, in a vaguely north-easterly direction. After little more than ten minutes hope flared in his heart. He could see a signpost in the distance. Things, at last, were looking up.
Winston stared up at the signpost with confusion written all over his face. The pole itself was topped by diamond shaped board, with wooden eaves to keep the rain off. It reminded Winston of a birdhouse. On the board a thick black arrow pointed upwards, and encircling the arrow were the words ‘APPALACHIAN TRAIL – MAINE TO GEORGIA’. Immediately beneath the sign was a finger post proclaiming ‘1,090.5 Springer Mt’, followed by a large letter S. Beneath that was another finger post. An equally large N was followed by the legend ‘Mt Katahdin 1,090.5.’
Winston breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that he lived in the State of Maine, and there it was, marked on the signpost. General geography had never been on the curriculum at the Pallid Rock Orphanage, mainly because anywhere beyond the rocky shores of Hopeless was a mystery to most of the islanders, However, Winston had always prided himself upon his knowledge of mathematics and measurements. He knew that a mile consisted of five thousand two hundred and eighty feet, or one thousand seven hundred and sixty yards. If he was only just over a thousand yards from that mountain in Maine, why, he would be home within the hour. He strode into the dimming of the day with renewed hope and a light heart.
To be continued…