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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Don’t Bite Durosimi

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The story so far… While rummaging in the attics of The Squid and Teapot, Benjamin Bencome had been swallowed up in a mysterious vortex, in which time was accelerated. Unfortunately, for Benjamin, his remaining years of life were discharged in a matter of minutes and, as Philomena, Rhys and Reggie looked on, the last vestiges of his earthly remnants disappeared to dust before their very eyes.

It seemed obvious to all that, with the vortex appearing to grow, all of the island of Hopeless, Maine, could soon be devoured; that was when someone had the bright idea of enlisting the unlikely assistance of Durosimi O’Stoat. It was correctly assumed that Durosimi would doubtless be as reluctant as anyone to see his future evaporate away in a few seconds, and therefore be happy to try and rectify matters.

After consulting various grimoires, therimoires, diabologues, necronomicons, and a yellowing edition of ‘Old Moore’s Almanack’, Durosimi discovered that a lodestone placed into the centre of the vortex, and in a north-south alignment, would banish it completely. Unfortunately this would entail the person volunteering for the role of lodestone-depositor to age alarmingly before such times as they could leave the vortex. And so, it came to pass that with a generous measure of glory in his eye, and an upper lip stiffer than a rifle barrel, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton boldly bade his friends farewell, and, lodestone in hand, prepared to enter the vortex and meet certain death.

“Are you really that keen to die?” asked Durosimi.

“Well, someone has to do it, and I didn’t hear you volunteer,” replied Reggie, indignantly.

“No, you didn’t,” said Durosimi. “And you don’t have to… unless you are looking forward to a glorious martyrdom, of course.”

“So how do you propose we do this?” Philomena Bucket’s voice was brimming with hope. The thought of Reggie walking to his doom was dreadful beyond belief.

“By getting that infernal dog of yours to do it, of course,” snapped Durosimi.

Philomena’s pale skin grew even paler.

“Drury?” said Reggie. “That’s asking a lot of him. Why the devil should he want to sacrifice himself any more than you do?”

“Do I have to spell it out?” said Durosimi, exasperation in his voice. “Drury died years ago, long before any of us currently in this room were born. He could be in and out the vortex in just a few seconds. Another hundred years or so would be nothing to him.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Philomena.

“Of course I am,” lied Durosimi, “but whether he’s intelligent enough to see the task through is another matter.”

“Oh, he’s intelligent enough – more intelligent than a lot of humans I know,” said Philomena. “Let me talk to him.”

Drury had been easy to track down; he was slumbering happily in the snuggery, and snoring loudly, when Philomena found him.

There is a common belief among pet owners that their particular familiar has the ability to understand every word that they say. This may, or may not, be true, but in the case of Philomena – the last of a long line of powerful witches – and Drury, who had been hob-nobbing around humans for a couple of centuries, this was no idle platitude.

Philomena was able to give the osseous hound directions regarding the placing of the lodestone, and, much to the dog’s chagrin, firm instructions not to bite Durosimi.

To everyone’s obvious relief Durosimi’s information appeared to have been correct. Drury slipped into the vortex, placed the lodestone and ambled out again with no apparent ill-effects.

For what seemed like an eternity, nothing significant happened. Then the vortex slowed, and gradually diminished in size, until it resembled nothing more than a small green navel spinning in the corner of the room.

“There, it’s perfectly harmless now,” said Durosimi. “And far too small to do any damage.”

“But it hasn’t gone completely, has it?” said Reggie, concerned that this was not quite the end of the matter.

Suddenly, everyone jumped, and was rendered temporarily deaf, as a loud explosion rent the air and blew the glass out of the small attic windows.

“It has now,” said Philomena, but of course, no one could hear her except Drury, who wagged a bony tail, yawned, and went back down to the snuggery to catch up on his interrupted sleep.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Behold the Jewel in the Skunk Cabbage

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 “Far be it from me to gossip, but he definitely isn’t the same these days,” said Doc Willoughby.

Reverend Davies sniffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he muttered.

Doc had imparted the news that a complete change of character had come over Durosimi O’Stoat, following his recent stay in a Tibetan monastery.

“You will believe it, I promise you,” replied Doc. “He is wandering around like a man in a trance, gabbling something incomprehensible, and beaming at everyone.”

“Beaming, you say? That is odd. Maybe the experience of being dragged through that Squash fellow’s portal twice has finally sent him over the edge,” mused the Reverend. “I always said that these occult things that he seems to be obsessed with would be his downfall one day.”

Doc Willoughby was not the only person who had registered a change in Durosimi’s behaviour; he had become the talk of The Squid and Teapot.

 “It sounds as though he’s gone quite insane,” said Philomena Bucket.

“Not at all,” replied Reggie Upton. “I would guess that a couple of weeks in a Buddhist monastery up in the Himalayas has revealed more to him than just yak-butter tea and chilblains.”

“Such as?” asked Philomena, who found the prospect of Durosimi’s conversion to Buddhism hard to swallow.

“He has doubtless seen what those monks can achieve through harsh discipline and untold hours of meditation,” said Reggie. “I have never been to Tibet, but I know what those yogi chaps in India can do.”

Reggie paused, and stared into his drink.

“And I also know what I achieved myself, with the help of my dear friend, Annie,” he added.

Benjamin Bencombe opened his mouth to ask what that might be, but a glare from Philomena changed his mind. She knew that Reggie, and the love of his life, Annie Besant, had lost contact since he left India for Africa, and the Boer War. She also knew that Annie, a Theosophist, had taught him how to make a thought-form, a tulpa, in her likeness. More than thirty years had passed since then, and the tulpa – who would always be a young version of Annie – still haunted him.

“So what is that gibberish I’ve heard him spouting?” grinned Septimus Washwell. “Sounds like Oh Mammy something something…”

“That would be Sanskrit, not gibberish,” corrected Reggie. He had not liked the way in which Septimus was making light of this, and there was disapproval in his voice. “And it is a well-known mantra, Om Mani Padme Hum.”

Philomena raised an eyebrow.  “And I bet that you’re now going to tell us what that means.”

“Of course,” agreed Reggie. “It translates as something like Behold the Jewel in the Lotus.”

“Speaking as a botanist,” piped up Benjamin Bencombe, at last allowed to speak, “I find it most unlikely that this Durosimi fellow is going to have much luck beholding lotuses on Hopeless, bejewelled or no.”

“There are no lotus flowers to speak of,” laughed Philomena, “but we do have plenty of skunk cabbage.”

“Ah, Symlocarpus foetidus, if I’m not mistaken,” said Benjamin, then added in a low voice, “and I rarely am.”

 The speculation regarding Durosimi and his apparent transformation was not completely unfounded, but a changed character he definitely was not – at least, not on the inside. He had seen enough during his sojourn in Tibet to convince him that his own form of sorcery was crude compared with the natural magic of the monks, the result of very many years of discipline and study. Although keen to replicate their feats, Durosimi had no intention of investing any more time into the venture than was strictly necessary. He knew his own strengths, and was convinced that he could master, in just a few weeks, powers that some lamas claimed to have devoted several lifetimes to achieve. Besides, Durosimi was not at all sure that he had several lifetimes at his disposal.

 Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, was all too aware of the most recent topic of conversation on the island, and was not happy. He had known Durosimi since the sorcerer was in diapers, and he had never trusted the man. He could only imagine what might happen if Durosimi became proficient in Buddhist magic, which Mr Squash had witnessed with his own eyes, and some of it had terrified even him. He felt responsible, and believed that it was up to him to put things right. He would have to take Durosimi through a portal again, somewhere far away, where he could do no harm… and make sure that the sorcerer never came back.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Be Careful What You Wish For

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 “It’s beyond me where he gets it from.”  

Reverend Davies peered up from the sermon he was trying to compose, a look of slight irritation on his face.  “Sorry? Who are you talking about?”

“Durosimi,” said Doc Willoughby. ” I was saying, I wonder where he gets all of that single-malt whisky from.”  

“I would be more interested to know why he’s letting you drink any of it. He must have some ulterior motive.”  

“Not necessarily,” said the Doc, trying to sound offended. “It’s not unheard of to share a glass or two with a friend, occasionally.”  

“Indeed,” replied the Reverend, “but you know as well as I do, Durosimi doesn’t have friends. Neither do you, for that matter…  present company excepted, of course,” he added quickly.

Doc was well aware that any friendship between himself and Reverend Davies had all of the warmth of a spoonwalker’s stare, but he smiled and nodded in agreement.  “You’re probably right,” he conceded. “He was desperate to find out everything I know about Mr Squash.”  

“The Sasquatch?” said Reverend Davies in surprise. “Why on earth would Durosimi want to know what he was up to?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” replied the Doc.

Mr Squash had never liked Durosimi O’Stoat. Over the years he had visited Hopeless many times and had watched a vaguely unlikable child grow into thoroughly unlikable adult, and the feeling was, he was certain, totally mutual. Mr Squash was surprised, therefore, when, one night, the sorcerer’s angular form came out of the trees and greeted him like a long lost friend.  

“Mr Squash, my dear fellow,” he beamed. “I heard that you were back on the island. It’s good to see you.”  

“It is?” Replied the Sasquatch, somewhat taken aback.  

“Look, I know we have not always seen eye-to-eye…” began Durosimi.

“Well I am more than three feet taller than you,” said Mr Squash, dryly.

“Ha, you’re always there with a ready quip,” laughed Durosimi, “but seriously, I think it’s time that we buried the hatchet. ”  

“I didn’t know that he could laugh.” Mr Squash had the good manners to keep this observation to himself.  

“I thought you might allow me to walk with you for a while… we could talk over old times.”

Mr Squash’s brow furrowed. There were no old times to talk about. What was Durosimi up to? There was only one way to find out. “Fine,” agreed Mr Squash, and the pair disappeared into the darkness, Durosimi chatting amicably about nothing in particular.

For the next two nights Durosimi appeared from the darkness and spent a companionable hour or two with the Sasquatch. To Mr Squash’s surprise he found Durosimi to be excellent company; had he been misjudging the man for all of these years? It was only when Mr Squash mentioned that he’d be visiting relatives, and unable to join Durosimi for a night of two, that the sorcerer showed his hand.  

“Why, that sounds most interesting,” he said. ” Is it possible that I could join you, my friend? I wouldn’t get in the way… ”  

“It is too dangerous,” said Mr Squash. “Travel through the portals that I use can be perilous for a human.”  

“But I am not an ordinary person,” protested Durosimi. ” That which threatens a mere mortal is as nothing to me.”

It began to dawn upon  Mr Squash that this had been the sole reason for Durosimi befriending him.  “Very well,” thought the Sasquatch to himself. “I’ll go along with it – but people should be careful what they wish for.”  

“If I agree to this,” he said aloud, “bear in mind that however strong you might believe yourself to be, you will not find the experience at all comfortable. The best I can promise is to put you somewhere safe when we arrive.”

They agreed to meet the following night. Mr Squash advised Durosimi to wear his warmest clothes, which surprised the sorcerer. Nevertheless, he donned his thickest coat, gloves, and furry ushanka hat, with generous ear-flaps that he could tie beneath his chin. Standing in the shadow of the two toppled trees that leant against each other to form an archway,

Mr Squash asked,  “Are you ready?”  

“Of course I am,” said Durosimi testily, allowing his true self to flicker through for a moment. Before he could say another word, he felt himself swept off his feet and lifted into the Sasquatch’s huge arms.

Mr Squash had not lied when he described the experience of travelling through his portal as being ‘not at all comfortable.’ Durosimi felt as though he was being slowly turned inside out, with every atom of his body being  removed, examined, and then put back into the wrong place. Then, like a huge wave roaring in from nowhere, oblivion swept over him and, for several hours, he knew no more.

A sharp light shone through the mouth of the cave, some hundred feet from where Durosimi lay. He tried to sit up, but found the effort too great. He would just lie here for a few minutes, until he recovered a little. It took a moment or two for Durosimi to realise that much of his problem was that he was cold; bitterly cold. He needed to move, to get his circulation flowing. The sorcerer made his way to the opening of the cave, where a scattering of fresh snow carpeted the entrance. The only thing disturbing the pristine surface was the imprint of a single footprint, one that had come from a big foot. A very big foot indeed. Durosimi stepped into the daylight. There was no sign of Mr Squash, just a range of huge and imposing snow-capped mountains, for as far as the eye could see. The Sasquatch had said that he was visiting relatives. With a sinking heart Durosimi realised who those relatives might be and, if this was the case, he was now standing, lost and alone on the very roof of the world – the Himalayan Mountains.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Pro Quid Quo

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While haunting the attics of The Squid and Teapot, the ghost of Granny Bucket had discovered the vertical passageway leading to The Underland, and the nebulous dangers of the Crystal Cave. Her granddaughter, Philomena, had previously sealed the way, however, following the disappearance of young Marigold Burleigh. While mere mortals seemingly had no access to the cavern, this proved no barrier to Granny’s wraith, who was determined to contact her old friend, the Elizabethan alchemist, Doctor John Dee. To Granny’s surprise, when she reached Dee’s study it was not the learned doctor whom she encountered; instead she found herself staring into the eyes of Durosimi O’Stoat.

“Is your granddaughter so arrogant,” drawled Durosimi, “that she believes herself to know the only way into the Crystal Cave?”

Granny ignored the question.

“The last that I heard,” she said, “was that you were enslaving young men in an attempt to clear the passageway. The Lost Boys, we called them, and to my knowledge, they all escaped.”

“Enslaving?” Durosimi raised a single eyebrow. “A foul calumny, I assure you. I simply engaged a few youngsters to do a job of work for me… besides, there are plenty of others who were willing to help after that first unfortunate mutiny.”

‘So you found a way to get here. Congratulations,” said Granny, unenthusiastically, then added, “and what have you done with John Dee?”

“Done with him? Why, nothing.” said Durosimi. “It appears that we have arrived here in the year 1583, and, if my research into Dee’s life is correct, he is currently in Poland with his friend, the charlatan, Edward Kelley.”

“Typical!” exclaimed Granny. “So what are you doing still hanging around?”

“I have other business here,” said Durosimi.

He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Did you know that Dee was aware of the existence of The Underland long before that Buck… before your granddaughter came here?”

Granny didn’t know that, but she kept quiet. Durosimi seemed to want to share, and she had no intention of stopping him.

“Through his knowledge of The Underland, Dee often travels to… who knows where?. These journals of his are not only full of his adventures, but give detailed information of how he achieves this.”

“And you intend to learn how to do the same,” said Granny.

Durosimi nodded. “At the moment I have to satisfy myself with being able to wander through Tudor London… which is something of a mixed blessing. Sometimes I wonder how anyone ever survived the squalor, filth and barbarity of the age. However, it has a few advantages.”

“Such as?”

“As an Elizabethan gentleman I have access to books of learning, not to mention a reasonable diet, passably good wine, excellent brandy…”

Durosimi strutted from behind the desk, displaying  the somewhat flamboyant attire of a well-heeled Elizabethan-about-town.

“Nice codpiece,” observed Granny.

Durosimi ignored the remark, instead saying,

 “I know that you and I have had a few differences of opinion in the past…”

“Differences of opinion!” spluttered Granny.”That’s an understatement.”

“But that aside, I think, deep down, we respect each other’s abilities.”

“So what are you getting at? No, don’t tell me. You want me to keep quiet about your little escapades in Merrie England.”

“I would be grateful.”

“And if I don’t?” said Granny, defiantly. “After all, you can hardly kill me.”

Durosimi was silent for a moment, then said,

“I was wondering if we could have some sort of quid pro quo arrangement. It means…”

“I know exactly what it means,” broke in Granny. “I’ll scratch yours if you scratch mine.”

“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,” replied Durosimi. “But yes, in essence that is correct.”

“You might not have noticed,” said Granny, “but I have nothing to scratch. I am pure ectoplasm.”

“But your silence could ensure my bringing back from Merrie England, as you so inaccurately call it, the occasional luxury for your granddaughter.”

“She’s not one for luxuries,” replied Granny.

“Very well. How about better food for that inn? Something that doesn’t involve fish heads and bits of dead cephalopods.”

“What could you get?”

“Oh… cheese, butter, decent flour, spices, sweetmeats… I could arrange for something to be found at Scilly Point, or some other agreed location, now and then, as though it was no more than a random bit of

flotsam and jetsam thrown up by the sea. Philomena need never know the truth.”

“You want me to lie to my granddaughter?” Granny sounded offended.

“That’s about the size of it,” said Durosimi, casually.

Granny looked pensive for a moment, then said,

“Quid pro quo it is then.”

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Under a Hunter’s Moon

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By Martin Pearson

Durosimi

(Durosimi image by Nimue Brown, based on Erek Vaehne, with thanks for the loan of his face.)

No one could ever accuse Durosimi O’Stoat of being unduly burdened by his conscience. The sorcerer has, in his time, caused enough misery and destruction to drive anyone else insane with feelings of guilt. He is a master of manipulation and treachery, stopping at nothing to further his own ends. That, at least, is what he would like you to believe. Indeed, until recently it was pretty much his own self-image. But all of that was before the Lost Boys incident.

You may remember that he had cruelly sent five young men into the arms – and teeth – of the hideous, flesh-eating sirens who inhabit the waters around the island of Hopeless. The continued existence of the Lost Boys, as they had become known, had become somewhat inconvenient to Durosimi, and he considered such a course of action to be quite reasonable. After all, on Hopeless people disappear all the time. What difference would five more make?

Some weeks after their disappearance, when the first full moon of Autumn – the Hunter’s Moon – rose in the sky, to stare dimly through the perpetual mist that hangs over the island, Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, was taking a well-earned break from his labours. As usual Philomena had wandered along from The Squid and Teapot and left a bottle of ‘Old Colonel’ and a generous slice of starry-grabby pie on his doorstep. These were now sitting on the lid of his bucket, which doubled-up nicely as a makeshift table when he was on his rounds. Meanwhile, his old friend Drury, the skeletal hound, was snuffling around in the darkness in the hope of picking up the scent of a stray spoonwalker or maybe a puddle rat, or anything else likely to provide the chance of a chasing game while Rhys was eating his meal. Suddenly the dog stiffened. This, of course, bore little resemblance to the elegant, silent freeze of a pointer, or the quiet menace of a German shepherd on guard duty. Drury’s attempts at pointing generally involve a series of rattles and clacks, as of bone meeting bone, and on this occasion, making just enough noise to disturb the silence of the night.

Reacting to the sound, Rhys looked up, and was surprised to see a pale, luminescent smoke creeping up from the threshing ocean and gradually make its way inland. As it grew closer the Night-Soil Man realised that what he was seeing was not smoke, but a huddle of ghostly human shapes. This was unusual. While fulfilling his duties Rhys had seen any amount of ghosts, phantoms and apparitions generally, but these were usually solitary entities, and not given to wandering around in groups.

From his position on the headland he watched the eerie tableau drift noiselessly from the coastal path and disappear into the trees. Drury, having more sense than many gave him credit for, made no attempt to follow them.

Durosimi O’Stoat has always prided himself on needing little sleep. Three or four hours are usually sufficient. Tonight, however, he had nodded off into a deep, satisfying slumber while sitting in his armchair. Even when the hefty tome that he had been reading slipped off his lap and fell to the floor, he did not stir. It was only when a faint bluish-green glow insinuated itself through the heavy oak front door and settled in the corner of his study, did he awake.

He sat, stock still, for several minutes staring at the phenomenon. Most of us would have fled in terror, but not Durosimi. A lifetime of weird encounters has left him unfazed by virtually anything.

“Who, or what are you?” he demanded sternly.

The glow shimmered and expanded, as if to respond, then resumed its original shape in the corner.

“I am waiting…” said Durosimi, sounding like a schoolmaster addressing a wayward pupil.

Almost reluctantly, the glow spread once more and broke into five distinctive shapes.

He recognised the Lost Boys at once. They stood shoulder to shoulder before him, gaunt, haggard and accusing.

“You can stand there all night,” Durosimi said, unconcernedly, “but I am well aware that you cannot harm me, and you certainly don’t scare me.”

The Lost Boys said nothing; they just hovered within that ghastly light and stared at the man who had been responsible for their deaths.  

Durosimi closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the Lost Boys were gone. The first few ribbons of morning light were fighting their way through the mist.

“I must have dropped off to sleep again,” he muttered. “Such behaviour is quite unlike me, and that was a most weird dream, to be sure.”

Lost in the business of the following day, Durosimi thought no more about his strange dream.

It came as something of a surprise, therefore, when the boys once more manifested in his study, sometime after midnight. Durosimi was poring over his books, trying to make sense of a complicated mediaeval spell written in Latin, when he sensed their arrival.

He turned abruptly and eyed them in silence.

The five stared back, accusingly. Not a word was spoken for what felt like an age.

“What do you want?” Durosimi asked, at last.

There was no reply, but the air seemed to grow colder, then little by little the apparitions faded, until there was no clue that the Lost Boys had ever been there.

Durosimi felt exhausted. Leaving his books on the table he lay down on his bed, fully clothed, and immediately fell asleep. Those five wasted faces haunted his dreams.

As the days and nights went by the sorcerer came to expect his strange visitors. He gave up asking what they wanted; after all, they were the Lost Boys, and they wanted their lives back. That was something that even he could not give them, and, to his surprise, it troubled him.

Durosimi found himself to be harbouring certain thoughts and feelings that he believed to be long-dead. One evening he allowed his mind to wander into an alternative future, where the five youngsters had matured into family men, becoming fathers and eventually grandfathers. These were the lives that he had stolen from them, and for once in his life Durosimi felt real remorse for what he had done.

When next the apparitions appeared, he wasted no time in addressing them.

“I am truly sorry for being the cause of your deaths,” he said, glad that no one else was there to hear. “I can only beg your forgiveness.”

His words hung in the air, and he feared that his apology had not been enough. Then the blue-green light that enveloped the five gradually turned into a ball of shimmering silver that grew stronger with each passing second, until it was far too bright to look at. As Durosimi turned away, shielding his eyes, the ball of light seemed to explode and, for a long while, he knew no more.

Sitting in front of his parlour fire, many hours later, Durosimi pondered over the events of the previous week. He knew that the Lost Boys had gone for good, now. They had reached into him and found the man that he might once have been. It made him uncomfortable. It was a weakness, buried so deep that he was unaware of its existence. That must never happen again.

Despite these thoughts, the briefest ghost of a smile flickered across his face. This in itself was a rarity.

“No, such weakness must never happen again,” he repeated to himself, but a part of Durosimi was glad that it had, just this once.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Famous Five

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Story by Martin Pearson art by Tom Brown

“I would hope that Mirielle will now have the good grace to apologise to Septimus,” said Reggie Upton. “She did not believe him when he told her that he had amnesia, and now that those fellows have returned with the same symptoms, it proves that he was telling the truth.”

He paused for a few seconds, then added, “But, sadly, knowing Mirielle, as we both do…”

He let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished. The nod of agreement from Philomena Bucket was enough to tell him that there was no need to say more.

“It seems as though he got off lightly,” said Philomena. “Septimus is only suffering from memory-loss, whereas those other poor lads seem to have lost their reason altogether.”

“Hopefully it’s only temporary,” said Reggie. “Still, it’s a dashed mystery where they have been all this time, and to get into such a state.”

The reappearance of the five young men, who had been secretly enslaved by Durosimi O’Stoat, had caused quite a stir on the island. Most people had given them up for dead. When they eventually emerged, blank-eyed and brain-addled, having been subjected to a toxic mixture of drugged ale and Durosimi’s cloaking spell, they were deemed by some to be little more than walking corpses. Fortunately, Septimus Washwell’s refusal to drink the drugged ale had allowed him to escape after just three days, with nothing worse than having no recollection of where he had been.

It was generally decided that, rather than return them to their homes immediately, the young men should be temporarily housed in one of the empty dormitories of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, where the ghostly Miss Calder, and her equally ghostly assistant, Miss Toadsmoor, would be able to keep an eye on them, and monitor their progress around the clock. There was a certain downside to this arrangement, however, as both of these ladies are – as the word ‘ghostly’ might suggest – no more than shades, albeit friendly and helpful ones. As such, they would be unable to carry out the various physical tasks associated with nursing care. It had been hoped that Reverend Davies and his wife might be willing to lend a hand, but strangely, both had found their diaries to be unusually full for the foreseeable future.

Some might claim that it was purely a burst of community spirit that saved the day. My own view is that the main driving-force was curiosity. Whatever the reason, there was soon a constant flow of island residents, each eager to see, for themselves, the ‘Famous Five’, as the lads were now known, and every visitor was expected to do their bit to help. Such expectation was often greeted with dismay, but Miss Calder’s undisputed charm, coupled with her unnerving habit of absent-mindedly replacing her very pleasant facial features with that of a grinning skull, were enough to convince most that it would be wise to comply.

One person who managed to avoid carrying out nursing duties was Doc Willoughby, who insisted that he was visiting in his capacity as a medical professional, declaring that he would certainly be able to diagnose the problem and suggest a cure. Following a stream of important-sounding “Ahs” and “Hmms”, accompanied by a series of pokes and prods, he pronounced the five to have a rare and life-threatening condition, known to the medical world as Urtica dioica.

“Unfortunately,” he announced gravely, as he left, “there is no known cure.”

“Could you smell alcohol on his breath?” asked Miss Calder, as she watched the Doc wandering unsteadily down the pathway.

“Yes,” replied Marjorie Toadsmoor, with a flickering grin, “and he’s just diagnosed the lads to be suffering from stinging nettles. It must have been a bit of Latin that he heard somewhere, and it stuck!”

The two phantom carers shrieked with laughter, causing the hair of more than one passer-by to turn prematurely white.

Not everyone celebrated the return of the ‘Famous Five’ with enthusiasm.

For the past week Durosimi O’Stoat had been cowering beneath his bed-clothes, terrified that the huge demon toad that had foiled his plans to gain access to the Underland would pursue him. When Doc Willoughby came hammering on his door, bearing news of the reappearance of the five young men (whom he had recently diagnosed as having a nasty case of stinging nettles), the sorcerer was not thrilled. He realised that he had been made a fool of, and there was only one being who frequented Hopeless who was able to pull off such a stunt. Trickster!

To the Doc’s great disappointment, he was dismissed with unseemly haste, and not a mouthful of whisky for his trouble.  Still, he reflected, it was probably all for the best; when Durosimi was in this mood it was as well to be as far away from him as humanly possible.

Durosimi paced the floor, smouldering with anger, his mind racing.

Why had Trickster saved those youngsters? That was not his style; what could he up to?

Did he plan to use those five young men against him? That must be it. Well, two could play at that game. But no… that was not right.

Durosimi was well aware that, despite his magical skills, he was no match for Trickster. The old rogue was as old as time itself, and if he had you in his sights, then you were done for. But Trickster was not infallible, not by a long way; he made mistakes. He had even been chased, while in the guise of a white hare, over a cliff by a band of spoonwalkers (as was related in the tale ‘The Kindness of Spoonwalkers’).

Durosimi smiled to himself grimly. He would tread carefully around Trickster. But those young men – what was it that people were calling them? The Famous Five, they were his immediate problem, his weak link, his Achilles heel. Them, and the Washwell fellow. The effects of the ale and the cloaking spell would not last forever, and if the truth of their abduction was to get out, there would be condemnation and a thirst for retribution, which even he might have difficulty in controlling. All six of them needed to be silenced, and sooner rather than later.

“They must all disappear, and this time for good,” he said aloud, and the air around him grew icy.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Lost Boys

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By Martin Pearson

“The British Empire,” declared Reggie Upton, proudly, “is the greatest and most powerful that the world has ever seen. It is rightly called The Empire Upon Which The Sun Never Sets.”

“Pah!” exclaimed Mirielle D’Illay, dismissively. “That is just as well. No one would ever trust an Englishman in the dark.”

Reggie managed to stifle a smile, although his eyes twinkled with merriment. Despite Mirielle’s apparent Anglophobia, the old soldier could not help but like her. He had witnessed her vulnerability in recent weeks, when her husband, Septimus, mysteriously vanished. The patrons of The Squid and Teapot had scoured the island looking for the young man, but to no avail. When Septimus suddenly reappeared after a few days, having no memory of where he had been, Mirielle was torn between anger and relief. This was something that Reggie could understand and empathise with, for these were emotions that had plagued him a dozen or more times during his military career.

“Would you two please stop bickering,” groaned Philomena Bucket, totally misreading the situation. “We all need to focus our attention on what is important, as we are no closer to finding those lads who went missing from The Crow than we were a week ago.”

It was true. The young men seemed to have disappeared completely. While such occurrences were not rare on Hopeless, for five people to simultaneously go missing from the same place, and for no apparent reason, was a little odd.

“Philomena,” said Mirielle, gently, “we have looked everywhere. I cannot help but feel that those boys are a lost cause by now.”

“We shouldn’t give up,” said Philomena, defiantly. “I still think that Durosimi O’Stoat is behind all of this and I’d bet anything that he knows where they are.”

Philomena would have won her wager, for Durosimi did, indeed, know, but he was not likely to tell anyone; not about the hidden cave, or of the zombie-like slaves toiling deep beneath the surface of the island.  

For long years, Durosimi had been desperate to find a route to the Underland. He had stumbled upon vague rumours and references to the existence of such a place, but there had been nothing concrete, no first-hand accounts from explorers. Then that blasted Bucket woman, along with Gannicox the Distiller and Middlestreet from The Squid, had found a secret passageway that led to its entrance. Oh, it was so unfair, that this meddling witch should accidentally chance upon the very spot that he, a great and powerful sorcerer, had been seeking for decades. To make matters worse, the foolish woman had recently destroyed the tunnels before he could find a way of getting into them. She had deliberately made the magical cavern inaccessible to anyone, declaring it unsafe.  

Durosimi had fumed and brooded over this for months. Of course it was unsafe! It was meant to be unsafe! The Underland was no place for amateurs like the Bucket woman and her cronies to be tramping around. It was meant for the wise, for the initiated – for himself.

It had been Doc Willoughby who had inadvertently sown the seeds of hope that another way might be found to the Underland.

“I overheard the Bucket woman telling Ariadne Middlestreet that she had successfully destroyed the first hundred yards of something she called ‘the west tunnel’,” the Doc had confided, holding out his glass for a refill of whisky. “Although, I must admit, I have no idea what she was talking about. I thought that you might be interested, though.”

Durosimi had found it useful to invite Willoughby to his home occasionally, ply him with copious amounts of alcohol, and listen to the gossip circulating in the Squid.

“Hmm… it might be worthwhile to find out what she meant,” said Durosimi, his offhand tone in direct contrast with the excitement welling up inside him.

Metaphorical wheels were soon set in motion. It had not been too difficult to find a convenient means of ingress into the earth, and from there plot the line leading westward from The Squid and Teapot, to the portal of the Underland. Neither was it difficult for Durosimi to recruit some gullible young men to do the heavy lifting for him. The whole project, however, required great secrecy. Fortunately, Durosimi was very, very good at secrecy.

Of course, young Washwell had proved an annoyance, managing to escape as he did. Still, an annoyance was not necessarily a problem. Durosimi congratulated himself on securing the hidden cave with a cloaking spell, which also served to render his slaves totally unaware of where they were, or why.  Except for this small detail, everything seemed to be progressing well.

It was under the cover of foggy darkness, during the few days that fell between the waning of the old moon and the waxing of the new, that Durosimi went to check how the work was progressing. He carried with him a bag containing a few meagre rations; food must be running low by now, and those youngsters would need all of their strength for the task before them.

He wandered deep underground, down the steep pathway to where his slaves toiled. He noted, with satisfaction, that the dim lights he had set into the wall still glowed with an eerie luminescence. Despite this, the all-pervading silence told him that there was something wrong. Upon reaching the cavern where the work was meant to be going on, he found it deserted. The light in here was even poorer than in the passages, so Durosimi lit the lantern he had brought with him and held it aloft. It took a moment or two for his eyes to adjust to the comparative brightness, then he gasped in horror. What he had imagined to be a mound of rocks proved to be a huge toad, towering above him, warty and squat. The toad’s eyes glittered and regarded him with unbridled malevolence.

“You are not welcome here mortal,” it rasped, its wide slash of a mouth leering unpleasantly.

“My workers… what have you done with them?” said Durosimi, his voice trembling.

The toad said nothing, but flicked its long tongue disconcertingly close to Durosimi, deftly relieving him of the bag of food that he was carrying.

Durosimi froze. The next time that tongue came out, it could be the finish of him.

“Be gone, and do not return, unless you wish to join them,” said the toad.

Durosimi cautiously stepped away, not daring to turn his back on the repulsive creature until he was safely out of range of that awful sticky tongue. Then he ran. He ran until he was well clear of the cave, to fall gasping and retching upon the doorstep of his house.

What had those lads unearthed? What was that awful thing?

Well, it was a demon, that was for sure, but none that he had ever heard of. These thoughts rushed through Durosimi’s mind in a torrent. He knew his own limits and decided, there and then, that it would be nothing but folly to go back into the cave. That thing had probably lived down there for years – hundreds of years, or maybe more. Discretion, Durosimi decided, was, on this occasion, the better part of valour.

Deep beneath the surface of the island, the toad stirred. It shook its huge body and, if anyone had been foolish enough to be an onlooker, they would have been more than a little surprised to see it start to shrink, gradually becoming as diminutive and shapeless as a deflated balloon. In that half-light they would have witnessed a figure lifting itself from the rocks around its feet, and casually dust itself down.

“Well, that was fun,” chuckled Trickster, smugly. “It has been far too long since O’Stoat was last put in his place.”

He looked about him at the five young men who stood unmoving in the shadows. They were still zombiefied, Trickster noticed, but there would be no permanent harm. Well… probably not, but that was not his problem.

“Come on,” he said, “it’s your lucky day, lads. After that satisfying little episode with O’Stoat I’m feeling unusually generous. Let’s all get out of here now –  and I haven’t visited The Crow for ages.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Cloaking Spell

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By Martin Pearson

Skeletal dog image by Tom Brown

There had been no small amount of panic when it was discovered that Septimus Washwell had disappeared. No one had spotted hide nor hair of him for three days. The ever-resourceful Philomena Bucket had deduced that, by using the combined talents of Drury and Father Stamage, it should be possible to track the young man down and bring him safely home. And so, while Father Stamage haunted the depths of his Capello Romano (in which he was able to serenely wander the venerable corridors of his Oxford College, Campion Hall) Drury steadfastly followed Septimus’ trail to a cavern, its slender opening almost lost among a barren scattering of rocks. For every step of the way he had carried the priest’s hat firmly between his teeth. The plan, from then onwards, was that the ethereal wraith of Father Stamage would be able to find Septimus, bring news back of his whereabouts and alert a rescue party.

Bartholomew Middlestreet had never seen Drury looking quite so dejected. The skeletal hound slunk into the bar of The Squid and Teapot, where he dropped the slightly-chewed black hat that he had been carrying.

Bartholomew picked it up and hung it on the coat stand.

“I take it that there was no sign of Septimus” he said, doubt in his voice.

“Not at all,” the hat replied.

A second or two later the wispy figure of Father Stamage began to materialise from the depths of his beloved Capello Romano.

“I ventured into the cavern as far as I was able,” said the phantom priest, “But there was no sign of the lad – but I would bet my boots that he was in there somewhere. Drury is too good a tracker to have made a mistake.”

Hearing this compliment, the old hound cheered up visibly, and rattled off to his favourite corner, where he settled down on an equally favourite blanket, and immediately fell into a deep, and somewhat noisy, sleep.

Durosimi O’Stoat was sitting at his desk, deep in thought, his eyes closed and his mouth lightly resting upon his steepled fingers. He had no qualms about ensnaring those young men, now toiling far beneath the earth. If they were gullible enough to be taken in by his flattery and empty promises, then they deserved whatever fate befell them. It had been straightforward enough to dull their minds with drugged ale and a simple spell or two, but less easy had been the task of concealing their whereabouts. There would be a hue-and-cry when their absence was noticed, and doubtless that blasted abomination, Drury, would be enlisted to sniff them out. The cloaking spell that Durosimi had cast would only be effective for a dozen yards or so, but hopefully that would be enough to baffle the eyes and nose of Drury.   

There was a flaw in Durosimi’s scheme which not even he could have foreseen. I have mentioned, in an earlier tale, that, with fatherhood on his horizon, Septimus had become unusually uxorious. His every thought and action had been with Mirielle and their unborn child in mind. It was inevitable, therefore, that when Mirielle reluctantly eschewed all alcoholic refreshment, for the sake of the baby’s wellbeing, Septimus felt duty-bound to follow suit. Since his capture this had been especially difficult, in the thirsty confines of Durosimi’s mine. It was hard to resist drinking from the barrel of ale which had been left for all to enjoy.  But resist he did, and within a few days, clarity dawned in his addled mind once more, releasing him from the drugs and binding-spell with which Durosimi had hobbled him. There seemed to be no hope for his fellow captives, however, now reduced to little more than blank-faced automatons, toiling unceasingly in the greasy lamplight. Bidding them a silent farewell, Septimus staggered into the pale, foggy embrace of a Hopeless dawn, little knowing that Durosimi had one more trick up his sleeve; with each step, all memories of his captivity, and its causes, were erased from the young man’s mind.

If Septimus had expected to receive a hero’s unconditional welcome upon returning home, he was to be disappointed. While Mirielle was pleased, and not a little relieved, to see her husband, she made it more than clear that she could not accept his claim of temporary amnesia, and having absolutely no idea of his recent whereabouts. His parents were equally sceptical, and only Philomena Bucket regarded his story with any credibility. Whenever anything suspicious occurred on the island, she was inclined to attribute it to the devious deeds of Durosimi O’Stoat.

It was just a day or so later, when talking to Reggie Upton, that Philomena became even more convinced that the sorcerer was once more up to no good. Reggie had been out and about, on one of his flâneuring expeditions. He had wandered aimlessly, in the best tradition of what Philomena insisted on calling ‘flanneling’, until he eventually found himself sampling the ale on offer at ‘The Crow’. The talk in the inn that day had been of five young men, who had mysteriously gone missing a week earlier.

“Dashed rum affair, if you ask me,” said Reggie. “I know that it’s not unusual for chaps to go awol from Hopeless, but five at once from ‘The Crow’ is seriously out of order.”

Philomena nodded,

“If only Septimus could remember where he was for those few days, it might explain things,” she said, then added, “it’s a pity Father Stamage didn’t know where Drury had taken his hat.”

“Wouldn’t Drury remember?” asked Reggie.

They looked at what appeared to be a pile of bones snoring raucously in the corner.

“The trail would have gone cold by now,” said Philomena, “and if I know Drury, he’s forgotten all about it.”

The bones made a few soft whimpering noises, and an osseous leg emerged from the pile and began twitching furiously. Drury was busily dreaming of chasing spoonwalkers.

“Is there anything we can do,” asked Reggie.

“Those lads are somewhere on the island,” said Philomena, “and I’m fairly sure that Durosimi O’Stoat knows where.”

“Then that is where we will start to look, m’dear,” said Reggie, twirling his moustache. “The game is afoot!”

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

Durosimi’s Difficult Week

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By Martin Pearson

“I must say, you disappoint me, O’Stoat.”

If Durosimi was surprised, you would have been hard-pressed to notice. This was despite the fact that he had been quietly sitting in his study, poring over a scholarly tome of some description, and feeling confident that he was quite alone.

“Well, I am indeed sorry to hear that,” he said, nonchalantly, turning to face the intruder. “And I am sure that you have your reasons.”

Durosimi had endured a frustrating and totally fruitless week. It had been his plan to conjure Anubis, the jackal-headed Egyptian god, tasked with guiding souls into the afterlife. While this was certainly ambitious, the information that the old god had apparently visited Hopeless in recent centuries, in his role of Psychopomp, led Durosimi to suppose that enticing him back was not an impossibility.

The difficulties in achieving this ambition had been purely logistical. The only clue that Durosimi possessed for summoning Anubis was contained in The Egyptian Book of the Dead, a copy of which had been gathering dust on his bookshelf for years. Unfortunately, the process required a fresh corpse and a group of people with wonderfully strong stomachs to carry out the evisceration rites. After putting out a few feelers to find if a such band of hardy souls could be found on the island, Durosimi drew a blank. He was not squeamish by any means, but, with the best will in the world, felt that he could not be expected to single-handedly perform the whole ghastly business of evisceration, store the brain and internal organs in jars and mummify the body, while simultaneously reciting the various spells necessary to invoke Anubis. It was just too much for one person to do, even Durosimi. There had to be another way.

He was in the process of consulting his library of spell-books, epigraphs, cosmologies, bestiaries, grimoires and encyclopaedias, but so far, to no avail. That was when his investigations were interrupted by the scruffily dressed young stranger who had seemingly manifested in his study.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” said Durosimi conversationally. “I have no idea who you are, but, somehow, feel certain that have we met before.”

“Yes, our paths have crossed once or twice,” conceded the stranger. “And I have always considered you to be somewhat wiser than the other buffoons inhabiting this miserable rock.”

“I am flattered,” said Durosimi, dryly. “So, who are you?”

A green mist crept into the room and swirled around the body of the stranger, which began to flex and change alarmingly.

With a mixture of fear and fascination, Durosimi shrank back as he watched the metamorphosis. The whole room appeared to shift and grow in order to accommodate the terrifying form of the god, Anubis.

“You dare seek to summon me, mortal?” growled the jackal-headed deity, in dead and dreadful sepulchral tones.

“Then you will know no mercy. I will flay your skin and set your body alight.” 

Towering over Durosimi, he reached down and laid a huge hand upon the sorcerer’s throat.

“Mercy, great lord. I did not wish to offend you,” whimpered Durosimi.

Anubis drew back and regarded Durosimi for what felt like an age. Then he laughed. He laughed until the tears rolled down his jackal’s face, which dissolved back into the young stranger, once more restored to human size.

“Oh, stop grizzling, for goodness sake,” he said. “Do you honestly think, even if you were able to raise him, that Anubis would bend to your will as easily as that quack of a doctor who seems to be inordinately fond of your whisky?”

“Then who the devil…?” Durosimi stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly aware of the identity of his visitor.

“You!” he snarled. “Trickster!”

“It took you long enough,” grinned Trickster, bowing with a flourish.

“The last news that I heard, was that you were chased over the edge of a cliff in the guise of a white hare. Running from a band of irate spoonwalkers, by all accounts.”

“Hmm, that was unfortunate, especially for the hare,” admitted Trickster, “but I’ve kept an eye on this place several times since then.”

Durosimi went to a cupboard and withdrew an unopened bottle of single-malt whisky, and two Waterford crystal glass tumblers.

“I’ll be honest, old friend, there have been odd times when I have really detested you,” he said. “And today, probably ranks highest among them.”

Trickster grinned.

“We are birds of a feather, Durosimi,” he said. “And that is why I won’t ask where your whisky comes from; it is best not to know. By the way, do you like my new meat-suit? I found it slumped on a bench outside ‘The Crow’.”

Several hours, and half a bottle of whisky, later, Durosimi and Trickster sat companionably in the glow of a dozen candles.

“So, those dog-headed Psychopomps turning up over the last three hundred years. They were all you?”

“Of course they were,” said Trickster. “And you, of all people, fell for it, hook, line and sinker.”

“But why?” asked Durosimi.

“Why not? It was fun. The clue is in my name.”

“I’m surprised you fooled Drury. That blasted dog is a lot more intelligent than most of the islanders.”

“That was easy,” laughed Trickster. “I told him that all dogs are sacred, and when he was sick of the island, he could come to me.”

“So, no one was sent to Purgatory?”

“I wouldn’t know how to get there.” 

 Durosimi grew suddenly serious.

“Are you not concerned that you might have offended those three deities?” he asked. “I imagine they can all be horribly wrathful when they want to.”

“Gula and Xolotl are pretty much forgotten,” said Trickster, “and no one has seen hide nor hair of Anubis for a couple of thousand years. When people stop believing in the old gods, they die. It is as simple as that.”

It was a typical fog-strewn Hopeless night when Trickster left Durosimi’s home.  The waning crescent mood gave scant illumination as he wavered drunkenly through the trees.

If the visibility had been better, and his young meat-suit less infused with alcohol, Trickster may have spotted the huge and ominous shape of the decidedly less-than-amused jackal-headed creature who drifted silently behind him.