“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…)
