By Martin Pearson

It was around 300 BCE, give or take a year or two, that Ptolemy I, and his son, unimaginatively named Ptolemy ll, founded an institution, which they named the Mouseion. This seat of culture and learning, which is said to have housed the legendary Library of Alexandria, was dedicated to the nine daughters of Zeus, known forever as the Muses.  The Mouseion featured a roofed walkway and airy communal areas where scholars and philosophers met to share and debate ideas. As you may know, or have already guessed, it is from these august beginnings that blossomed the modern concept of the museum.

Sad to relate, the Hopeless Museum bears no resemblance whatsoever to its noble ancestor. It is dark, damp and pokey, and the most interesting thing on display is the battered and less-than-hygienic lidded bucket, bequeathed by the island’s first Night-Soil Man, Killigrew O’Stoat. The most interesting things not on display, however, are a cherry-red frock coat and a top hat, belonging to one Tom Long, an early Victorian postman who, for undisclosed reasons, had absconded from Britain many years earlier. Long had left in such a hurry that he was still wearing his uniform when he boarded the ill-fated ship which had floundered upon the rocks around the island of Hopeless, Maine. Old habits die hard, and Tom Long, apparently missing the weight of a pouch hanging from his shoulder, soon made it his business to volunteer for the hazardous, but otherwise undemanding, role of the island’s first postman.

Upon discovering the uniform, folded up in a crate in a dusty corner of the museum, Reggie Upton immediately fell in love with the bright red coat and its shiny brass buttons; it was not military but, for want of anything better, was fondly reminiscent of his army days in India. He at once decided to revive the job of postman, and don the impressive livery at every possible opportunity. This, of course, is old news to those who have read the tale ‘The Postman’, but it is the backstory to how he came to be standing outside a hermit’s mausoleum-like house in Ghastly Green one midnight, clutching a parcel and being croaked at by a raven.

Happily, Reggie was not alone in this venture. His friend, Rhys Cranham was with him (you’ll recall that Reggie was unique, inasmuch as his being able to mix comfortably in the company of the Night-Soil Man, having lost his sense of smell).

““I may be mistaken,” whispered Reggie, “but that croak sounded distinctly like a word.”

“It did,” agreed Rhys.

“And did it say what I thought it said?” 

“I think that it might have,” agreed Rhys.

Reggie looked at the Night-Soil Man uncomfortably,

“Finish the line for me Rhys, or please tell me that I am wrong,” he said.

“Quoth the raven…”

“Nevermore!” exclaimed Rhys.

“No she didn’t”

The voice came from the now open doorway of the house, where a small, balding man stood brandishing a rolling-pin.

“Who are you, and what do you want, turning up here at this time of night?” he demanded.

“I’m the postman,” Reggie called back. “I have a package for someone named Neville. Is that you?”

“Yes,” said the small, balding man. “That’s me. Neville Moore.”

“Ah, so that’s what the raven said,” declared Reggie, enlightenment dawning upon him. “But how is it that she can speak?”

“She’s my pet. I taught her. Her name is Lenore, and for your information, she was calling for me; she was asking to be let in,” said Neville.

 ‘That came out a little icily’, Reggie thought.

“Definitely not ‘nevermore’, then?” he asked, still not convinced.

“Why would she say that? It makes no sense. Are you bringing that parcel over to me, or what?”

“Of course…” said Reggie.

“And if it happens to be both of you that I can smell, stinking like a cesspool, you can take it back,” said Neville, brusquely.

“I’ll leave you to it,” muttered Rhys, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Neville doesn’t seem over-friendly, so be careful.”

Reggie picked his way over to the strange house, where its equally strange, not to say rude, occupant was still standing in the doorway.

 “Come on in,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Reggie.

“I was talking to Lenore,” snapped Neville, as the raven swept over Reggie’s head, folding its wings to expertly navigate through the open door.

“You’d better come in, too,” he said, grudgingly.

The hermit’s parlour was dimly lit by a few smoky tallow candles. Reggie gazed with interest at Neville’s bookshelf, which groaned beneath the weight of several ancient tomes.

“I see you have a few quaint and curious volumes of forgotten lore here,” he said, examining the titles on the spines of the books.

“Yes, Philomena often sends me various books, and any other bits and pieces that she finds mouldering up in the attics of The Squid and Teapot. Anything that she thinks might be of interest to me, in fact,” said Neville. His tone was markedly friendlier now that he could see that Reggie was, indeed, a genuine and suitably uniformed postman.

“And, I believe, she has sent you some more in here,” said Reggie, placing the parcel on the table.

“She is a kind girl,” said Neville. “I must send her a little something in return.”

While the hermit was fussing through various drawers, looking for a suitable gift for Philomena, Reggie took the opportunity to inspect the room. Long, slightly faded, purple curtains hung at the windows – no doubt salvaged from attics of The Squid, he decided. In the grate a few dying embers cast a sullen glow across the hearth. Quietly, Reggie edged around the room, until he found himself standing next to a narrow door that led to a small, unlit chamber. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable, sensing that he was being watched. Reggie turned his head slowly. Perched upon the marble bust of a Greek goddess, the raven stared malevolently at him, obviously resenting the late visitor who stood by the chamber door.  It was only that, and nothing more.

The awkward silence was at last broken by the hermit.

“Ah here’s something Philomena can have,” he said, holding aloft a delicate silver bracelet.

“It belonged to a lady I once knew,” he explained.

“Really? Is she still on the island?” enquired Reggie.

“Sadly no. She was a rare and radiant maiden who died many years ago. Strangely, the raven arrived not long after her death, and I named her after my lost love. It gives me solace.”

‘That’s not even vaguely unsettling,’ thought Reggie, vainly trying to convince himself.

“I have my memories,” continued the hermit, “and the time has come for her bracelet to grace another’s wrist. It is no use to me.”

“I am sure that Philomena will treasure it,” said Reggie, slipping the bracelet into his coat pocket, and suddenly keen to go outside and find Rhys.

“Forgive me,” he added, before leaving. “But who shall I say that it is from? I’ve quite forgotten your name…”

The hermit opened his mouth to speak, but it was the raven who answered.

“Neville Moore!”