To say that Durosimi O’Stoat had not slept well would be an understatement. He had lain awake all night trying to fathom why his attempt to open a portal to the rest of the world had failed so dismally, despite all of his preparations and precautions. It made no sense! He couldn’t even blame Doc Willoughby, who had carried out his instructions to the letter. Something had gone wrong and he needed to know why; Durosimi did not like failure.
Daylight seemed to be fighting a losing battle, as it valiantly struggled through the fog of another Hopeless morning. Durosimi had no sooner succumbed to sleep, slipping gently into a delicious sense of comfortable numbness, and flirting with his first dream, when he was dragged rudely back to full consciousness by a serious of urgent raps upon his front door. Muttering and cursing, the sorcerer stumbled out of bed and padded his way downstairs, flinging open the door with a look that said, “This had better be good!”
Doc Willoughby was momentarily struck dumb by the apparition standing before him, resplendent in a crumpled nightshirt, hand-knitted pink bed socks, and a nightcap sitting at an angle that might have been considered jaunty, under other circumstances.
Before Durosimi could snarl an appropriately scathing matutinal greeting, Doc blurted out,
“It’s happened. We did it. We damned well did it.”
It took a second or two for the meaning of Doc’s words to sink in. Durosimi opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, then dashed back indoors to put on clothes more fitting to the occasion.
By the time Doc Willoughby and Durosimi reached their destination, a sizeable crowd had already gathered, to wonder at the strange gap that had appeared between the trees. News travels fast on Hopeless.
“What do you think this is?” asked Philomena Bucket, looking up into Mr Squash’s deep, wise eyes. “Could it be another portal opening up?”
“I can’t say that it’s anything like one that I have ever seen,” admitted the Sasquatch. “It is almost as though someone has torn a hole in the air. And I really don’t like the thin green mist that’s leaking from it.”
“I noticed that as well,” said Rhys Cranham, who, until little more than a year ago had been the island’s Night-Soil Man. “It reminds me of whatever it is that’s swirling about at the bottom of the sinkhole at Pooh corner.”
A shiver went down Philomena’s spine. Although she was no wiser than Rhys, with regard to the contents of the sinkhole in the Night-Soil Man’s garden, this did not sound at all good.
Lingering at the rear of the crowd, Durosimi looked upon the strange rip in the fabric of the morning with mixed feelings.
“I can’t believe that we really managed to do this,” said Doc excitedly.
“Be quiet, you fool,” hissed Durosimi, glaring at his companion. If looks could maim, Doc would been carried home in several small boxes that day.
“Surely…” began Doc, but was roughly silenced by Durosimi, who drew him away, out of earshot of the crowd.
“No one must know that I… that we are responsible for doing this,” he rasped. “Do you understand? If that thing really is a portal, don’t expect it to take you anywhere that you might want to visit.”
Doc looked confused, and asked, “Then where does it lead to?”
Durosimi drew a deep breath. “I dread to think,” he replied.
That evening, a council of war was held in The Squid and Teapot.
“We need to keep people well away from there,” said Mr Squash. “I can bang some stakes into the ground and fence the area off, just to be on the safe side”
”Do you really think that it’s dangerous?” asked Rhys.
Before the Sasquatch could answer, Philomena said, “Mr Squash is right. That hole in the atmosphere is a total anomaly. It’s best that we err on the side of caution.”
“In that case, maybe we should get a few volunteers to take turns keeping an eye on it,” said Reggie Upton. “Ideally we should have someone watching the thing around the clock. I could put a rota together, if you like.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” said Rhys. “You never know, we might even get Durosimi to help out.”
“Oh, yes,” observed Philomena drily. “Perhaps he could patrol the area on a flying pig.”.
Despite Philomena’s scepticism, and much to everyone’s surprise, Durosimi did indeed agree to be part of the volunteer group charged with keeping watch over ‘The Anomaly’, as everyone was now calling it. In fact, he had even put his name forward to do all of his shifts at night, secretly reasoning to himself that this would provide an excellent opportunity to study, without disturbance, and at close quarters, the result of his recent foray into Etruscan magic.
“He’s up to something,” said Philomena to Mr Squash, when she heard the news. “Maybe someone should be watching the watcher.”
I’ve never liked fantasy tropes regarding prophecies and chosen ones. Nor am I very keen on the YA trope of special people who can do the things because they were born special. It leaves most of us firmly outside of the story, with little reason to imagine ourselves having agency.
Hopeless, Maine’s Salamandra was brought into existence to serve an agenda. She’s grown up different, and mostly been told this makes her weird and unacceptable. There have also been messages about what she ought to do with her power, often from those who want to use and control her. Over the years, Salamandra has steadfastly resisted any suggestion of being a chosen one, although in the final book she does give it a go.
On the whole she’s not keen to use her power. A lot of that is about not wanting the responsibility. She doesn’t want to have to go round fixing everything for everyone. It’s Owen who has all the inclinations to fix things and rescue people. Usually Owen is the one persuading Salamandra to step up.
It’s important to note that, despite having been born magical, she’s not unique or even standout good at it. Within the graphic novels we have Annamarie Nightshade – a powerful witch, and Lilly-May, who combines making and magic. Meanwhile over at The Squid and Teapot there’s Philomena Bucket, who is remarkably powerful and rather good at figuring out when to use that, and when not to.
I’m a big believer in free will, and resistant to stories about destiny. Whatever power we have, it’s our choice about how to use that which makes most odds.
To recap… The sorcerous lama, Dawasandup, had broken through to Hopeless via Mr Squash’s mysterious portal, scheming to take the young monk Tenzin, and Durosimi O’Stoat, back to Tibet and sacrifice them to the tiger demon, Tagsan. Philomena Bucket and Durosimi had combined their magical abilities to thwart Dawasandup, but the unexpected arrival of Tagsan had seemingly doomed both of them…
Rising to his knees, and swamped in Tagsan’s massive shadow, Dawasandup looked triumphantly at the scene spread out before him. The puny foreigner, Durosimi, who foolishly believed that he could outwit him, lay trembling beneath the huge paw of the demon, while just a few yards away lay the crumpled form of the witch, Philomena. Dawasandup had to admit that the woman had been an impressive foe, but she had failed, and like Durosimi, she would pay the price of failure. Dawasandup would give the two of them to Tagsan as a tribute and, with the demon sated, he could return home to the clean mountain air of Tibet.
These thoughts of home cheered Dawasandup. He hated this place, and marvelled at how anyone could live for more than a day on such a miserable little island. What was it called? Ah yes, Hopeless, that was it. How appropriate. A hopeless, fog-bound land for hopeless, useless people.
Dawasandup suddenly felt uneasy, and frowned at an advancing bank of fog that seemed to have an unusually well-developed sense of purpose and direction. He had lived his life with one foot firmly set in the realm of the supernatural, and believed himself to be its master, but he had never witnessed anything quite like this. The fog was alive, and appeared to be heading straight for him.
If there is one thing designed to put the ghost of Granny Bucket out of sorts, it is someone threatening her family, and this Dawasandup character and his pet tiger had managed to put themselves inextricably into her bad books. Granny, however was well aware of her limits; she had seen how the demon had fought. Luckily Granny had allies; many, many allies who would be more than keen to help.
For countless generations the women of the Bucket line had practised their witchcraft more or less quietly, and each had understood that, if necessary, not even death itself would prevent them from defending their own. Even the oldest, most primitive of them, daubed in red ochre and wearing hides and antlers, viewed the opportunity to mingle with their descendants as a pleasant day out, and happily rallied to Granny’s call. The only fly in the ointment was that they were duty-bound to protect Durosimi as well. Long-time readers of these tales may remember that, according to Doctor John Dee, a certain Melusine O’Stoat had married into the Bucket family during the sixteenth century (see the tale ‘A Remarkable Resemblance’) and Durosimi was undoubtedly a relative, albeit many times removed.
As the fog-bank drew closer, Dawasandup could make out scores of female shapes writhing within it. Terror rose within him, but then, to his great relief, the fog gradually slowed and stopped, completely enveloping Philomena. He smiled to himself, convinced that the wraiths within the fog had come to claim her body, or better still, devour it. It did not matter; he still had Durosimi to sacrifice to the demon.
The fog rolled over Philomena and, little by little grew thinner, and as it did so the forms within it faded too. When it had cleared entirely, Philomena was left as Dawasandup had last seen her, apparently dead, and lying on the cold earth. Then, to his dismay, she groaned, and with some effort, raised herslf up onto one knee.
Taking no chances, Dawasandup hurled a small ball of blue, crackling lightning at her. Without looking up, Philomena raised a hand and caught it easily. Painfully, she rose to her feet and held the glowing ball before her. To Dawasandup’s horror it quickly ballooned to about the size of a human head.
“To the death, this time,” she said, and it sounded as if a hundred voices were speaking at once.
Ignoring Dawasandup, she tossed the lightning ball at Tagsan, who tried unsuccessfully to swat it away. It bounced off his chest, leaving a livid scorch mark behind. Free of the demon’s paw, Durosimi wasted no time in scampering to what he hoped was safety.
Tagsan, wounded and angry, roared at Philomena, who merely smiled the sweetest of smiles, and extended her arms towards Dawasandup. The lama was surprised to find himself suddenly levitating, lifted higher and higher until he floated level with Tagsan’s gaping maw. Dawasandup screamed as he felt the demon’s hot breath and toxic saliva upon his body.
“Let this be your tribute, demon,” Philomena chorused. “Take it and go back from whence you came, you have no place here. Do not think that you can ever beat us, for we are legion.”
With a sickening crunch, Tagsan clamped the still screaming Dawasandup between his jaws, and, with his tribute paid, soundlessly faded into the portal between the ash trees.
“We’ve beaten him,” cried a jubilant Durosimi, forgetting that he had spent much of the battle trapped beneath the tiger demon’s paw.
“Not quite yet,” said Philomena.
Durosimi was relieved to hear that her voice had returned to its normal pitch, and no longer sounded like a great multitude when she spoke.
Philomena raised her arms once more, and the two ash trees, forming Mr Squash’s mysterious portal to Tibet, buckled and cracked, then noisily imploded, sending a thick confetti of shredded bark and leaves high into the air.
“There, now it’s finished,” she said. “The portal is closed forever.”
“What have you done?” yelled Durosimi. “That was our only way to uncover the magic and mystery of Tibet, and you have destroyed it completely.”
“My only regret is having to kill the ash trees,” she said, wearily. “And if you don’t shut your noise, you might find yourself joining them.”
Durosimi blanched. He had seen too much to argue.
Feeling quite exhausted, Philomena turned and walked away from him, wanting nothing more than to go back to her family and the safety of The Squid and Teapot.
Most magic users on the island of Hopeless, Maine, generally practice privately, quietly. This is either because of the public disapproval of magic*, which ranges from malicious tutting to firebrands and pitchforks, or because they have evil intent and wish to be away from prying eyes. Many just want to keep their magical knowledge to themselves and do not want to share it. Good witches don’t want to enable clumsy, unprofessional amateurs who might accidentally cause harm, and evil demons fear a powerful rival might emerge if they share too much.
*Incidentally, public disapproval of magic only extends to public discussion; privately, most islanders will happily turn to magic at the first opportunity if they think it will better their position.
But there will always be one, or two, or perhaps a few whose pursuit of fame will outweigh all these considerations. There are always individuals who will shout from the rooftops their achievements given the opportunity. There are always those who crave the stage, who are addicted to performance and the adulation of their fans.
Malcolm the Mighty actually didn’t have many fans, but he strived for fame nonetheless. And I am almost ashamed to say this, as it is such a storytelling cliché, but… there was a girl… Sheena. She was, perhaps, not the brightest of girls; she hung out with someone called Malcolm the Mighty for a start, but she was pretty and fairly harmless. Malcolm was besotted with her (although neither of them would have understood what the word meant).
Unfortunately for Malcolm, there was a rival, Percy the Powerful. Percy was a slick, silver-tongued boy who, although far from powerful, had caught Sheena’s attention with his good looks, his flowery prose and his large wand.
When I said that Percy was not powerful, that was probably an understatement; the truth was that neither of these wizard wannabes had much magical talent at all. Percy had found a book of magic tricks and the associated props amongst his father’s old belongings; these were parlour amusements no more. But Sheena was impressed with the way he produced flowers from a hat, ‘magically’ unknotted two ropes, and turned water into confetti.
Malcolm, however, was at least the real deal. He was distantly related in some way to a famous witch and was born with a small amount of innate magic, which he had yet to master or even awaken.
Then, one day, things changed. He was in the right place at the right time. An elderly witch fell into a river and was knocked unconscious just as Malcolm was passing, and he dove in and rescued her. In return, she gave him one wish. She told him to think about it carefully and not to think of anything stupid. So he asked for magic beans and… no… wait… that’s not this story, is it? No. Wishes are so lazy. No, what actually happened is that the witch recognised the latent magic in Malcolm and gave him a slight boost, the ability to perform one spell, and only one spell, as many times as he liked. And it would only work if he caused no harm to anyone with it. She asked Malcolm what spell he would like.
Malcolm thought about this for a few seconds: “I have always wanted a flying horse! If I could fly on my horse and pick up Sheena, she was sure to be impressed!”
The Witch gave a snort. “You’ve barely enough talent in you to create a flying ant, young boy. And they can already fly!” She considered him, he seemed like a good lad, and he had just saved her life. “You are lucky I am a powerful witch. I cannot give you a flying horse spell; you do not have the power, but the ability to make another animal fly; I can give you.” And she did, along with a contract to sign, which included a long list of provisos, wherefores, legal clauses and a whole section absolving her of any responsibility for pretty much everything. Malcolm happily signed it. Now he would show that charlatan Percy!
For weeks, Malcolm practised the spell. He started with mice and found that after a little practice, he could make them rise a few inches in the air. Sadly, they did not sprout wings; they just rose up for a few seconds, then fell, and at that point, he would catch them.
After a while, he moved on to bigger creatures. He once levitated a spoonwalker, which was so shocked that it dropped all its spoons on the floor. Malcolm laughed at this, and the spoonwalker fell to the floor. It was unharmed, but it silently gathered up its spoons and left as quickly as it could, clearly grumpy and annoyed.
All the while, Malcolm searched for a horse, but there were none to be found. Not to be deterred, Malcolm searched for other animals that might, at a pinch, serve as a worthy steed for a mighty magician such as himself. Oh, and carry Sheena, too, of course.
Finally, he was ready. He decided the best time to cast the spell would be at dawn, nice and early, to save any public interference. And he had picked a quiet spot round the back of a slate-roofed cottage. There was no smoke issuing forth from the chimneys, so he had assumed that no one was home. As the object of the exercise was to impress Sheena and humiliate Percy, he invited them to see the spectacular feat. He felt strong, he felt magical, he felt… mighty. However, what he actually was, was overconfident.
When Percy and Sheena turned up, they could not believe their eyes. Malcolm had underestimated the comic effect of his set-up. Both Percy and Sheena burst out laughing, for there was Malcolm, sitting on a donkey.
Malcolm went red. Did they not understand how important this was? This was his moment. He waited until they had finished laughing. This took quite a while, as when one stopped, the other’s laughter would set them off again.
“I am about to fly!” Announced Malcolm.
This triggered yet another round of raucous laughter. And Malcolm had to wait again for their attention.
“This is no trickery, no sleight of hand. This is MAGIC!” he announced. More laughter. There is only one thing for it, thought Malcolm, and he said the magic words that he had been given, waved his oakfir wand in his right hand, and gripped the donkey’s mane tightly in the other.
At that point, there was a whoosh, a thud, a thunk and an “Ow” – the latter being Malcom expressing discomfort at having been unseated from the donkey and falling a few feet to the ground. Nobody was quite sure what had happened; magic is not logical, and it has an unsettling effect on the brain and the senses.
“What a waste of time” Sneered Percy. “No flying donkey here!”
“No, wait,” said Sheena wondrously. Where is the donkey? Malcolm has made a donkey disappear! An entire donkey. Oh my!” She looked at Malcolm adoringly as he dusted himself off.
“Well, maybe he used some mirrors or smoke or something. That’s how it’s done, you know” (Percy had clearly never heard of the Magic Circle vow never to divulge how a trick was done.) “I’m going home.” Stated Percy. “Are you coming with me, my princess of the dawn?”
“No.” Said Sheena petulantly, just short of stamping her feet. “I’m staying with Malcolm the Mighty.”
She helped Malcolm up. Suddenly, there was a noise from the cottage, and they both heard a voice shout, “Who’s there?” They both ran away, arm in arm, laughing.
The lady of the cottage came out into her garden in her nightdress and looked up for the source of the strange and unsettling noise she had heard coming from the slates on the roof. There she saw, in the uncanny half-light of an early summer morning, in amongst the chimney pots, a donkey. A donkey. On the roof… her roof. What evil omen could this be? What dark demon had marked her out for this curse? And how the hell had the donkey gotten up there anyway? She shivered, shook herself, and rushed back inside her cottage, bolted the door, went straight back to her bed and pulled the sheets up tightly around her head.
It was a dismal April afternoon, even by the standards of Hopeless, Maine.
A cruel wind roared in from the Atlantic, bringing with it driving rain and freezing temperatures.
Reggie Upton had planned to do a spot of flaneuring that afternoon, but it would clearly be out of the question now; in order to flaneur properly one would need clement weather, preferably with a spot of sunshine.
“You definitely won’t be flanneling anywhere today,” stated Philomena Bucket, as if reading Reggie’s mind.
The old soldier had long ago given up correcting Philomena’s pronunciation.
“But if you’re at a loose end, I could do with someone tidying up in the top attic,” she added.
Reggie sighed. While he was always happy to rummage in any of The Squid and Teapot’s several attics, tidying up sounded like too much of a chore.
“What is up there that so desperately needs tidying?” he asked, imagining piles of clothing, curtains and bedding, all unwanted, even by the less than affluent residents of Hopeless.
“Books, mainly,” she replied.
Reggie brightened. He liked books.
“Very well, m’dear, I’m always happy to help,” he said.
Philomena Bucket is no fool. It was obvious to her that Reggie was going to mope around all day, getting underfoot and feeling generally sorry for himself. A few hours surrounded by a small mountain of books would do him the world of good.
From the earliest days of the Founding Families, successive landlords of the inn had salvaged every shipwrecked item that they could lay their hands on, simply on the basis that, one day, these things would eventually ‘come in handy’. By and large the policy worked well, but the number of unwanted books grew and grew each year. It is sad to relate that, with one or two exceptions, the islanders of Hopeless are not great bibliophiles.
Reggie was sitting on a pile of slightly mildewed volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, happily thumbing through an anthology of Victorian poetry. He smiled to himself at the familiarity of some of these verses, many of which he had been required to learn by heart as a schoolboy. His eye fell upon Robert Browning’s ‘Home Thoughts from Abroad”.
“Oh to be in England, now that April’s here…’
He spoke the words aloud, and as he did so, looked out through the tiny attic window, rain-lashed and grimy, on to a cheerless vista.
“Oh to be in England, now that April’s here,” he repeated to himself, “I wonder if I shall ever see England again?”
By the following morning the storm had blown itself out. Taking advantage of the change in the weather, Reggie decked himself out in his best three-piece tweed suit, put a shine on his shoes, set his Homburg hat at a rakish angle and went off flaneuring, sword stick in hand. The true flaneur has no definite destination in mind, only a desire to watch the world go by as they meander on their way. Reggie adhered to this philosophy to a degree, but making sure that his aimless wandering would cross the path of Mr Squash, the Sasquatch who was temporarily visiting the island. In recent weeks the two had become firm friends, close enough, in Reggie’s estimation, that it would not be too impertinent to ask Mr Squash for a small favour.
“England? No, I have not been there.” said the Sasquatch. “I hear that there are no great forests anymore in England.”
“My dear chap,” said Reggie, “there is the New Forest, the Forest of Dean, Sherwood Forest, Epping Forest…”
“These are little more than copses, compared with the vast forests of North America,” said Mr Squash, “and far too small for someone like me to live in.”
“But, even so, is there a chance that you would take me there?” asked Reggie.
“Sorry,” said Mr Squash. “Taking a human through one of my portals is perilous beyond belief – Winston was close to death, so I took a chance with him. And anyway, any portal I might have had to your homeland is long disused and dangerous. Besides, the country has probably changed a lot since you were last there. You may find that the England of today is far removed from the one you left in nineteen-twelve.”
“Nonsense,” said Reggie, emphatically. “England will never change!”
Reggie had known for a long time that Philomena was the last of a long line of powerful witches. It did not surprise or bother him. He had seen enough of the world to know that there was far more to it than that which is visible to mortal eyes. The love of his life, the Theosophist, Annie Besant, had taught him that much in India. Maybe Philomena had some means to let him see his beloved England again.
Philomena shook her head.
*I am sorry Reggie,” she said. “If I had the ability to help people to leave Hopeless, the island would be empty by now.”
“Is there nothing you can do?” Reggie was almost begging. “I would love to see the place where I grew up, just one more time.”
Philomena thought for a moment, then held out her hands. “Take my hands, close your eyes and visualise where it is that you wish to visit.”
Reggie did as he was told, and to his surprise a wonderfully vivid picture immediately came into his mind. He could clearly see the meadow where he played as a child, with the little stream running through it. It was springtime, and the grass was starred with daisies and scatterings of soft yellow primroses. A blackthorn hedge separated the meadow from an ancient, majestic beech wood, which looked dark and cool in the light of an early April morning.
A tear escaped from Reggie’s closed eyes, then he gasped.
The picture was changing.
Little by little the meadow and woodland disappeared beneath a sprawl of streets and brick-built houses; the little stream was lost forever.
Reggie could take no more, and opened his eyes.
“Is that really..?” he could not complete his sentence.
Philomena nodded and squeezed his hand. “We need to get back to The Squid and Teapot,” she said. “It’s time to go home.”
Out there in the more sensible regions of the world, there’s a coherence to how things work. Maybe it’s the world view of Catholicism, with angels, demons and getting things done in Latin. Maybe what works is folklore, and sacrificing people inside wicker men. In some places, what works is science, or mad science. Fantastical things tend to have their own rules.
In many ways, Hopeless, Maine is a chaos magic setting. Things work because people invest energy and belief in them. It’s not the system anyone uses that matters, it’s the will, faith and intention that get things done. Witchcraft works. Medicine would work if Doc Willoughby wasn’t such a heady mix of evil and incompetence. You really do need to be very good at belief to be cured of anything by him. Balthazar Lemon’s belief in the marvels of engineering enabled him to build a lighthouse out of the corpse of a massive sea monster. Durosimi’s belief in vampirism allowed him to become such a creature.
There’s no obvious system for working out what will happen when one set of ideas clashes with another. That is however also true in real life. This is also how we end up with people building complex devices and then shoving demons into them. It’s impressive that anyone believes this is a good idea, all things considered, but faith has never really been about reasoned positions.
Religion on the island tends to be less effective overall. This is because the place has its own presiding self-styled deity, and that ‘god’ is a jealous god, and would not tolerate anything or anyone else getting a serious hold on the place. Reverend Davies can hold up his symbols to ward off the vampires, but this is as far as his belief can take him. As for whose reverend he truly is, that would be a question for another day.
(Text Nimue Brown. Art Tom Brown with colouring by Nimue Brown.)
Regular readers of these tales will be aware of the circumstances which brought Doctor John Dee, the sixteenth century alchemist and Court Astrologer to Queen Elizabeth, to the island of Hopeless. You will, likewise, know why he was now frantically searching for a key to the Underland, a labyrinth of mysterious tunnels, the entrance to which lay far beneath The Squid and Teapot. In addition to this, an attentive reader will also have gathered that Durosimi O’Stoat, sensing the latent magical abilities of Philomena Bucket, had plotted to sacrifice her to Buer, who was generally believed to be a demon, but was, in fact, a Daemon, which, apparently, is not the same thing at all.
“Of course I know where it is,” exclaimed Philomena, in response to Doctor Dee’s request for help. She reached into her pinafore pocket and fished out a heavy, ornate, iron key.
“Bartholomew gave it to me to look after, until such times as he could decide where the best place to hide it might be,” she said.
“Ah… then give it to me, my very soul depends upon it,” said Dee, making a sudden lunge, only for Philomena to deftly step aside and his hand grasp nothing but thin air.
“And so does mine, it would seem,” said Philomena. “Do you know that this is all a plot by Durosimi? He has made a deal with Buer to hand him the key, and in exchange, Buer gets me. Body and soul, apparently.”
John Dee paled visibly.
“Then I cannot possibly go through with this,” he stated, a tremor in his voice. “If I must sacrifice myself to save you, Mistress Bucket, then I will gladly, though all the devils in Hell torment me. My time, however, is short, for Buer gave me but three days to find the key.”
“Nobody is being sacrificed,” said Philomena, gently. “I’ve spoken to Buer, and he is on our side. I need your assistance, though Doctor. I want you to help me find my magic powers; it is our only chance against Durosimi.”
“But, as I have said many times before,” replied Dee, “I have no magical abilities. How do you think I can I help you?”
“Well,” began Philomena, “whatever you choose to believe, you are the nearest to a magician that I’ve ever met. You are a scryer, an alchemist, an astrologer and quite the cleverest person on the island. If you cannot help me, then nobody can.”
“Very well, but I wish Edward Kelley was here. He would know what to do,” said John Dee, remembering how his old friend and colleague had frequently claimed to possess all manner of magical skills. In truth, Kelley had been something of a charlatan, far more adept at self-aggrandisement and the art of bluffing than John Dee could ever be. The Queen’s Astrologer was so convinced of his friend’s occult claims that, upon learning that ‘The Angels’ had confided to Kelley that it would be right and proper for him to occasionally share a bed with Mistress Dee, the good doctor accepted the idea without a murmur. Had Philomena known this, she might have revised her opinion, somewhat.
“I have every faith in you, Doctor,” said Philomena. “And if I am not mistaken Durosimi has given us a clue as to what we need to do. He is keen to get hold of this key, and as far as I know the tunnels all lead to the cavern where you first dropped into Hopeless. That seems to be some sort of magical hub. Something tells me we need to go there.”
“Then we should trust your intuition, Mistress Bucket,” said Dee. “I told you once that the magic lies deep within you, and when once awakened, will find its way to the fore, and nothing, or no one, including yourself, will prevent it from doing so.”
“Then it needs to get a move on,” said Philomena, “and we need to get to The Squid as soon as we can. I’ve a lot to learn and there’s not a lot of time left before Durosimi expects to get the key and dispose of me.”
Tucked away in the corner of one of the attics of The Squid and Teapot is an old sea-chest; at least, that is what you are led to believe. It is, in reality, part of the brickwork of the inn, cleverly constructed to look like a sea-chest. Once the heavy padlock is undone and its lid is opened, a long, vertical iron ladder is revealed; it runs from the very top of the building to the cellars. On either side of the ladder, at its base, stand two doors. One leads to the cellars, the other to the cavernous tunnels, descending two hundred feet beneath the foundations.
Carrying candle lanterns, it was down this ladder and into the depths beneath the island that Philomena and John Dee ventured. With their lanterns held high, they passed through the great, cathedral-like cavern, where Norbert Gannicox had once lit rush-lights, and down into the tunnels beyond, not stopping until they reached their goal. Philomena could remember when she had visited this place – wreathed as it was in what she called ‘Good Old Hopeless Fog.’ That was the day that they had first met Doctor Dee. The fog was still here, as was the comforting appearance of daylight beyond, but she was wiser, this time around. Philomena was well aware that this was no route to the shore, for there was no knowing what lay behind the foggy mouth of the cavern. Her first foray into its depths had drawn her, along with Norbert Gannicox and Bartholomew Middlestreet, into a great arena, enclosed on all sides by sheer walls of smooth, black obsidian. This, as it turned out, was actually Doctor Dee’s scrying bowl. After a brief visit to the astrologer’s study they, and John Dee himself, had been spat out into a helter-skelter ride through history.
Now, with their senses heightened, the pair could almost taste the raw magic emanating from within the recesses of the cavern. Instinctively they joined hands, drew a deep breath, and stepped into the fog.
You will recall that a Beltane Extravaganza had been held in honour of Doctor John Dee, the sixteenth-century alchemist who had been plucked from his own time and deposited on to the island of Hopeless, Maine. When the final song was sung, and the event had drawn to its conclusion, Philomena Bucket was alone in the Town Hall, tidying away the venerable Edison-Bell phonograph, when suddenly she found herself confronted by Durosimi O’Stoat.
O’Stoat was convinced – quite incorrectly, as it happens – that John Dee was a mighty sorcerer. With this in mind, he had been pressurising the alchemist to find a way in which they could both be returned to Tudor England, where he could plunder Dee’s famously extensive library and learn more of his secrets. When Dee protested that such a feat would be beyond his abilities, Durosimi disbelieved him and decided to force his hand by kidnapping Philomena Bucket. Durosimi had jumped to the conclusion that Dee’s obvious fondness for the barmaid was based upon no more than old-fashioned lust. The truth was far different; from their very first meeting, John Dee was sure that Philomena possessed magical abilities, the like of which he had never before seen.
“A word, Miss Bucket, if I might,” said Durosimi, in a commanding voice.
Philomena felt a cold chill run down her back. The only member of the O’Stoat family that she had ever liked, or trusted, was Salamandra.
“I’m listening,” she replied, coldly, hoping that he could not hear the tremble in her voice.
“You must come with me… now, please.” Durosimi motioned towards the door.
“No thank you, Mr O’Stoat. I have other plans for tonight.”
“But I insist. You will come with me. One way, or another, Miss Bucket, I promise you will.”
Philomena stood her ground, wishing that Drury would burst through the door. She knew, however, that he would be on the far side of the island by now, accompanying the Night-Soil Man, as he did most nights.
Durosimi stepped menacingly towards Philomena, then made a sudden lurch, with the obvious intention of abducting her.
She extended a hand to defend herself, and to the surprise of both, Durosimi was hurled back, as if struck by lightning. From his position on the floor, he looked at her with amazement. He pulled himself up, and stood unsteadily for a few moments.
“I don’t know what you just did, or how you did it, but I’m damned if that is going to stop me…”
He made another lunge, thinking to take her by surprise, but again, Philomena raised her hands in defence, and once more he was thrown backwards, only this time more violently. Philomena stared in disbelief at the figure sprawled apparently unconscious on the floor, fully ten feet away from her; then she raised her eyes towards the shadows at the far end of the room. A grey mist had gathered, and within it there were figures; lots of figures, some more distinct than others. Those whom she could see clearly were definitely women. She could have sworn that one was Granny Bucket, but who were the others?
“This is your heritage, Philomena,” said a voice in her head. It unmistakably belonged to Granny.
The grey mass drifted slowly forward, a swirling mist that flowed over Durosimi’s supine form, as if he did not exist. As the mist drew closer, there appeared to be hundreds of wraiths moving within it, and steadily converging upon her. While some of the company appeared to be of flesh and blood, others were vague shadows, no more solid than the mist that shrouded them. Very much to her own surprise, Philomena was not afraid.
As the ghostly tide engulfed her, some instinct told Philomena that these phantom women were her ancestors, and each one granted the gift, or maybe the curse, of magic. They swarmed around her and their voices echoed in her mind, relating their stories, and telling how the gift would sometimes desert the family for generations, before bursting through once more, when the greatest need arose, like poppy seeds that waited for the harrow in order to flourish. This is how things had been for hundreds, possibly thousands, of years, and each wraith had been a wise-woman, a witch, a sorceress, or a seer.
Granny Bucket shimmered before Philomena, and smiled.
“You, my girl, are the distillation of us all. You have great power… but be careful. ‘The Sight’ was no more than a plaything, the first stirrings of the true magic that is just awakening with you. You need to control it, or it will control you. And Philomena…”
“Yes Granny?” Philomena replied, although she was by no means sure if the words issued from her mouth or her mind.
“We are all Bucket Women, a chain of enchantment stretched for more years than you can comprehend. If you choose to remain childless, you are its last, and strongest, link. This is a decision that you alone can make. Think on it Philomena. Think on it.”
As she said these last words, the mist dispersed and Philomena found herself alone in the Town Hall. Durosimi was gone and the first rays of a pale, Hopeless dawn were struggling to make their presence known through the grimy window panes. She had been here for hours! Had she fallen asleep and it had all been a dream?
A familiar bark broke the silence of the morning and Drury came loping in, his bony tail wagging and obviously happy to see her. Rhys Cranham, the Night Soil Man had just finished his rounds, and was peering through the doorway. As always, Rhys was uncomfortably aware of the all-pervading stench which accompanied him, and was maintaining a respectful distance.
“What the devil are you doing here at this hour, Philomena?” he asked.
“I really have no idea,” she replied. “I think I must have dropped off to sleep after everyone left last night. It’s a pity you weren’t there. It was a grand night, so it was.”
“I wish I could have been,” Rhys replied sadly, “But… well, you know…”
Philomena did, indeed, know. Much as the Night-Soil Man was liked and respected all over the island, his calling made him something of a pariah, for no one could bear to be within yards of his stench. When she first arrived on Hopeless, Philomena had fallen in love with Rhys, after he had virtually saved her life. At the time she had lost all sense of smell, having been subject to an attack of anosmia, as Doc Willoughby had importantly informed her. It was only after she had almost drowned in sea-water, and her nasal-passages flushed clean, that she realised that their love could never be.
“Well, I’m to my bed,” said Rhys, keen to change the subject. “Will there be any left-over Starry-Grabby pie going spare later, by any chance?”
“I daresay there might be,” laughed Philomena, teasingly. “And, who knows, maybe even the odd bottle of Old Colonel. I’ll leave something by your door, don’t fret.”
Rhys grinned, and with a “Bye, then,” waved, and turned to leave. Philomena watched him through the open doorway, as he tramped down the cobbled street, with Drury scampering noisily at his heels.
“Goodbye, my lost love,” she thought to herself, sadly, with Granny’s final words echoing in her mind.
“Steady as she goes, Brother Malo. Take her in gently.” The wiry monk manning the tiller nodded in acknowledgement. “This fog is unnaturally thick, Father Abbot. I fear that we could well run aground.”
Brendan, the elderly Abbot of Clonfert, looked unruffled by this remark. “Trust in the Lord, Brother Malo. He will guide us through safely.” Brother Malo smiled but secretly wished that, rather than just guiding them through, the Lord might be a bit more proactive and blow the fog away.
No sooner has the thought passed through his mind than Malo repented of such blasphemy and, as a gesture of contrition, banged his sandalled foot hard into the wooden frame of the boat, badly stubbing his toe. “Careful man,” shouted Brendan, then quickly composed himself. “If you go through the leather on the side of this currach, we are all in trouble.
It was back in the sixth century that Naomh Bréanainn, known these days as Saint Brendan, set sail with a party of monks from Ireland’s shores. Their mission was to find the Garden of Eden. Seventeen in number, they had followed a haphazard route over the North Atlantic for seven long years, backtracking and revisiting many of their ports of call along the way. During this time they saw many wonders; wonders that their rich Celtic imaginations interpreted as visions of Heaven and Hell. The volcanoes along the coast of Iceland became demons hurling fiery rocks to impede their journey and an iceberg was a mighty pillar of the purest crystal. Strangest of all was the small island upon which they landed to say mass one day. When that turned out to be a whale enjoying a quiet nap, it was hard to say who was the most surprised, the whale or the monks.
Now, with death having claimed three of their crew, fourteen monks sat staring into an impenetrable fog. “This must be it,” whispered Brendan to himself. It had long been foretold that the promised land they had sought for so long would lie within a shroud of mist.
By now every breath of wind was stilled and the only sound to be heard was the slap of the oars as they pulled the currach through the shallow water towards the mysterious island.
While it would be unfair to say that Brendan was bitterly disappointed with his first view of, what he supposed to be, the Garden of Eden, he was far from overjoyed. He had expected a beautiful land filled sunshine, birdsong and heavily laden fruit trees. Instead, the eyes of the weary travellers were greeted by a ribbon of dismal mist that drifted listlessly over a headland crowned with scrubby grass, and clung to the line of spindly trees that bordered it. No birds sang in their branches. Brendan decided that this was definitely not the land that they were seeking, and maybe it was time to head out to sea once more, when his eye was caught by a strange figure that seemed to magically materialise from amid the trees.
As if by some unspoken signal, each monk ceased what he was doing and stood, stock still, as the newcomer approached. He was dressed, outlandishly they thought, in soft leather trimmed with fur; feathers adorned his dark, plaited hair. When he was about ten yards from them he raised his right arm, palm outwards, in what was obviously a gesture signifying ‘I am no threat. How about you?’
What happened next surprised everyone.
“Top o’ the morning to you.” he said (or, at least, words to that effect) in quite recognizable Old Irish, which, of course, was the language that the monks all spoke (with the notable exception of Brother Malo, who was Welsh. However, and happily for this tale, the similarities between the Goidelic language of the Welsh and the Brittonic of the Irish were sufficient that they could understand each other quite comfortably… but I digress).
“Um… good morning brother,” responded Brendan, getting over his surprise. “We come in peace.”
A degree of awkward silence followed, neither party knowing how to proceed, until Brother Fergus, the oldest of them all and almost bent double, could not hold back any longer and asked the question that was on everybody’s lips.
“You speak our language!” he blurted out. “We are a thousand leagues from home, and yet we understand your tongue. How can this be?” The stranger squatted on the ground and said nothing for what seemed an age.
“My name is Nechtan,” he said at last, after some thought. “Come with me to my village, where you will eat and drink, and I will tell you of my people”
The monks immediately felt at home in Nechtan’s village, where the single-storey houses huddled close to each other. They were uniformly small, probably no more than one room dwellings, with thatched roofs pegged down with ropes, which were tied to heavy stones. Similar structures were found near their abbey on the West Coast of Ireland, where the winter winds from the sea could be merciless.
Over a simple meal of cornbread, fish and spring water, Nechtan told the monks how, many generations ago, three ships had appeared on their shores carrying a score or more of fierce, red-headed adventurers. Despite their looks, the men from across the sea had wanted no more than to rest, find provisions and repair their much-travelled ships. At least, that is what they first told the islanders. After a week or so, their leader, whose name was Bran, confided to their head man that he wished to bury a box. It was a simple enough, though puzzling, request that the chief felt unable to refuse. And so, one moonlit night, the box was dragged ashore. It was a heavy sea-chest, fashioned from black bog-oak and bound with brass. Bran and his men took it to some undisclosed place and buried it deep beneath the earth. Upon their return they made the islanders swear that they would never attempt to look for the box of bog-oak and brass. Although this was agreed, Bran bade a handful of his men to remain behind and ensure that no one would go back on their word.
The ones who stayed settled down quite happily. They each found a wife and within a generation or two, Old Irish had become the lingua franca of the island.
Brendan stroked his chin. The story of the voyage of Bran was well-known to him, but he had always assumed it was no more than a colourful legend, a tale dreamed up by the pagan bards to amuse their listeners.
“But what was the significance of the oaken box?” he asked Nechtan. The islander shook his head.
“I have no idea,” he confessed, “but before he sailed back to his own land, Bran carved some symbols on a stone tablet. It has been handed down through the generations of my family. No one knows what it means but maybe, if you can understand it, it will shed some light on the mystery.”
Nechtan lifted the lid of a chest that doubled-up as a table, rummaged through its contents and, with some difficulty, extracted a stone tile, as wide as a man’s splayed hand and twice as long. On its surface was carved a series of glyphs in the form of notched grooves. Some were horizontal and others diagonal. All lay on, or was bisected by, a vertical line.
“It’s Ogham script,” said Brendan. As he read his face became more and more grim.
After a while he looked up from the tile and addressed Nechan. “It entreats any who can read this to never, under any circumstances, seek for the chest of bog-oak. On their travels Bran and his crew encountered a fierce demon. He claims that their druid subdued this infernal creature and imprisoned it within the chest, binding the locks with magic. He then commanded them to bury it deep in the earth of the misty island they would find at the end of their journey. As much as I despise all mention of pagan magic, I have to agree. Under no account seek out this cursed chest and its unholy prisoner.”
“Be assured,” said Nechan, “we are a dwindling people. There are very few of us left here, these days –soon there will be none. No one cares about this legend. There is enough to fear on our island without digging up more monsters to trouble us.”
Brendan wondered what he meant. The place was dismal, that was for sure, but he saw no evidence of things to fear.
The voyagers returned to their boat and on the following morning decided to venture further inland. Surely there had to be one or two relatively pleasant places to enjoy. As Nechan had implied, the rest of the land seemed devoid of humans and indeed, animal life as well. At the end of the first day they pitched camp on a reasonably flat piece of ground overlooking the sea and settled down to what they hoped would be a decent night’s rest, away from the cramped conditions of the currach. It must have been around midnight when Brother Malo sat bolt upright. “Did you hear that,” he whispered. There’s something going through our belongings.”
The monks had left their meagre possessions outside their tent, confident that nothing was likely to happen to them.
Malo pushed his head through the flap and gulped in astonishment. Three small, fish – like creatures, balancing on crude wooden stilts, were going through the monks’ packs and dragging away anything they could manage. One had found some wooden spoons and had discarded his stilts in favour of these more sophisticated prosthetics.
Malo swore, then remembering his vows, hit himself with a rock as penance.
By then the whole camp was awake and two of the younger monks – both on the wrong side of fifty – chased after the spoonwalkers (this was probably the very first occasion that these creatures could legitimately be called this, as it’s unlikely that any had before used spoons as a preferred method of locomotion).
Brother Fergus was surprised to find a long tentacle wrapped around his leg. It was issuing from a small fissure in the ground and was attempting to persuade the ancient monk to join it. Brendan at once rushed forward, brandishing his wooden crucifix and demanding that the creature, apparently from the very depths of Hell, to let go of his colleague and return once more to the fiery pit. All that this achieved was for a second tentacle to emerge and take the crucifix from his grasp. Fortunately Malo had the presence of mind to hit tentacle number one with the rock that he was still fortuitously holding, retained in the event of his having the urge to inadvertently swear, or think blasphemous thoughts again. The resulting blow ensured that Fergus was freed and the brace of tentacles, along with Brendan’s crucifix, disappeared swiftly into the rocky ground. Just when everyone thought that things could not possibly get any worse, the vast shape of the Kraken rose from the boiling ocean, its slumbers disturbed by all the commotion.
“That’s it! Back to the boat brethren.” cried Brendan, “I’ve had enough of this island, it’s hopeless,” he added, with a rare, but unintentional, flash of clairvoyance.
“And you expect me to believe that load of old Blarney,” said Philomena Bucket, a smile upon her pallid face.
“It’s true,” replied Bartholomew Middlestreet, propping himself against the bar of The Squid and Teapot. “I’m telling you, Saint Brendan the Navigator visited Hopeless as part of his epic voyage.”
“And what about all those islanders who spoke Irish? Where are they now?”
“I expect they died out, as Nechan predicted.”
“And Bran?”
“True as well,” said Bartholomew. “When Sebastian Lypiatt was digging the foundations of the flushing privy, all those years ago, he found the Ogham stone.
“I don’t believe a word of it” said Philomena.
“It’s true. He had no idea what it was or what it meant but he knew it was important, somehow. Look… up there, just above the fireplace. You’ve probably never noticed it…”
Philomena looked and sure enough, just where Sebastian had placed it, almost a century before, was a rectangular tile, as wide as a man’s splayed hand and twice as long, covered in the faint grooves of the Ogham script.
“There was even a chest made of bog-oak and brass, but that’s another tale altogether,” said Bartholomew, with a grin.
Annamarie Nightshade is going to die. She knows this in her bones, in her toes. She knows this the way she know how to breathe. Annamarie Nightshade is going to die. Just not today.
Seeing the future is not a particular specialty of hers, but sometimes you don’t need to See. you just have to pay attention, and as a witch a lot of her job is paying attention. People are sick, the cemetery is full of vampires and O’Stoats, and they’re looking for someone to blame. Annamarie knows how that goes
She’s got tea on the hearth. She’s cursed Durosimi O’Stoat one last time. She’s hidden her broom in the attic, and tucked a bucket of seawater outside her door where it’s unlikely to be knocked over. Lamashtu is glaring at her. His tail twitches.
“I could just move you away from here,” he says.
“Oh, so they can burn me again next time?”
“You have no idea if this will work.”
“You have no proof that it won’t.”
“I won’t stay about to watch.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
The kettle sings. Annamarie reaches over and strokes Lamashtu carefully. He allows it.
“Keep an eye on Sal,” she says. He vanishes.
Annamarie waits until she can hear the mob approaching before she drinks the tea. It tastes sharp, and it burns all the way down. She doubles over, snarling, and collapses. She loses feeling in her fingers, in her toes, in her ankles. Her vision is beginning to blur when the door is kicked in.
She’s glad that her mouth has stopped working, because she’d have to laugh. Or cry. Or curse. Emanuel you fool, she thinks. The fog creeps in behind them, crawling into her house. Emanuel Davies is raving about purging the town, cleansing it of evil. Nobody seems to question that their witch is conveniently not struggling or cursing anybody.
At least if this doesn’t work I won’t feel anything, she thinks. She’s dragged along, head lolling. People are holding her, they must be. Torchlight gleams in eyes and she recognises face in the crowd.
Hopeless is small when it comes to people: that’s Incompetence Chevin whose broken leg she set last month. Josephine, who goes to church and prays and comes to Annamarie for preventative tea. Her mouth tastes dry, and salty. Something in her gut boils.
Emanuel yells something. His face looks like a horrible mockery, stretched and unreal. You stupid bastard, she thinks, not entirely without fondness. She loses feeling in her ears, and all she can hear is the mob roaring. It sounds like waves. It sounds like an ocean coming to eat her.
She can still mostly see when they drag her to the stake. She just isn’t paying attention because her insides are crumbling into sand. Annamarie is aware of the heat. In the same way she is aware of the smoke. Of the crackling around her feet. She is already burning. She’s just thankful her sense of smell is gone too: she doesn’t want to smell herself cook. Please, she thinks, please…
Outside Annamarie’s cottage, Frampton Jones stands very still looking at the mess. At the bucket of seawater next to the door, which bothers him for some reason. Something inside it moves; it has a lot of eyes. Frampton does not step nearer to the thing in the bucket. He instead finds a stick and gently pokes it. It steals the stick.
Frampton is looking for another stick when he hears footsteps and turns. The blind fishermans walks out of the mist.
“Seth.”
“Frampton.”
“What are you doing here?” he wants to take notes, but, well, Annamarie was a friend of sorts. It feels crass.
“Job to do.”
“I can’t imagine there are any fish here,” says Frampton. Seth sighs. He walks past Frampton and goes to the bucket. Frampton notes that he does so confidently, with no indication that he doesn’t know where he is. He crouches by the bucket, and mutters. Frampton inches closer. “Hello Aunty,” he hears. Which makes no sense.
Seth picks up the bucket, apparently not worried about the whatever-it-is. He walks away. Frampton follows him, because the alternative is to stay here at the empty house of a murdered friend. He’d rather not do that.
They reach the sea. It’s chilly, there’s a wind, and Frampton can still smell smoke. Seth carefully empties the bucket into the water. Something goes ‘ploop’. Frampton feels as if an important thing has happened. Seth remains quiet. Water seeps into Frampton’s shoes.
“Well,” says Seth, “that’s dealt with.”
The two men stand there, Frampton looking for a horizon he cannot see and Seth, presumably, thinking whatever mysterious thoughts a blind fisherman has. The fog gets thicker.
“Come on,” Seth says abruptly, “I’ve got tea.”
Annamarie doesn’t hurt. She doesn’t feel anything that she can recognise. She shudders. There are voices. She knows them. There’s a gentle puff of power. A breeze. She shivers. She moves. She dances, oh! This is it! It’s like flying a broom, except for how it’s entirely different. The wind carries her up. She holds onto the power in the air, moves it. Pushes. Drifts across the island and over the sea in a thousand tiny pieces. Concentrates, and draws herself together into… something. A form. It’s different, yes, but who said change is bad?
She pulls herself together and drifts upward, up and up and up through the mist and fog and ah! She turns her face (is it a face? She has to hold it together. She’s ash and water and flakes of salt) she turns her face up and feels the air move through it, looks up and sees sky. She grins.
Annamarie Nightshade is going to die. Just not today. Today she changes. I’ll have to see if the island can still hold me, she thinks. It might. She might be more attached than ever before. But it’s worth a try, she thinks. And if it turns out she’s still trapped, well. She’s never been any good at backing off from a challenge. But first, there’s a monster in the ocean she wants to check up on.
Annamarie gathers herself together, all her little pieces, and soars.
This piece was written by the rather astounding Meredith Debonnaire. She is the creator of Tales from Tantamount and other wonders. We wish to thank her, as this is utterly wonderful and gave us many feelings.
