At some point, the faceless being, that may or may not be Mark Hayes, stopped his meandering and lay down on the edge of a field. Was he tired after his reawakening? It’s hard to say, for who here has been reawakened in such a manner, devoured by goats, then reassembled from an assortment of empty clothing and given life by uncanny socks? Within moments of his settling down, a weird, muffled, snuffling noise was heard. Was it snoring? But how can you snore without a face, a nose, a mouth?

Presently, an odd group of creatures arrived. Less than a foot tall, they were short of leg and long of arm. Goblin like, hairy and awkward of movement. Let us call them Hayezlits. Of course, I could tell you anything, describe them as anything, make up an outrageous description, for you will never see them. No one has ever seen them, nor will they. I can tell you this with certainty. They carried scraggy brushes made of twigs and durbit fur, odd-shaped pots hollowed out from grerken cones. And they assembled in a rough circle around the no-face of the man, who may or may not be Mark Hayes. Seven of them there were. And all seven started an odd squirmy motion, a strange furtive movement that seemed undirected and random. The pots were now full of ink – but the mechanism for this event was unfathomable.

They took their brushes and dipped them in the ink and started to paint upon the blank face canvas. Where the ink touched, colour appeared: mottled pinky grey for the cheeks, darker pink for the lips, dark hues for eyebrows, and an extraordinary shade of lilac for facial hair. The smallest hayezlit wielded a tiny brush and created an eye in an extraordinary display of skill and magic. Then matched it with another. Giving the face sight to see in this way, would have been an amazing sight to see, except that nobody would ever see that sight. They moved back for a moment and seemed to check their work. One of them touched up an ear, another, the tallest, and most wizened, made a brief adjustment to the eyes.

Seemingly satisfied, they carefully removed the man’s socks and shuffled off.

Now, lying on the ground, was an entity who very much looked like Mark Hayes. In fact, we will call it Mark Hayes from now on.

(Text and uneasy image manipulation by Keith Errington)

by Mark Hayes

The quills of a Quizzel have long been sought after by islanders as roasted in vinegar, they harden till the resemble long steel pins. Quills from the ridge that runs down their back in particular make fine needles.

It is said that if you cover a captured Quizzel in clay and bake the whole beast, they also make for fine eating, though if you over roast your clay packed Quizzel the clay will harden to the point you need a hammer and chisel to break it open. But on pulling the hardened clay shell apart all the quill’s will come free allowing you to devour the succulent meat of the Quizzel.

This same method can be used to cook hedgehogs, which are smaller creatures but otherwise much like the Quizzel, which some say tastes like chicken. Having tried this island delicacy only once I can say this much. Those who say it tastes like chicken have never tasted chicken.

The Quizzel is a shy beast, it is said to be about two foot long with an elongated nose, timid and known to hide in piles of leaves or other foliage. Given the propensity of Hopeless residents to bake them in a ball of clay I cannot say I blame the beast. When threatened they curl up into a ball. Quills extended. As the quills are both sharp and hard enough to go through leather soles, walking through piles of leaves is inadvisable if there is a Quizzel about. Nor is it wise to use them as an improvised football.

It is however perhaps the usefulness of the quills that has led to the age-old Island tradition on the last day of autumn, whence the islanders take down their family Quiddle sticks, hand them out to the children and send them off quiddling.

A quiddling stick is about three feet long with the bottom wrapped in old cloths to make a padded ball, this part is called the quiddle. Quiddling requires the stick to be thrust repeatedly into piles of leaves in the hopes that if there is a Quizzel in residence it will ‘spike up’ and thus be impale by its  own quills into the quiddle whence it can be removed from the leaf pile safely.

The Quiddling hunt is accompanied by much shouting, screaming and running about and normally last for the whole of the morning after which successful ‘Quiddlers’ are supposed to return with their catches. Though, more often than not, the children get bored of the hunt and use the padded quiddling sticks to beat each other. Fights erupt. And eventually the adults declare the hunt at an end and the quiddling stick is returned to its place of honor above the fireplace. 

The Quiddling hunts at the orphanage are particularly violent affairs… 

Sadly, in recent years Quizzel have become rare, indeed in my lifetime I have never heard of one being captured despite the great enthusiasm of the annual Quiddling hunts. These days of course I do not partake in the hunt itself as such is the task of children. Instead, I share the many mugs of drop apple cider with the adults who reminisce about the great quiddling hunts of old. Mostly they reminisce about the fights.

Few if any can ever recall capturing a Quizzel, though they all swear to know someone who has.   

*Authors note.  Quiddling is an 18th century word, it means to fiddle about with trivial things as a way of avoiding the important ones. It has nothing to do with sending children off to hunt large hedgehog like creatures that don’t exist while the adult’s day drink. I was just quiddling about when I wrote this… 

Nothing has happened since I found the book.

It has been three weeks now and nothing has happened. There have been no strange unexplainable events in the night. Nothing has been tapping at my window. No strange footsteps have been heard beyond the door to my room. I have felt no chilling presence nearby. I have not turned to find a shrouded figure in the mist, watching me and raising a finger to point towards me. I have heard no scratching and snuffling creatures in the walls, nor the whispered words indistinctly heard in the night when no one is there.

I found the book, I read the book, and nothing has happened. No one has tried to kill me, I have not been accosted by cultists, or hunted by werewolves. No vampire has tried to charm me in order to sink their teeth in my neck. The ghost of an orphan has not wandered across my path. Doctor Willoughby has not looked at me strangely. The fog has not
seemed to thicken around me. No food has slivered on the spoon and tried to choke me as I struggle to swallow. As for spoons, none of them have gone missing.

I found the book, I read the book, I read the words out loud and nothing has happened.

No beautiful jelly fish creature from the sea has tried to tempt me into the depths. No cat of dust has blown down the street and danced around me. The crows have not begun to follow me. Nor do they croak my name. The night potatoes have not moved nor glowed. The townsfolk have not
started looking at me strangely and whispering as I pass by. No one has fed me poison, no strange flora has sprouted from the walls, no strange fungi is growing in the garden. The slugs have all remained the same size.

I found the book, I read the book, I read the words out loud, I made the markings upon the floor and nothing has happened.

The face in the mirror is my own, it does not laugh at me. The shadows dissipate with light and the sun almost shines through the cloud. The shore does not call to me and the things in the sea care not for my passing. The bread of yesterday was not full of maggots. There are no more bottles on the bridge than there were the day before. I have seen no words of warning made of fish. Nor scrawled in blood, or other fluids on the walls of my room. Nothing sinister has happened at all.

I found the book, I read the book, I read the words out loud, I made the markings upon the floor, I inked the symbols upon my flesh and nothing has happened.

Nothing has happened

Nothing…

I am scared.

(Text by Mark Hayes, photo of Mark Hayes.)